Lead (The Brazen Bulls MC, #8)

by Susan Fanetti

  She thought about her morning. The prospect of going back to the house where Denny lived made her ill. That was far worse than anything that had happened here tonight. “Will you be home tonight?”

  “I doubt it. I got a mountain of shit to deal with still.” Frowning, he looked more sharply into her eyes. “You okay? There somethin’ else goin’ on?”

  This was not the place to talk about Denny. “Would it be okay if I stayed at your place?”

  The seconds during which he considered that question crawled around the clock. Then he dug into his jeans pocket, pulled out his keys, and freed one from the ring. “When you’re alone, call me on that phone, and I’ll give you the alarm code.”

  She took the key. “Thank you.”

  Again, he studied her. Then his hand came to rest again on her hip, and he dipped his head to hers. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” She did feel better, with that key in her hand and his hand on her hip.

  “Okay. I gotta go.”

  He kissed her, and she hooked her arms around his neck and held on for a minute. She wanted a hug like this to replace the violence of his hold before. Seeming to understand that, maybe even to need it, too, when the kiss was over, he slid his hand around her back and tucked her close, let her rest there, framed inside his kutte, for a moment. This was the Becker she was falling for.

  When he left, she stood at the door and watched until he rode off.

  Behind her, Marcus laughed. “Damn, girl. Never would’ve guessed you to be looking to be baby girl to some old daddy.”

  “Fuck off, Marcus.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Becker stood at the window and peered out through the swipe he’d made in its firm layer of dust and grime.

  Across the street and down the block, the three lots that made up the Brazen Bulls compound—Delaney’s Sinclair, the clubhouse, and their side yard and parking lot—were cordoned off by eight-foot high sections of temporary chain link.

  The city suits the hazmat guys reported to had informed Becker that the clubhouse would be closed for two to six weeks while they dealt with the gasoline that had leaked into the ground. The station itself? The whole thing had to be razed and rebuilt, and that project couldn’t even start until hazmat cleared the scene.

  Fortunately, they had an iron-clad rule that they didn’t store incriminating evidence in their house. There was nothing in there that could hurt them. Still, Becker hated all those government types having the run of the place while the Bulls were locked out. He’d set up a round-the-clock watch; just eyes on the site so they’d know if anybody started getting too nosy.

  Meanwhile, the Bulls were homeless. This long-empty building, owned by the Glory to the Savior Fellowship Church and intended for a church school, once they raised the funds, was the best he could do to make a refuge for the club. The Reverend Matilda Fielder had long been a friend, and she’d offered the building rent-free until the clubhouse was cleared.

  Rent-free was good; they needed to cut costs where they could. Without the station, they didn’t have near enough work. Nearly eight months after 9/11, they’d made only two major runs for the Volkovs, and the cargo—and thus the take—for both had been comparatively small. Madame Irina was not yet satisfied that the risk of border-crossing commerce had settled back to reasonable levels. She’d been focused on developing new projects, particularly her new business in the sales and manufacture of crystal meth. And her pet project of fomenting a cartel war in Mexico and installing her chosen cartel at the top of the heap.

  The Bulls weren’t integral to either of those projects. They didn’t work drugs, and they’d had already gotten Irina’s military-grade weapons, ordnance, and materiel across the border before al Qaeda had torn a hole through the country.

  Even more challenging for the future was Irina’s displeasure with the change in Bulls leadership. She didn’t know Becker, didn’t trust him, and had been caught blindside by Delaney’s retirement. She was the Russian word for pissed the fuck off.

  For almost a decade, the Bulls had worked with the Volkov bratva. They’d been the hub for everything Irina did in the western half of the country and her transport service for everything she moved across the north and south borders. Over those years, as she’d grown in power and reach, she’d leaned on them more and more, until Volkov work was their bread and butter, and the plate it was served on, too. They’d pulled back on ninety percent of the smaller, local work, keeping just enough hand in to maintain their local influence.

  They’d been treading water over these past several months of Volkov quiet, drawing on what they’d saved, scraping up more local work, relying heavily on the straight income from the station. With the station out of commission, they had almost no way left to earn. Ten Bulls at the table—and one in prison. Seven children—and Cecily was expecting, so eight children. Seven old ladies—plus Joanna and Maddie, who still got a small cut of any Russian work. Also Delaney and Mo. And Sage, whatever she was. It was far too early to say, but he already felt responsible for her, so he added her to his tally.

  Thirty-one human souls dependent on the Bulls, and no work to support them.

  Delaney had walked away while the club was still reeling from its last crash into trouble. He’d walked because he’d lost confidence in his ability to lead, and he didn’t trust himself to get them healthy again. Maybe he was right; he hadn’t been the same since Dane’s death. He’d become harder and less willing to see other points of view, and his love for the club had dimmed. The patches had all felt it, and some had wondered if his time was nearing an end. But he’d left them in the midst of trouble, with no better option for president than Becker, who’d barely had a year of experience leading anything.

  And now it was on Becker to steer the club through this next crash.

  Sighing, he put a lid on his own personal insecurities and squared his shoulders under his responsibilities. He was the president, the club had made him so with a unanimous vote, and it was his job to get them whole and keep them there.

  He turned around and surveyed the dusty bustle that had been going on behind him. Kendra, a longstanding sweetbutt who’d taken over de facto management of the girls, stood behind the sales desk, delegating jobs and answering questions as people worked to clean up the store and make it into something they could use. Three Bulls, their prospect, Terry, a couple hangarounds, and a few sweetbutts were doing what they could to make the bones of this old shop into some version of a home. It had been a men’s clothing shop ten years ago, and the shelves and racks had been left more or less as if they’d awaited stock to display. Now, they were all pushed to the back wall. Terry was hauling trash out back to the dumpster, hangarounds worked on getting the boards off the windows, sweetbutts swept and washed, and Wally and Gargoyle were putting together a plastic portable banquet table for the back room, which would serve as their chapel.

  Shit, he hoped it was two weeks and not six they had to live rough like this.

  Kendra was doing a decent job, but a sweetbutt couldn’t have that kind of power in the clubhouse for long. She was a good woman, and smart. Maddie had sold Signet Models to her, and she ran it well. She was powerful in her own right. But with the Bulls, she was still just club pussy. In fact, maybe the fact that she had power and influence of her own made it more of a problem that she was running things in the clubhouse. They needed an old lady in charge, someone deeply linked to the club.

  Becker missed Mo. During Delaney’s time, Mo would have been here, keeping everybody on task, turning this sad mess into a cozy home in no time flat. But she stayed clear of the clubhouse as much as her old man did these days, and no old lady had stepped up to take her place. Maddie, who’d managed the girls specifically, stayed away, too, since Ox’s death.

  Mo, Maddie, Joanna. All the OG old ladies, who’d run things in the clubhouse for as long as there’d been a clubhouse to run, were out of the loop now. Ox and Dane dead. Delaney retired. Maybe D was right—this club wasn�
�t the club he’d made anymore.

  Becker had no idea which old lady would or should take over from the women who’d run things smoothly for decades and build something new.

  This shift to temporary digs had made him see the gap. Watching Kendra work today, managing things like she owned the place, realizing that he’d let her do it without question, Becker saw a potential for trouble that had been obscured by the comfortable sameness of the clubhouse.

  But which woman should take the lead?

  Traditionally, and for good reason, it should be the president’s old lady. But he was single, so far—and even if what he had maybe going on with Sage turned into something, a twenty-year-old clubhouse queen might be a stretch. He could only imagine what mainstay girls like Kendra and Janine and Kymber would think about being bossed around by the likes of his stubborn little shit of a girl.

  All the old ladies were wrapped up in their own business, and Becker didn’t see any of them having, or taking, the time to manage the club. Going down the roster: Simon, his VP, had Deb, but Deb had little Sammy at home, who wasn’t even a year old yet. She also had a farm to run. Rad’s Willa worked full-time as a nurse and had two little boys to keep track of. Maverick was an officer now, keeping their books, but they had two kids, and Jenny ran a bar. Gunner and Leah didn’t have kids yet, but Leah was a grade school teacher. Mo had been a teacher, too, and had managed the clubhouse even so, but Leah was just starting out her career. Jacinda was still at home with her and Apollo’s baby girl, but Athena had some issues and needed a lot of attention. And Jacinda intended to go back to work eventually.

  Cecily, Caleb’s old lady, was Dane’s daughter. She’d grown up in the club and knew how it ran. She worked, too, and she was pregnant, but maybe she was the best bet they had to take charge of the clubhouse? Then again, she was young, too, not all that much older than Sage. More of a club princess than a queen. She was also hot-tempered and had a bitchy streak when she was on a tear.

  Becker shuddered. No, definitely not Ciss. He loved her, but she dragged drama along behind her like it was her job.

  Becker scrubbed his hands over his eyes. He had too damn much to think about.

  The front door slammed open with enough force to rattle the glass inside it, and Becker swung that direction. Simon was pushing a flatbed dolly, loaded with metal folding chairs. Behind him, Rad pushed in another dolly, this one stacked with three boxes. Becker went to help with the door.

  “This is chairs and glasses,” Rad announced. “We got kegs and a couple cases of Jack and Patrón comin’ right behind.”

  “And we called in everybody,” Simon added. “They’ll be here in twenty.”

  Becker nodded, then called out, “PROSPECT!”

  Terry dropped his bags of trash and came up. “Yeah, Prez?”

  “Wash up and get to the hospital. We’re meeting, and I don’t want Fitz on his own.”

  “Will do. You need me to bring him anything?”

  “Nah. I’m going over after church. Just get a move on.”

  “I’m gone!” With a bounce in his step that was almost a skip, Terry trotted out the door.

  Becker turned to Simon. “Wally and Gargo have the back room set up. Let’s get the chairs back there so we’ve got a place to sit down.”

  ~oOo~

  “First up, what’s the word on Fitz?” Becker directed the question to Gunner and Caleb, sitting side by side. They’d been on vigil last.

  Caleb answered. “Kari says he’s better this morning. His tests are all improved, and he asked after her boy. She thinks he’s starting to remember.”

  As the table reacted to that good news, Simon turned to Becker. “Mrs. G’s grandson pulled Rad and me aside when we were unloading the van. He wants to sit down with us.”

  “I already told him we don’t hold her to account for this. We’re not gonna retaliate on Mrs. G for bein’ an old lady. Or her family.”

  “They can’t afford to bury her right,” Rad said. “I heard Horace and Fred talkin’ about it on the corner.”

  Horace and Fred were old neighborhood retirees who’d been spending most of their twilight days sitting in front of the station, yammering about the woes of the world. Since the crash, they and the rest of the station regulars had set up on the corner across the street, in front of the little shoe repair shop, watching the commotion on the station lot. They’d had to bring their own lawn chairs, and Old Nate didn’t like them clogging up his doorway, but they weren’t about to be dissuaded. The gossip mill had to keep running.

  Rad added, “I think he means to ask us to help bury her. A loan, at least.”

  Wally jumped in before Becker could react. “Fuck that! He wants us to give money to bury the old bitch who hurt Fitz like that? We better not.”

  “Wally, shut your mouth.” Becker hadn’t raised his voice, but he’d meant to be obeyed, and that must have come through, because Wally’s jaw snapped shut. “Mrs. G was a loyal customer from the day D opened the station. She brought us fruitcake and cookies every Christmas. She left birthday cards for the kids. She was good to us, and she didn’t mean any harm. Her family lost her in this. You call her a bitch again, and you will have trouble with me.”

  “And with me,” Rad said. Most of the other heads at the table nodded their agreement.

  Wally backed down, most of the way. “Okay. Sorry. She was nice, yeah. But she almost killed Fitz, mistake or not, and we don’t know how good he’ll heal up. Feels wrong to pay out for that.”

  “There’s a bigger issue,” Maverick said. “I’m not against helping her family out to put her to rest right, but maybe it should be a loan. We gotta think about our bottom line. There’s a lot of mouths eating at this table, and the station’s been our main income since September.”

  “That’s why I called us in. We need to talk about work. I’ve put two calls in to Alexei since the crash but haven’t heard back yet.”

  Rad leaned forward. “That sounds like trouble.”

  Becker didn’t disagree. “It might be. Irina’s pissed that Delaney retired. He did it without running it by her, and she’s steamed. We haven’t run a Russian job since he was at the table. I think she doesn’t want to talk to me.”

  “How do we fix that?” Simon asked.

  “Or is this our out?” Maverick asked. “Can we use this to get quit of the Russians?”

  Rad slapped his hand on the table. “You just said we can’t feed our people, Mav. How else’re we gonna do that without the Russians?”

  “We did it before. This club survived almost twenty years without running guns. I am sick of that woman clenching her claws around our collective balls.”

  “Most of the patches at this table don’t remember those days, Mav,” Rad countered. “But I do. We survived, yeah. But compared to where we are now, they were skinny days. The genie’s out of the bottle.”

  “So we’re just fucked forever?”

  “Only if we don’t want the work,” Gargoyle put in. “Me, I don’t mind it. I like the runs, and she pays us fair.” He turned to Becker. “I know why she’s backed off on sending guns across the border, but I also know she’s not sitting on her hands. Is there other work we could do?”

  Simon shook his head. “It’s all drugs. She’s focused on Mexico, and Alexei is building up Texas for her meth. She’s got coke and horse, too, but crystal is her real interest.”

  “So?” Wally asked.

  “What do you mean, boy?” Rad snarled back.

  “I mean, so what? I never understood why we don’t get in on the drug money.”

  Rad crossed his arms and sat back so hard that he pushed his flimsy folding chair off its front legs. “Drugs is filthy business.”

  Wally, who had apparently had a double dose of stupid with his corn flakes that morning, missed or ignored the signs that Rad was close to losing his head, and he pushed on with a dismissive laugh. “We mule fucking grenade launchers. That last shipment was full of armor cladding. It’s all war-
making shit. We hand it off to Abrego 13, and they take it into Mexico. Who do you think the buyer is? A fucking convent? No, it’s a drug cartel. We’re already in the drug business.” He turned to Becker. “Come on, Prez. I heard you make this same argument before. It’s a stupid place to draw the line.”

  Rad’s complexion had gone brick red. “Delaney put the line there. The man who built this club.”

  “And walked away. This isn’t D’s table anymore. It’s ours. I say we vote.”

  That was Gargoyle. Something about the argument picking up another advocate changed its whole tone, made it an actual issue, and now the table crackled with tension.

  It was Becker’s job to resolve it. Wally was right; he had made the same argument, and, in fact, he thought they should consider it. The line between running guns between a Russian bratva and a drug cartel and running the drugs those guns protected was arbitrary and delusional. He’d always thought so, but he’d never had any power. In his mind, either they were outlaws or they were not. If they were going to stay on the dark side and play with the big bads, then they might as well earn as much as they could from it.

  It would, however, mean a major shift for the club—not because of the work itself, but because of Delaney’s feelings about it. If and when they took on drugs directly, Brian Delaney’s Bulls truly would be a thing of the past. By rejecting that line he’d always held sacrosanct, they’d become a different club. No question.

  “It would be a major change. I don’t know if Irina will go for it even if we tell her we’re game, and we’re nowhere near ready to tell her that. It’s not ready for a vote,” he told the table. His table. “I want a lot more discussion first.”

  Maverick stood up. “Five minutes ago, I said I wanted to talk about getting out of the Russian work completely. Now we’re talking about going deeper? If we take on drugs, we’re handing the Russians the last bit of ourselves we still keep whole.”

  Becker met Maverick’s angry eyes. “Sit down, Mav. Meeting’s still in session. We’ve got work to do.”