Still, transporting at the level we do is a dangerous job. One motherfucker after another is always trying to cut into our game. Doesn’t matter how many we take down. Another fucking street gang pops up and starts busting our nuts. I guess if I was going to take Cub on a run, this is a good one to bring her on. Pop’s not here to give me shit, and nobody in the van is going to fucking rat. Each one of these assholes has done shit they shouldn’t have for their chick. Especially Duke—motherfucker better not get me started on the goddamn Darren situation. That shit blew up in our faces bad. We’re still cleaning it up.
“I hate you being here. If you get hurt, I won’t ever forgive you.” I’m being a dick and I know it. I just don’t care right now. I’m not normally this much of an ass to her when we’re alone, at least not anymore, and especially not after I’ve taken her. She’s the one person I don’t have to have my guard up around. I want to share shit with her and give her everything she wants. But shit’s been weighing on my shoulders, and I can’t be bothered with trying to play nice or making her happy. I’d rather she be safe and angry with me than at risk because I’m worried about being fucking popular.
“Then I guess you’ll just have to make sure I stay safe,” she says slyly. The way her eyes flutter and she speaks like she’s hanging on to her last breath is hot as fuck, and I just want to stick my dick in her mouth. But she won’t like that, and she’s not the same woman she was when I first met her. She’s been hanging around Ma too fucking long. Last week she had the nerve to tell me to kiss my own ass because she wasn’t going to do it for me. Not gonna lie, it just makes me want to fuck her every time she stands up to me about stupid shit. I liked her before I knew she had a backbone. But now? Fuck. I just wish it wasn’t so fucking obvious.
“You see the guys in the flannel? Underneath those shirts they have their leather cuts on. Not Forsaken—it’s not important to you who they are—but they help us run our shit day-to-day. Low-level supervisory shit that I can’t be bothered with. Things like weighing the product and separating and packaging it into the appropriate weights. We used to do that shit ourselves, but that was back when Rage was in charge. Anal motherfucker. Now we have too many . . . locations . . . to individually manage each one.”
“How does the club handle the money made from an operation this big?” She’s asked this question before, and so far I’ve successfully dodged answering. I know why she wants to know, but I’m not up for fucking telling her.
“Fuck if I know. I just work here,” I mutter. Cub wants to go to school and get a degree in something that will help the club run our businesses. She mentioned becoming an accountant or some shit like that before. I don’t like the idea one bit, but I’ve told her no before. Just like I told her I wasn’t going to involve her in club business today, but here she is at one of our grow houses anyway. Crazy woman doesn’t take no for an answer, and I suck at denying her anything.
“Who’s she?” I barely recognize Jerry’s deep, throaty voice as he approaches. He always kicks up the dirt and stray rocks as he walks, his feet practically pounding into the ground below. Jerry’s not the worst guy to spot Cub—not that I’ve done a good job at keeping her hidden—but he’s not the best either. Jerry’s one of those “by the book” guys who will recite bylaws and shit to you if he thinks you need the reminder. But we don’t wear the same patch, and Forsaken don’t recognize another club’s laws. Fuck, some days we barely recognize our own. Like me bringing her up here. Not the first time it’s happened, though. Ma’s been on more runs with Pop than I can count. Pisses people off but nobody’s stupid enough to tell Ma she can’t do something if she’s got her mind set on it.
“Jerry,” I say. He’s a tall and burly man with a large gut and a lazy eye. His dark-blue-and-forest-green plaid flannel shirt is marked with dried mud in spots. About half the crew out here work the ranch as well as the grow house in an effort to disguise the ranch’s dual purpose. “This is my girl.”
Jerry doesn’t say anything. He just nods his head and turns to walk away. He makes a half circle before turning back around and raising his empty hand to his temple. With his ring index finger pressing into his skull, he says, “That’s right—uh, Boss wanted to see you next run. So I guess now works, huh?”
Fuck. Since when does his boss want to see me? I don’t give a fuck about going in there and talking to that old asshole, but bringing Cub in with me is a different story. Every passing moment we’re here makes me even more nervous than the one before it. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Jerry’s boss wants to talk to me—and while the dude is technically my fucking employee, he’s a valuable asset to the ranch, and his men respect him. They know Forsaken, damn well better respect Forsaken, and they don’t give us shit. But Jerry’s boss doesn’t know me, and I have a feeling he’s about to ask me some questions I don’t want to answer. Again, people with their fucking questions.