“Yeah, you too. How are things settling in back home?” I ask, genuinely curious about how he’s holding up after being thrust into the hot seat, just like I was.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Adjusting.”
I bet. Running a club after your father—or the man who was like a father to you—dies isn’t just paperwork and votes. It’s his ghosts hanging around, passing judgment over every decision. It’s a legacy to uphold. It’s expectations hanging heavy around your neck like a noose, waiting for the right moment to pull taut.
Patch joins us, his grin thin and his second at his side. The burly bastard looks like someone pissed in his Cheerios, and he’s still working on getting them down.
“Kept the Mrs. at home tonight?” Patch greets the group.
I tense, waiting for an explosion of heated words or someone to swing. My eyes flick to Silas. His jaw tightens, but that’s it. He lets the dig slide, knowing damn well we’re the ones here looking for an assist. I’m grateful for his restraint, because I don’t have the bandwidth for the same fight tonight.
“Alright,” he says, cutting through the bullshit tension. “You called this meeting. What’s up, Vik?”
Here the fuck we go. “Rosenfeld is heating up,” I tell Steel, since Patch has already heard the spiel. “We’re not looking so off-grid anymore. Eyes are lingering longer than I like. We’ve decided it’s time we redistribute some weight. Either of you got the men or space to help us out with that?”
My words are calm, but inside, I’m calculating the risk for keeping things as they’ve always been versus taking a silent-partner stance on our goods.
Patch’s thoughts on handing shit over and dipping out of the club aren’t a fucking option. My men sure as hell wouldn’t like it. But he’s quiet tonight, no smart ass comments as his eyes sweep the lot, probably taking in our numbers. Doing his own assessment of what we might have up for grabs.
Each chapter is into its own thing. We never discuss specifics unless a partnership’s on the table, and that’s exactly what tonight is about.
“We just took on something big,” he finally says. “And we’re further away. I don’t think I can help you this time, brother.”
Swapping operations across state lines is a pain in the dick, but he’s right, closer is better. It’s much easier, logistically, tomove this much product a few hundred miles into Louisiana than all the way out to Tallahassee. I was just desperate enough to take either option, because if we don’t get Rosenfeld’s PD off our asses, we might as well run headfirst into one of Pierce’s chemical drums and call it a day.
“Steel, how about you, man?” I ask.
“What are we talking about?” he questions. “What exactly are you looking to offload?”
The hum of conversation swells around us, the majority of our men not paying us any attention. Laughter from someone in the back filters through to our little circle.
I don’t like this many unknown variables. I’ve seen clubs burned from the inside. All it takes is one rat with a phone and a deal from the ATF.
Si steps forward, nodding his head to the side for Steel to follow. They create enough distance for specifics to be discussed away from prying ears.
“We good here?” Patch asks, his tone casual, but his eyes shift like he’s waiting for something.
“Yeah, man,” I say. “We’re good. Catch ya next year, yeah?”
He gives me a chin lift and heads back to his bike. His second shadowing in his wake.
As the crowd thins with their departure, the night feels slightly calmer. The wind off the beach whistles through the barren bones of the warehouse, cooling my skin from the still thick humidity.
My phone feels like a hundred pounds, weighing down my pocket. I should wait until we’re done here, but Si’s still chatting with Steel, giving me too much space for my mind to revert back to obsessing over her silence.
I draw it out slowly, letting the screen light from themovement. Not a goddamn thing. The useless thing creaks against my tightening fist.
What are you doing, Josie?
There’s a lot of nodding between Si and Steel, ending with a firm handshake. They walk back, Steel catching my attention before he asks, “When do you need an answer by?”
“I can give you a week,” I say. “Let you and the guys get back to Louisiana and discuss.”
“That works. I’ll let you know.”
Another handshake is all it takes to end this meeting. It’s not a yes. But it’s not a no, and right now, that sliver of possibility takes a fraction of the stress weighing on me.
Engines start up again, one by one. Then Steel’s group peels out in staggered waves, tail lights disappearing down the long-forgotten access road.
