by Hazel Parker
Actually, if I were being honest with myself, I would have found the whole venture to Green Hills strange. While everything that I had seen before was true—it was a place growing with young people, and they were making an effort to attract a more technologically-oriented crowd—it was true only in the relative sense. Green Hills didn’t have a population above a few thousand people; it wasn’t like some of the other counties or locations of interest, like Santa Barbara or maybe even Anaheim or Long Beach, that had a much greater appeal and customer base.
It wasn’t my job to ask Jose why he had chosen Green Hills. And while the decision did seem strange, it wasn’t like he was requesting I find locations to operate illegal stores out of, nor was he asking me to create a campaign to defend him against charges of illegal activity he had actually been involved with.
But what I was thinking, that I would just tell Jose the Saints had it… that was akin to malpractice on my part. I was lying to him if I said that, and I could not lose his trust. If I misled him and he found out, MWM Solutions was ruined, and dozens of people would be out of a job.
When I got home, I just told myself that I needed the night off. I hadn’t been in a spot like that ever. I had never heard gunfire so close to my ear, even when I grew up in a relatively poor part of town. I had encountered a first that was going to be a jarring memory. I just…
I just needed space.
But when I thought about it, space was something I had had for the last dozen years. I’d had the space of being single; I’d had the space of having my own office; I’d had the space of being able to turn down work or clients I didn’t want or like or need. Did I really need more space?
And was BK really in the wrong in that way, either? If your father had heard a loud noise outside his house with you there, do you think he would have said, “There’s nothing to it?” Maybe he shouldn’t have fired on the men, but if they were causing trouble…
I was overthinking things. I was letting the craziness of the day get to me. I just needed to sleep. I just to put this day behind me.
Unfortunately, it was probably a reasonable suspicion to doubt that that was going to happen.
* * *
When I woke up the next day, I panicked when I realized my alarm hadn’t gone off.
And then I saw why. It was Saturday, not a work day.
Fuck me. I completely forgot that I have today off.
Well, besides the one call, but that’s not until ten anyways.
It was only half an hour past eight, as well, meaning I would have time to go for my Saturday morning run, shower, watch an episode of my TV show, and then grab a quick bite to eat before I had to get on the call. And since it was the kind of call that would finish within twenty minutes, if not less, it wasn’t like I needed to do a whole lot of preparation.
I went through that exact routine at first, getting through the run and the shower. I pulled up an episode of True Detective, getting about halfway through when my phone buzzed with a text message.
Jose?
“I know it’s a Saturday, but wondering if we can meet today. Discuss strategy now that we’re growing in sectors.”
While I was usually pretty good at distinguishing between my working time and my resting time, last night had been too goddamn fucking crazy to ignore. I needed something to focus on that wasn’t the previous night, because otherwise, I wouldn’t spend any time relaxing and all the time focused on replaying the events.
“Let’s meet at one at my office. Casual. I’ll be in jeans.”
I hurried to grab some oatmeal and quinoa before hopping on the call. I couldn’t have been happier that it was mostly the CEO on the other end talking and very little of me having to do anything—had I been asked to contribute in any serious way beyond the perfunctory hello and goodbye, I think I would have stumbled and gotten questions about if I was hungover or not. Hungover emotionally, sure.
When the call ended, I dropped the phone and then dropped my head to the kitchen table.
Why am I thinking about this again?
And for that matter… why was I even bothering to forgive BK for his actions? He had protected me, after all. He had told me to stay inside and done everything he could have to make sure I wouldn’t get hurt. Even when he let me leave, he had made sure no one followed me.
He almost seemed human. Granted, a human who seemed incapable of saying anything beyond the bare minimum, but he was definitely speaking more.
And hadn’t he said something about the military? I had a cousin on the East Coast who I think was a Navy SEAL, though he mostly kept to himself and didn’t say much about what he did.
Stop giving him excuses. He’s a criminal. End of discussion. Don’t see him again. Maybe he can protect you, but you don’t need protection except when in his company.
Time moved at a crawl, though, as I sought ways to move forward with my day until one. Around half an hour before noon, I just gave up and went to the office early. Sunset Boulevard was mostly packed with tourists, even in our building’s parking deck, thanks to the paid parking option on weekends, but I was able to find a distant spot on one of the bottom floors. It was just more time for me to think, which was exactly what I did not need.
I came up and nodded at a few of the associates who were working extra hours for one of our clients. I think a few of them were shocked to see me, but if anything, the weekend appearance could only help matters, especially since it was unannounced. It would only improve employee morale.
Now, if I can just improve my own…
I passed the time by looking up other areas in Los Angeles that Sea Sailor Whiskey could expand to. I continued to hone in on the south side of things, branching out almost all the way to San Diego. The sooner the company could hit all of Southern California, the better; saying that it had a strong foothold in SoCal was a much better selling point than just saying it had a strong grip in Los Angeles and a few other far-flung cities.
The focus seemed to pay off, because it was just after one when I noticed that I had missed a few phone calls from Jose.
“Sorry,” I said as soon as he picked up my return call. “Busy, busy, busy. I’ll come down to you.”
Jose thanked me as I tried to avoid sweating from feeling so out of control today. I was losing track of time and my cool—that was a bad sign. Just take tomorrow off and you’ll be set.
I came downstairs and saw Jose standing outside our office doors. Despite my request to dress casually, he was dressed impeccably—though he had ditched the suit, he still had on slacks and a nice button-down shirt. I opened the door and he almost bowed to me, a slightly ridiculous act that only made me feel more self-conscious.
“Is that casual for you?” I said, teasing him.
“I don’t believe in casual, only serious,” he said very dramatically.
“Oh, OK.”
My voice, though, definitely hinted at the fact that I was a little haywire and a little nervous. It didn’t help that I also went completely silent when I walked him back to my office. I think Jose tried a couple of times to try and engage me, but I didn’t react. I wanted to focus on us getting there so we could discuss whatever we needed to.
I couldn’t avoid it, though, when we sat down at our spots in the office.
“Something is troubling you, Miss Walker,” he said.
Oh, shit, this Miss thing again.
“Long night,” I said.
“You go out? Have a good time?”
His eyebrows arched, as if he were hoping I’d share a funny story. It was… again, I kept thinking that he was being flirtatious, even though I told myself that wasn’t the case.
“No,” I said, deciding to be blunt. “I brought the whiskey to Green Hills. I had to talk to the Savage Saints. There was… there were some difficulties.”
The smile on Jose’s face vanished immediately. I don’t think I had ever seen someone go from cheerful and happy to furious in the snap of a finger. I might as well have made a
joke about how I killed his brother.
“What do you mean, difficulties?” Jose said. “I have connections, you know. I can help if you need security or—”
“No, nothing like that,” I said.
I really didn’t feel like elaborating. Jose had gotten someone in Green Hills to promote his liquor, and that was what mattered—not whatever I felt about BK and not whatever actions he had taken to ensure I was safe.
“Megan,” he said, and it was not lost on me that he had finally used my first name. “You are indeed a great business partner, but I like to think of everyone as my friend, someone I haven’t yet realized is my friend, or a bad person. You are a friend. The Savage Saints? They are bad people. I don’t want you hurt by them.”
“I wasn’t hurt,” I said, which was true—in fact, I showed him my arms to prove the point, which may have been a bit excessive. “They’re… they’re interesting people. But anyways, let’s get back to business.”
Even when I said that, though, the fire in Jose’s eyes didn’t vanish. It was almost a little intimidating, honestly. I knew most people didn’t like the Saints, or at least assumed as much, but this was very different in feel.
“So here’s what I think,” I said. “We’ve worked ourselves into Santa Monica quite well, which is obviously very encouraging. We’ve made as much headway as we can in Green Hills—there honestly wasn’t much there to begin with, but we got in, so that’s what counts. I’m thinking you could expand your focus south. I have—”
“I want a store in North Hollywood.”
I was so taken aback by the request that I just stared at him dumbfounded. That request seemed to go against everything I knew about what Sea Sailor Whiskey wanted to do. I had thought they’d only wanted to manufacture their liquor in their plant and then distribute it, not have their own store.
“I, uhh, didn’t know you wanted to do that,” I said.
“It’s something I decided upon very recently,” Jose said, his voice a little snappier than usual. “I believe it will help me expand even faster.”
“OK…” I said, feeling like we were getting closer and closer to that line where corporate malpractice was starting to take hold. “I feel like I should warn you though, Jose, most brands—in fact, I can’t think of any—don’t have their own stores. They might sell their stuff at their plants, but—”
“I don’t care; call me an innovator then,” he said again. “I want that store, and I need you to market it to whomever you need to in order to get permission.”
Something very strange is going on. There’s no way that Jose thinks that this is a good idea.
“Jose, let me ask this then,” I said, unsure if I was being annoying or being the voice of reason here. I leaned toward the latter, but with my mind frazzled, it couldn’t say for sure. “You really want to put a store in North Hollywood? It’s one of the smaller suburbs of Los Angeles. I think you could do better if you put it in, say, Beverly Hills or Hollywood. You could—”
“You’re the marketer and I’m the boss, OK?”
I had never seen Jose act like this. I felt like I was dealing with someone who was a little unstable.
“OK,” I said. “But Jose. You need to speak to me calmly and respectfully. I’m only asking these questions to make sure your business reaches its full potential. If I don’t ask these questions, then I’m being a bad consultant.”
Jose sighed, leaned back in his chair, and nodded as he put his hands behind his head.
“You’re right, and I apologize,” he said. “I’m just… I just want to see my plan for this business come to fruition. Sometimes passion gets in the way and causes more harm than good, but I promise that I’m working to make it better.”
“Good,” I said.
I wasn’t very reassured, though. There was something about the way Jose chose his words and the way that he delivered them that almost seemed too calculating, too good to be true. It was like he had planned this outburst all along and was apologizing in line with the script that he had given himself.
But after yesterday, who was I to say?
Like everything else from that night, I shifted it to the side to focus on the one thing I knew I had control over.
Work, and specifically, work that would make my client happy.
Chapter 7: BK
It was one thing to speak more freely and confidently when I was with a relative stranger who didn’t know much of my background.
It was an entirely different thing to speak to the club when they saw me as their sergeant-in-arms, as the man who did the brutal, bloody work when it needed to be done, as the man who was responsible for the club image in every way, shape, and form.
They didn’t expect their executioner and their press man to be someone who would be loquacious and so certain of his words. They didn’t expect him to be someone who focused on self-growth and maturity. They just expected him to be an ax that could swing in any direction, cutting down anyone who threatened the status quo or made things worse for the club.
But if I was going to live up to my promise to myself to be more connected, to establish better relationships, I knew it wasn’t going to be a half-assed job. Amber’s advice didn’t just apply to outside connections; it had to apply within the club too. Otherwise, it would be a real shitty look when I was able to make friends with people outside but remained gruff and above those who were within it.
I just wished the first chance to practice that hadn’t come in the form of an emergency weekend hall meeting.
“I know all of you wish you were still banging your girls from last night,” Trace said dryly as he chose a cigar to smoke. “No one wants to be in a meeting on a Saturday, especially since, by the looks of it, almost all of you are hungover. Unfortunately, we have a fucking cockroach that not only doesn’t want to die, but it also seems inclined to make our lives worse the more we try to kill it.”
Weary eyes stared up at Trace and me as they fought to shake off the effects of the night before. It was times like these that I was glad I didn’t drink as much as the rest of the guys.
“The DMs last night ran a truck into the barbershop across the street, as I’m sure all of you saw,” Trace said, followed by a puff on his cigar. “The shit part, though, is that they spray-painted our logo on the window in an attempt to frame us. If you ask me, their target was fucking stupid, given that we all visit that place regularly. It’s not a trick the police are going to fall for. However, the fact that they are framing us for attacks is a new development, and not one that bodes very well for us going forward.”
“Fuck…” multiple people murmured around the table.
I cleared my throat. I decided it was time to speak a little here, and to do so in a coherent, easily understood fashion.
“Last night, I had Megan over,” I said. “I heard the crash and went outside to investigate.”
I paused for a second.
“I… saw a man in a hood and black vest spray-painting it. I tried to shoot at him, but the other two Mercs got shots at me. I did manage to hit one guy, which Sheriff Wiggins took care of, but the other two got away. He was most definitely a Merc. I… confirmed the fact. Mercs… they are fighting underhanded.”
“They’ve always been a bunch of fucking scumbags,” Splitter said. “Now they’re pretending to be us! I say we fuck them all up!”
“Yes! Go there and burn down every last one of them!” Krispy shouted. “I want to taste their ashes! Let them all fucking burn!”
“OK, shut the fuck up,” Trace said, rolling his eyes. “Obviously, yes, fuck the Mercs, that is the long term plan. But right now, for the immediate future, this is just something we’re going to have to take care of quietly. Whoever is in charge of the Mercs right now is aware that our image is suffering and is pushing to get us out of here.”
He turned to me.
“BK. You’re my sergeant-in-arms, and I love you. I want you around when shit goes down, and I know there’s no one more fear
less. But whatever you and Megan are working on, you have to come up with something quick. The sheriff hid what happened last night, and the news reports are just saying it was a drunk driver. So we got lucky on this one. But we’re not going to get as lucky on the next one.”
I snorted, nodded my head slowly in agreement, and realized that Trace was saying I had to reach back out to Megan to try and make peace.
That was easier said than done, especially because she was the one to break it off, and when she was “helping” us, she was so weakly doing so that I could have come up with a lot of the ideas myself. At least we had gotten her time for free; if we had paid anything more than twenty bucks for that time, I probably would have lost my damn mind.
“I know,” I said.
But that wasn’t good enough. The club wasn’t going to take complete silence on my part, nor was I. Megan hadn’t given me anything substantive, but I had gotten a degree in marketing—I wasn’t just some helpless fool that was put in charge of our image by default. I knew enough that I could do something.
“Gotta start small,” I gruffed. “Reach out to the barbershop owners. Make our help visible. The more people see us being a good neighbor, the more they will realize we are good.”
“That’s a decent start,” Trace said. “OK. After this meeting, BK, myself, and… Sensei, let’s head over to the barbershop. I doubt that Dale will be in on a weekend, especially since he was there this morning, but at the very least, we can help clean up. Cops have already collected evidence they need, so shouldn’t be any crossing yellow tape.”
Then he sighed.
“Admittedly, I can’t help but wonder if we’re just putting out a fire instead of taking the oil and matches away, but I suppose you’re right, BK. This would be a good first step, and if we can’t clean things up in Los Angeles, then we can start in Green Hills. After all, if our hometown hates us, then it’s not going to do much good if North Hollywood loves us. Rent’s pretty goddamn expensive there.”
