by Ivy Black
“Anyway, my actual name is Max. Max Wise.”
“Ashley,” I tell him, declining to give him my last name.
“So, are you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“What you were smiling about when you plowed into me?”
My brain is telling me to turn around, get into my car, and get the hell out of there. But something else inside of me, something I can’t identify right away, is urging me to talk to him. However, judging by the quiver and warmth in my belly and lower parts of my anatomy, I can guess what it is. I clear my throat.
“If you really must know—”
“I really must,” he interrupts.
The smile curls my lips upward despite my best efforts to keep it at bay. The more I talk to him, the more that charm of his emerges, and I hate to admit it, if only to myself, but I’m not immune to it.
“I just got a job,” I say. “Happy now?”
“Well, congratulations. That’s great news. Where?”
“The Golden Gate Diner,” I reply before I can stop myself.
Running a hand through my hair, I try to gather myself. The last thing I intended was to give him any information about myself. And yet, here I am, blurting everything out to him, anyway, making me want to kick myself. Hard.
“Good for you. They make some great food there.”
“Oh, do you come to the diner often?” I stammer.
“Well, I suppose I will now.”
If my face burns any warmer, I’m half-afraid it’ll burst into flames right here. As it is, I’m sure it’s a shade of red not normally found in nature. What have I done? The last thing I want to do is encourage him to keep stalking me.
“I-I have to go,” I say.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you around then. Congrats on the gig.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
I quickly jump into my car and start it up, then quickly throw it into reverse. Max has to jump out of the way to avoid me running over his feet, and when I look in the rearview, he’s still standing there, looking like he’s laughing.
“Christ. What did I just do?”
Chapter Ten
Domino
“How long they been in there?” I ask.
Derek is standing behind the bar cleaning and polishing it and looks up at me, his expression troubled.
“Couple of hours now,” he says.
“That can’t be good.”
“Doubtful. Not with the mood Prophet’s been in lately.”
I nod and take a swallow of my beer, then set the bottle back down on the table. After running my errands in town, I came out to the clubhouse to see what was going on. What I found is that Prophet and the rest of Leadership has been huddled inside their room, and I can only think they’re talking about how to hit back at the cartel. The mood that Prophet’s been in is a direct result of what Cosmo and I had told him after meeting up with Tarantula and the Warriors.
As I sit here, I can’t keep my mind off Ashley. She’s a gorgeous girl and frankly, I didn’t think I’d ever see her again after our ride-by on our way to Ruby’s. It was like the hand of fate intervened on my behalf for a change and put me directly in her path. Literally. Of course, she tried to stab me in the eye with her keys, then kick my balls up into my throat, but still… it hadn’t been all bad. I managed to get her to laugh a few times, and even though she bolted out of there like a scared rabbit at the end, I don’t think it all went too badly for me.
I mean, she had multiple chances to leave, and she didn’t. I want to think that’s significant, and that it means something other than she was just too terrified to leave. There’s something about her that strikes a chord within me. She somehow makes me feel something strange, and something I’m not entirely sure I’ve ever felt before.
It’s not just that she’s beautiful. I mean, she is that. Five-four with sandy blonde hair, eyes the color of milk chocolate, alabaster-colored skin that’s flawless, and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the girl is prom queen material. She’s thin but has amazing curves, full breasts, and lips that are full and red, and I caught myself more than once in that parking lot, desperate to feel them on mine.
“You think we’re going to war with the cartel?”
Derek’s voice cuts into my thoughts, and I look over at him, my expression as grim as Prophet’s mood.
“I don’t know, man. Prophet’s pretty fired up about them,” I tell him. “I wouldn’t be surprised, to be honest.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
It’s a question I’ve been intentionally avoiding thinking about, mostly because I don’t want to think about the answer. If I had to guess, based on Prophet’s level of agitation, I’d say yeah, we’re going to war. But I have to hope the rest of Leadership knocks some sense into him simply because going straight on with the Zavala cartel is going to be a nasty, bloody business, and there’s no assurance of success.
The fact of the matter is that Zavala’s got more men and more guns than we do. If it came down to a firefight, they’ve got the advantage. Given that most of us have been in the military and I doubt Zavala’s men have, I’d say we have a tactical advantage. We know how to wage a fight, whereas most of his guys likely don’t have the discipline or training.
But is that enough? Would that be enough to carry a straight-up firefight? It’s impossible to say for sure. Tactics and discipline are always good things to have, there’s no question about it. But is it enough to overcome the advantage that superior firepower and battlefield personnel would give? There’s no way of knowing. Not until the bullets start flying and shit gets real.
After draining the last of my beer, I decide to bail. No use waiting around when there isn’t much going on. And there’s no telling how long Prophet and the guys are going to be locked away. As I start getting to my feet, the door to the Leadership room slides open and the guys start filing out. Most of their faces are blank, as unreadable as a stone.
But they take seats around the clubhouse, quietly conferring with each other. Prophet steps out of the Leadership room and heads out the front door, his expression dark, his jaw clenched. Cosmo drops down across from me, a strained and lopsided smile on his face.
“I’m guessing Prophet didn’t get what he wanted in there,” I say.
“Ain’t about what Prophet wants,” Cosmo says.
“Then what’s it about?”
“It’s about time for a fuckin’ beer. Hey, Prospect, we need a couple of cold ones over here.”
Derek hustles over and drops a couple of beers down in front of us, then scampers off, handing out beers to everybody else.
“Ain’t you glad you don’t have to do that shit anymore?” Cosmo asks.
I tap my bottle against his. “More than you know. Forgive me for saying so, but serving cretins like you is no fun at all.”
“Yeah, well, you’re one of the cretins now.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
We both take a long swallow and settle back in our seats. The atmosphere in the clubhouse is gloomy. Oppressive. The air around us is crackling with tension, and Cosmo’s face is dark as he sits there staring at his bottle. I can see the gears in his mind spinning. Whatever was said behind that closed door is troubling him. Taking another drink, I keep my eyes on him, waiting for him to talk to me. He doesn’t, though. Doesn’t do anything other than sit there like the goddamn Sphinx, silent and mysterious.
“So, what’s going on? We going to war?” I finally ask.
He finally raises his eyes to mine. “Not if we can help it.”
“Prophet’s really pushing for it, huh?”
“Something like that. Hard to blame him for wanting to stick it to these assholes given what he went through.”
I nod. “Yeah, I suppose so.”
My mind flashes back to Prophet’s story about the mass grave and finding the little girl nailed to the cross. That’s a hard, ugly death, and no, I can’t re
ally blame him for wanting to take his pound of flesh out of Zavala’s ass. In his place, I probably would, too. But we’ve all got our old ghosts to deal with.
If you’ve been in a combat unit and you’ve actually seen some action, the chances are good that you’ve seen some nasty shit. Some shit that just broke your heart. And if all of us went around trying to get vengeance on all of those people who deserve it for sticking us with a lifetime’s worth of nightmares, this world would be awash in blood and we’d be killing all day, every day.
“What’s he thinking then?” I ask.
“He’s thinking a lot of things, kid. And it’s not your place to ask. When he wants you to know somethin’, he’ll tell you.”
I nod, a little annoyed by the mild rebuke. I’m not a goddamn prospect anymore, and I deserve to know the direction he’s taking the club. If he’s planning to wage an all-out war with the cartel, that’s something he needs to discuss with us. He can’t just unilaterally decide something and expect us to fall in line. This is an MC, not a combat unit.
“Don’t worry. He’s not going to do anything rash, and somethin’ like goin’ to war requires a vote. You’ll get to have your say if it ever comes to that,” Cosmo says as if reading my mind. “And before you open that mouth of yours, I ain’t sayin’ it’ll come to that. I really doubt it will, so don’t get your panties in a fuckin’ knot.”
His reply makes me bite back the words sitting on the tip of my tongue. I’m glad to know I’ll get a voice in the matter if it comes to something as drastic as going to war. I came home from the shit and joined the MC never once thinking I’d end up right back in it again.
I rotated home thinking I’d never have to fight another war. Hearing Cosmo say he doubts it’ll come to that provides little solace. Prophet is a determined man, and I know that anger I see in his eyes. I know how that rage is like poison that is a constant drip in your veins, burning you from the inside out. And the only way to rid yourself of that poison, the only way to suck it out of your veins, is to kill the target of your rage. Prophet’s never going to get that venom out of his blood until he kills Zavala.
“What do you think about going to war with Zavala?” I ask.
“You know what I think. I think trying to take them head on is foolish. It’ll cost us a lot of lives and get a lot of innocents killed in the process. Prophet gets that. He’s pissed, but he’s not an idiot.”
“Never said he’s an idiot. But I know what it’s like when your blood is up and you just need to vent that rage.”
“We all do, kid. But he’s not going to put any of us in harm’s way unnecessarily. You should know that.”
“I do,” I reply.
“And you should also know there is more than one way to wage a war.”
I cock my head. “Meaning?”
He drains the last of his beer and signals to Derek for another one. As he rushes over with a pair of fresh bottles, Cosmo looks at me sitting there with a bottle that’s still half full.
“You want a fuckin’ nipple for that?” he asks.
“Dude, it’s like noon. I’m pacing myself.”
“As they say, it’s happy hour somewhere. Drink.”
I blow out a long breath and drain the last of my bottle, and he mockingly applauds me as I set the empty down. Derek snatches it up and sets the fresh one down before me before heading back to the bar.
“Hey, I’ve got a question for the new patch in the room,” Poe calls.
We all turn to him and I have to battle the feeling of being put on the spot. I start running through all of my club information in my head, suddenly feeling like a prospect all over again. But I’m not a prospect anymore, so they can’t ding me if I don’t recall the year we were founded and all that shit, but they can still make my life hell if I get the answers wrong.
It’s a lot like a fraternity in that, as a prospect, you’re expected to be able to answer questions about club history on demand. Get the answers wrong, in addition to being humiliated in front of the club, you’ll get stacks of shit work heaped on you in addition to your regular duties. While it’s not necessarily held against you when it comes to getting your patch or not, some of the club leadership will definitely factor it in, albeit discreetly, when they cast their vote. Their thinking is that if you can’t be bothered to learn about the club, you’re obviously not committed to it, and I suppose I can’t fault the logic.
“Who was the sexy little blonde who was tryin’ to kick your ass in the parking lot outside the Golden Gate this morning?” Poe calls out.
My gut turns over and I gape at him for a long moment, my mouth suddenly as dry as the Sahara. Everybody in the room falls silent as all eyes turn to me.
“Got no idea what you’re talkin’ about,” I try.
Poe laughs. “Bullshit. I was rollin’ down Harrison and saw her almost kick your nuts up into your chest. What was that about?”
The guys all snicker but keep staring at me, waiting for a reply.
“So, you saw somebody tryin’ to kick my ass and you didn’t stop to help? What’s up with that, is the better question,” I fire back.
“Dude, she’s a foot shorter than you and weighs a buck-o-five soaking wet with a brick in each hand. If you couldn’t handle that shit yourself, then you probably shouldn’t be rollin’ with us.”
The room explodes with laughter and catcalls, along with a thousand different insults to my manhood. There’s nothing I can say, since I walked right into it, so I just sit back and drink my beer until they settle down.
“So, who was this vicious assailant?” Trig picks up Poe’s line of questioning.
“You can keep refusing to answer the question, but you know we’ll find out on our own and make your life a living hell,” Cosmo adds.
“You should do yourself a favor and just answer the question now, kid,” Cueball jumps in. “You know how these assholes can be.”
Rolling my eyes, I take another swallow of beer. They’re right, I do know what kind of assholes they can be. If I don’t answer their questions, they’ll find out who Ashley is on their own and make a huge scene with lots of drama. Funny for them, but it’ll most likely ruin any chance I might have with her. Which at the moment, isn’t stellar, but it’s better than zero.
“Fine,” I grunt. “Her name is Ashley.”
They all stare at me, clearly expecting me to go on. And if that’s what they’re expecting, they’re going to be sorely disappointed. It’s a thought that makes me laugh.
“Is that it? That’s all we get?” Poe asks.
“That’s all I got.”
“Bullshit. You’re just holdin’ out on us,” Trig chimes in.
“Seconded. I say we roll down to the Golden Gate right now and get the story straight from her,” Cueball says, proving that he, too, is one of those assholes.
“I’m tellin’ you guys, that’s all I know. I just met her this morning,” I say.
“And she was already trying to blast you in the nuts? I call bullshit,” Poe says.
“Maybe that’s just the effect he has on the ladies,” Cosmo offers.
“I can confirm that’s the case,” Derek adds with a laugh.
“Hey, nobody asked you, Prospect,” I snap.
Derek gives me the finger and joins the others in laughing. All I can do is shake my head. Assholes.
“She went after me because she thought I was a creep or something,” I say.
“She wasn’t wrong there,” Trig says.
“Kiss my ass,” I fire back.
That unleashes another round of laughter as the guys continue to heckle me. I guess after a tense meeting with Prophet, they need to cut loose a little, just to blow off some steam. It certainly does feel like the tension that had been saturating the air earlier has lightened up.
“Glad you’re all having such a good time with this,” I say.
“Okay, so here’s the question… if what you say is true and that’s all you know about this girl, what are you g
oing to do about it?”
“I got it handled,” I say.
“You ask me, you’re makin’ a big mistake gettin’ all hung up on this broad,” Trig says.
“How so?” I ask.
“Here we go,” Cosmo says, rolling his eyes.
“You’re young. I’m sure some chicks out there think you’re good-looking,” Trig presses. “You should be out there dippin’ your wick into as many honeypots as you can, brother.”
“Trig here doesn’t believe in the whole one man, one woman, making-each-other-happy-forever thing,” Poe says.
“Damn straight. If God had meant for us to be monogamous, he would’ve given us our life partners when we were born,” he says.
I look at him for a long moment, unsure if he’s being serious or not. The solemn expression on his face and the earnest gleam in his eyes tell me that he is, in fact, dead-serious. He leans forward in his chair and looks at me, gripping the edge of his kutte between his thumb and forefinger.
“Know what this is?” he asks me.
“Yeah, a kutte?”
“Wrong,” he says. “This here… is a pussy magnet.”
We all laugh together, except for Trig, whose expression remains serious. He seems fully committed to this idea.
“Please. Elaborate,” I say.
Trig smiles as if he’s pleased. “Chicks like bad boys, kid. I’m telling you. Wearing one of these is like Spanish fly. A chick sees you in this, and her panties just automatically drop. It’s like magic.”
“Except in Trig’s case, it’s because he actually is using Spanish fly,” Poe snarks, touching off another round of laughter.
Trig makes an obscene gesture at him but joins in with the hysterics of the others.
“Seriously, kid,” Trig says. “Always keep your options open. Don’t tie yourself down to just one broad so early. You’ve got plenty of time for that shit.”
“Yeah, well, this is all a bit premature, anyway. But thanks for the advice,” I say.
“Anytime, brother. You ever need some sound dating advice, you come see me. I’m full of it,” Trig says with a grin.
