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Dare shakes his head. “The new deal. Transporting women. Our hands are tied at the moment.”

I press my lips together. I’d love to beat the shit out of the Russian for this shit. Maybe Dare and Loot, too. All of this fucking shit is their fault, because of their women. So much goddamn drama that we’ve been dragged into.

And now we’d be in a goddamn war if it weren’t for these terms that they negotiated. Although it’s not much of a negotiation, because the club just agreed to everything. Every single thing. Zero goddamn pushback.

And now I’m part of this bullshit, because I’m a member of the club.

Inhaling a deep breath, I hold it before I let it out slowly and lean back in my chair. I’m holed up in the conference room of the clubhouse. It’s the only place I can look at all this shit without prying eyes.

Contracts, agreements, communications, and then turning them into records for the club. I tap my pen against the paperwork, wondering how in the fuck we got this far in bed with those pieces of shit.

There is a knock on the door, and I frown to myself before calling out for whomever the fuck it is to come inside. I don’t even turn my head to watch the man walk through the door, and I know it’s a man, because no clubwhore or old lady would dare walk in here.

I hear a deep voice clear before Hippie makes his way around the table and tugs the chair out, sinking down as he sits across from me. Leaning back in my chair, I tilt my head to the side as I wait for him to say something, because no doubt he’s got things to say.

“I can’t fucking believe that we’re doing this shit,” he growls.

“You mean transporting sex slaves, or whatever they’re using these women for?” I ask

He snorts. “I bought a whole fuckton of guns just in case, too.”

“What do we do with that information?” I ask.

Hippie shrugs a shoulder. “I have no fucking clue. I’m just saying, that’s what’s happening.”

Dipping my chin in a nod, I flick my gaze down to my paperwork, then shift it up to meet his. “I don’t like this whole transportation of women thing. I’m putting that out here and now.”

“I don’t either,” Hippie agrees with my thoughts.

Thoughts that don’t fucking matter at this point. The contract has been executed. Dare has signed what needs to be signed, and that’s fucking that. Not only did he include us in this shit, but he also got Cake to agree to it—nationwide.

So it doesn’t fucking matter. The decision has been made, and here we go, having to deal with it. The whole thing pisses me off to no end, but I can’t say anything about it. We just have to adapt.

And that pisses me off, too.

“How in the fuck are we supposed to deal with all this?” I ask. “It’s not like we have a million men working under us.”

Hippie dips his chin a couple times in a nod, then clears his throat. “I agree,” he eventually admits. “But the shit has been executed. It’s done, brother.”

“Now we adapt,” I grind out.

It’s the last fucking thing I want to do, but also what I need to do. So here I am, doing the fucking bullshit. I look at the schedule and the contract. We’re going to need to do some serious maneuvering.

“What do we do when we run out of men?” I ask

“Run out of men?”

“This schedule, this bullshit, the men doing the women transport shit, it’s got us going a million different directions all at the same fucking time. We’re going to run out of men, even if we just take the truck to a drop-off point and another club takes it from us.”

“We have collections and insurance contracts, too,” Hippie announces.

I don’t need the reminder, but whatever. I let it go because he’s working through this shit with me. Placing my hand on the table, I tap my index finger a few times, then shake my head from side to side.

“I can’t fix this,” I state. “I can’t make it go away. So I guess adaptation is about all we got going on.”

“Well,” Hippie begins. “I don’t like it.”

I don’t either.