“Enough!” Stone roared.
I stood toe to toe with Texas, my head cocked up and my chest puffed out. I didn’t give a damn that he was taller than me. I had more muscle than him, and he knew it. I’d knock his fucking brakes off in a heartbeat. Everyone made that assumption. That because I was good with numbers, that I wouldn't swing a punch first. Or last.
They were wrong. On both counts. I’d start that shit, then finish it to prove a fucking point.
“I think the main issue is that we don’t have the numbers,” Stone said.
“We are a smaller crew,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Texas, back up,” Stone said.
“What?” he asked.
“I said, back the fuck up,” Stone said.
Texas backed away from me and I cracked my neck. I popped the knuckles on my hands, then rolled my shoulders. Every vertebrae down my spine cracked for the world to hear, and everyone’s eyes were on me.
“Bronx?” Stone asked.
“What?” I grumbled.
“Look at your hand.”
I looked down and found my palm sitting over the butt of my gun. I drew in a deep breath and closed my eyes, then let my hand fall to my side. I cleared my throat and turned my back to Texas, needing that asshole out of my view long enough to calm my adrenaline rush.
“You good?” Notch asked.
I sighed. “Stone’s right. We’re too small of a crew to face off with both the police and the Chinese.”
“I could place a call to The Rat Bastards,” Texas murmured.
“I’m in good with a couple local gangs. I could talk to their leaders,” Notch said.
“Good. I’ve got a few calls I can place myself. For a short spell, I rode alongside the Celtic Riders back in Arizona. Maybe I can cash in the one favor those assholes owe me,” Stone said.
“They owe you a favor?” I asked.
Stone nodded. “Saved the ass of their now-president from a girl’s father that wanted him dead.”
“Sounds like a story,” Texas said, chuckling.
“Yeah. And the moral of it is this: don’t shack up with a rival drug lord’s daughter,” Stone said.
The four of us shared a small moment of laughter, which eased the tension from the room. I didn’t have outside contacts, but what I had was a bar that still needed to be managed. Stone snapped his fingers to disperse us again, and everyone drifted into their respective offices-slash-bedrooms. And while they placed their phone calls, I headed out to my bike.
I struck it up with the papers in my back pocket and made my way for the crew’s bar.
“Bronx!”
“Hey, can I get your opinion on something?”
“The schedule’s off again. Can you take a look at it?”
“Our tip jar’s missing again. Why can’t we have a security system in this place?”
“We need another bartender, Bronx. Have you hired anyone yet?”
“The menu’s getting stale. And we really need to think about opening a kitchen in back.”
I ignored the barrage of questions and requests. I walked in the back door and headed straight to my office. I knew all that shit needed to be dealt with, but not now. I wasn’t bringing on any new hires or adding any additions to this damn place until we had shit settled with this Boulder-Chinese-set-up mess. It boiled my blood just to think his name, but I was finally past the bulk of it. He had manipulated me into opening up. Into being a friend. Which meant I simply needed to keep my guard up longer and better with people who came across as “my type.”
Friends or otherwise.
I pulled out the financials and flopped down at my desk. I pulled up the inner security camera feed, something I kept private from the rest of the staff. I didn’t want anyone to know I had security cameras up. Including the damn police. The only reason I convinced Stone to have one was because someone kept stealing our damn liquor, costing us thousands of dollars in sales a month at one point. But the compromise was that the security system wasn’t set up to keep data for long amounts of time.
Forty-eight hours before shit was dumped.
I rewound all the footage we had on the place in the last couple days and started watching on fast-forward. I kept my eye on that tip jar, trying to figure out who the fuck had taken it. This was the third time in two months it had gone missing, and always with a decent amount of cash in it. We didn’t operate with tip jars at night. We had plenty of customers for that nonsense. But during the day? It helped to get the bartenders what they needed by essentially guilt-tripping their customers into tipping what they needed to tip.
It took me over an hour of watching footage to come across the moment when the tip jar was taken.
I paused, zooming in on the face of the asshole. I’d seen him around here a few times. Always came in and drank us out of our bottled Miller Lite, then never tipped a damn thing. A drunk, if anyone asked me. He always came in walking upright and left stumbling out, trying not to slam his head into anything. I watched him sling back beer after beer, without the bartender once questioning his sobriety.
Then, I saw him swipe the tip jar and tuck it in his jacket pocket.
“How big is that fucking pocket?” I murmured.
I couldn’t call out the bartender who let the man get drunk in the first place. They’d know I had a system back here if I did. The only recourse I had was calling an employee meeting and giving some sort of boring ass lecture on not letting our patrons walk out of here shit-faced. I pulled up our official email and sent out a notification to all the employees. Nine in the morning, tomorrow, there’d be a required employee meeting. If someone didn’t show up, they were without a damn job.
I sent off the email, then made plans to figure out how the fuck to bolt down a damn tip jar.
After figuring out partial solutions to all the issues thrown my way as I walked in the damn back door, I pulled up our bank accounts. Investment vehicles. Shit I’d opened in aliases I’d taken out over the years in order to help our fucking crew. The guys couldn't have cared less about it, but I’d set them up better than ever. The half a million for the new bar was doing well. Dividends for the month had dropped, and I toggled them so I could reinvest the money. I checked out the retirement accounts I had set up for the guys. Every once in a while, I skimmed money off the top of shit and dumped it equally into these accounts. Each of us had about three hundred thousand to our names right now. But in ten years if I kept skimming?
All of us could fuckin’ retire from all this shit if we wanted to.
I toggled some money around and made sure the last of the gun money had funneled through the right channels. With cash, it was tricky. Online currency was easier to clean. Cash had to be deposited before it could be cleaned. The first step was shuffling the money. You know, so the bills weren’t in sequential order. Then, I split it up evenly into seven parts and deposited each part at banks outside of San Diego. Once the deposits processed, I slowly funneled the money through the bar as a ‘monthly donation’ from ‘investors’ who had accounts set up at the seven banks I deposited money into.
Which was a fancy way of saying that I had a shit-ton of aliases working in our favor.
After the donations were cleared into the bank account of the bar, they were drawn out as business necessities. Ordering of supplies and liquor. Paychecks. Cleaning products. Renovations. Shit like that. At least, that was how they were labeled. What really happened was the money dropped back into the guy’s hands after being shuffled, funneled, circulated, and utilized as business expenses.
Disguised as paychecks for the bar they worked at and purchases for the bar they helped manage.
I tracked all of the data and wrote it down into a notebook I kept in a safe at my feet. And once I saw that all the money had been funneled back into the bar, I set up the automatic transactions. Even paychecks, every two weeks, until the end of the year. The guys knew what to do once that first paycheck hit. With every paycheck, they could draw o
ut from an ATM an extra three thousand for “business expenses and necessities.”
In other words, the rest of the money they were owed.
I sat back in my chair and pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes. Numbers tumbled around in my head, haunting and mocking me. My brain had always worked like this. Numbers never lied. They didn’t turn to drugs and alcohol for comfort, and they sure as hell didn’t abandon me. As a kid, I sought comfort in the peace and stability numbers provided. If there was ever an error, I always knew the error was with my calculations. Something I could easily control.
Control.
I craved control over my own world.
Which was why this shit with the police and the Chinese had me constantly on edge.
My phone vibrated on my hip and I groaned. I pulled it out and saw I had a text from Stone, telling me to get my ass home. That I was pulling too many hours at the bar and I needed to get myself some rest.
“Guess he got the employee email,” I murmured.
He was right, though. I needed sleep. So, I pushed myself away from my desk and walked out to the bar. I helped the bartender clean some things down and restock items we needed. Garnishes. Toothpicks. I cleaned glasses and restocked beer into the fridge before taping up one last reminder of the employee meeting in the morning.
Then, I headed out to my bike.
I had no idea what the fuck was going to happen from here. I had no idea how we were going to get ourselves out of this situation. The only thing I could do was control my end of things. The money. Making sure the guys could live and feed themselves as well as the women coming into our ranks via their dicks. And while I couldn't blame them for seeking comfort during this time in our lives, it made me a bit jealous.
I was growing tired of going back to my house and not having anyone there to greet me.
Four
Freya
I slipped into my car and pulled up my GPS. It had been a long past couple of days. And as I made my way to the gas station to grab some coffee and a honey bun, I smiled.
My father was too good to me sometimes.
After marching upstairs after the argument with my mother, I grabbed a bag of my clothes. I didn’t even know which bag it was or what was in it. But I knew it had some of my outfits folded away. I slipped a pair of extra shoes in there along with my toiletry bag, then I made my way out for my car. My mother kept trying to stop me. Grabbing my arm and yelling at me to not go. That I’d put myself in danger. That I’d put all of us in danger.
It was my father who stopped her. It was my father that held her back as I got myself out the door. And before I left, I sent my father a text. Thanking him for allowing me to leave. Thanking him for the chance to do this. To find the other shred of family I had in this world, despite what my mother thought might happen.
After that, I got myself on the road toward San Diego.
Even though the drive was only three hours, I was exhausted. My mind kept reeling. The sound of my mother’s begging haunted me for the first hour of the drive. I ended up pulling off into the parking lot of a motel just shy of two hours outside of San Diego. After hauling all my things back to my parent’s house only to turn around and be back on the road, I was tired.
I needed rest.
My father understood my need to know family, no matter how I was related to them. And while this woman’s father wasn’t mine, she was my half-sister. Half of me. I always knew growing up that someone was out there. Being a single child made my mind wander a lot. But every time my head hit the pillow, it felt like part of me was missing. That part of me was still out there, wandering around aimlessly. Trying to find direction in life. For the longest time, I thought I was just a dreamer. Someone who would rather lose themselves in their mind instead of living in the world around them. Especially with how sheltered and protective my mother had been growing up.
But maybe it was because my body knew. Maybe it was because my heart knew that part of me resided in some sister I didn’t know about.
Maybe the universe was finally drawing us together.
I swiped my card in the gas station and took my snacks out to the car. I’d woken up that morning in the motel room and opened my bank account to set myself a budget. I needed to know how much I could spend per night in a hotel or a hostel in order to make the most of my visit. And when I opened my bank account, I saw six thousand more dollars in there than I should have had. A recent deposit from my father’s own bank account.
It was enough money to fund my trip and keep me safe in the process.
“Thank you so much, Daddy,” I whispered to myself.
I slipped back into my car and looked at the GPS. I had an hour and a half to go to get to San Diego. As I sat there, sipping on my coffee and eating my honey bun, I pulled up hotels in the area. Most of them were way too expensive. Two hundred bucks a night. I mean, I didn’t need to be at the beach. I just needed to be close to everything. I could pinch more pennies if I didn’t need to constantly drive anywhere, so I focused on hotels in midtown. In downtown. Anywhere with grocery stores and coffee shops I could walk to in my spare time.
And finally, one caught my eye.
It looked safe enough. It was tucked away in a small concrete courtyard with buildings on all sides. With a coupon code I found online, I could get a night’s stay for eighty bucks. With a breakfast included. I could stay for two entire weeks for just over a grand, so I scooped up the deal while I could. I’d have to pay out of pocket for a parking pass once I got there, but the small hotel was centrally located and looked secure enough. Nice rooms. A queen-size bed. A small balcony that overlooked the busy downtown street I’d be living on.
I booked the hotel while sitting in the gas station, then shot my father the address.
“Just in case,” I wrote in the text message.
After inhaling my honey bun, I slipped my coffee into the drink carrier in my car. Then, I set off on the last leg of my journey. I didn’t really have a plan. I mean, I had her picture. I could start showing it around places. The hotel room had a small fridge and a microwave, so I could run and get myself a few foods to heat up and make right there in my room to save more money. But other than showing her picture around, I didn’t have a solid plan. Hell, I didn’t even have her name.
I’d need her name before doing much else.
I pulled into the alleyway of The Font of San Diego. A weird name for a hotel, but it worked. I walked in and got my key to my room, then swiped my card again for a parking pass. I rode down the alley and took a left, finding a small garage tucked away on the opposite side of the small street.
I looked around for lights that would illuminate the space once night fell, but I didn’t see many.
“Be home by nightfall. Got it,” I murmured to myself.
I hauled my bag up to my room and slid my key card into the door. The small room welcomed me as the door slammed closed, and I walked over to turn on the air conditioning. At least Arizona’s heat was dry. Bearable. But here? It was wet. It made it hard to breathe. And as beads of sweat trickled down the nape of my neck, I stood as close as I could to the air conditioning vent before throwing open the curtains on my one window.
“San Diego,” I said, smiling.
I slipped my keycard and phone into my purse and started back down for the road. I dipped into a small grocer right across the street and showed my first person her picture. I didn’t expect the woman behind the counter to know who she was, but the more people I could show her picture to? The better. I plucked a loaf of bread off the shelf along with some peanut butter and jelly. I grabbed some chips. Some microwaveable meals. I scooped up some honey buns as snacks and a small bag of apples. I made sure to also grab some lemonade to have in the room with me.
Then, my card was swiped again.
That started my journey around the city. I walked up and down the block, picking up a few things I’d need for my two-week stay and showing her picture around. And every time I flashe
d her picture, I got the same answer. People shook their heads. Told me no. Grunted their disapproval of my actions before shrugging their shoulders. It was disconcerting, to say the least. And as the sun began to set on my first day in San Diego, I ended up breaking my first rule.
I went out past dark.
I didn’t go far. I went out the back door of the hotel, which put me closer to the sidewalk than the main entrance did. I walked down the block and dipped into a couple of late-night restaurants and local bars. I flashed her picture, figuring that maybe she was a night owl. I exhausted the three-block stretch around the hotel, but it was only eleven o’clock. In places like this, eleven was when the party started.
So, I got back to my car and started driving around the city.
“Come on. Someone’s gotta know who you are,” I murmured to myself.
I parked in the parking lot of a bar just on the outskirts of downtown. Closer to the water and right on top of Highway One. If no one in this establishment knew who she was, then at least I could enjoy a drink with the smell of the ocean water relaxing me. I parked my car and walked into OceanView Bar. And they had some pretty impressive drink specials for the evening.
“Last one, I promise,” I said to myself.
Then, I pushed through the front doors of the bar.
“Excuse me, I’m so sorry to bother you. But do you know this girl?”
“I’m sorry, I’ll only be a second. I just want to know if you guys know who this is? Or recognize her at all?”
“Yes, she’s my half-sister. I’m trying to find her.”
“You don’t? Not at all?”
“I’m not sure of her name. That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“She does look a bit like me, doesn’t she?”
As I made my way to the bar, everyone kept turning me down. Though, they had a lot to say about how similar we both looked. That made me smile, but their insistence on not knowing who she was made my heart frown. I slid onto a bar stool at the bar and tucked the picture into my purse, feeling more frustrated and more downtrodden than when I’d first began my journey to find answers.
Bronx: The Lost Boys MC #3 Page 3
