I glared at him. “Close it.”
“You got your GED?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Online. Nights. After runs. Before runs. When you thought I was sulking.”
“You were sulking.”
“I was multitasking.”
Callum’s mouth twitched.
Just barely.
But it mattered.
“I’m taking community college classes now,” I said. “Remote. Construction basics. Business math. Building codes. Project management intro. Stuff like that.”
Nate stared. “Who are you and what did California do to my brother?”
“Shut up.”
“No, no, this is amazing. Does Edge’s daughter know she accidentally inspired a biker educational renaissance?”
I ignored him and kept my eyes on Callum.
“I want my contractor’s license eventually,” I said. “Learn the trade right. Not just swing hammers and patch drywall. Build houses. Real ones. Remodels. Developments. You can make a mint in L.A. and San Diego if you know what you’re doing and have the connections.”
Callum looked thoughtful now.
The room shifted around that silence.
“Club has connections,” I said. “Land. Investors. People who need work done and people who need work. We’ve got men who can ride, collect, enforce. But there’s legitimate money sitting around us, and we keep letting men in polo shirts take it because they know how to file permits and talk to inspectors.”
Nate slowly grinned.
Callum’s eyes sharpened.
There he was.
Prez.
Strategic.
Hungry in a way that had nothing to do with violence.
“JD does that for Santa Fe,” I said. “Not construction, but the clean-side stuff. Legal. Money. Pressure. He knows how to walk into a room with rich people and make them think he belongs there while he’s cutting the floor out from under them.”
Callum nodded once. “JD has credentials.”
“I’m a far cry from JD.”
“Everyone is.”
“Thanks.”
