Patches like Fitz, with his mountain of medical bills and all those people living on his wallet, or Caleb, just starting a family, or Wally, who had problems of his own—they were already struggling since 9/11, and now with the station out of commission, they were in real hurt. Taking on this new work would get them healthy.
But Becker, like Simon and Apollo, had come up in Delaney’s club. They’d been Brian Delaney’s Bulls. And Brian Delaney had steadfastly refused drug work.
He held the gavel now. Did he want to be the man that took them the rest of the way over the line? Could they go so far and still remain the Brazen Bulls, and not become Volkov West?
“It needs a vote,” he said. “We don’t do anything that the table doesn’t agree to. I need a good deal to bring to them. Thirty percent of the take, plus the regular transport fee.”
Alexei didn’t bother to hide his laugh this time. “Bold.”
But Irina simply stared with her frigid blue eyes. “Ten percent, no fee.”
Fuck, he wanted to look to Simon and Apollo, but he sensed that right now, he had to be the only voice that mattered. He’d already asserted the club’s right of refusal. So he kept his eyes frozen on hers and said, “Twenty-five, no fee.” Something else occurred to him: “And we don’t mule east of Tulsa. Only north and west.”
That demonstrably surprised her. She actually sat back. “Why is this?”
More terrifying dark ice to walk. “We have a friend with a route east. I don’t want to tread on their toes.”
“You speak of loyalty and then you say to me this?” The condemnation was sharp enough to cut her words into pieces, but Becker forced himself to stand firm.
“Yes, I do. The Bulls are good friends to have and bad enemies to make. We are your friends, but our alliance with the Horde goes back farther. They’re starting a route to St. Louis, and we won’t cross their lines. I won’t say you shouldn’t, but the Bulls won’t.”
Her eyes narrowed, and another menacing silence sat on the table before she spoke again.
“The Horde. You mean the Night Horde, this club in Missouri.”
“Yes. You know Isaac Lunden holds the gavel now. His old man’s dead.”
“It was Brian’s friendship with father that pulled them into our work. That was bad business. And yet, you keep this alliance?”
“With Isaac, yes. He’s a good man, trying to do right for his people. We won’t get in his way.”
Irina sat back again. She looked across the table to Alexei and rattled off a burst of Russian.
Alexei took off his glasses and pulled a white linen handkerchief from his suit coat. He polished the lenses thoughtfully for a few moments, then answered in Russian.
Becker figured the odds were better than even that they’d just decided to slaughter all three Bulls right here in this fussy little restaurant.
Then Irina turned to him and said, “Twenty percent. No fee. We leave the Horde their route. For now.”
Every ounce of will Becker had went to forcing his voice to stay steady and cool. “I can take that to our table.”
“Khorosho,” the tiny queen said. “Now we drink and eat.”
What Becker really needed to do was find somewhere private to have a heart attack, but when the vodka came again, he tossed back another weirdly flavored—this one was maybe lime?—shot.
One way or another, he’d made an impression on Irina Volkov.
He’d just established what Gary Becker’s Bulls would be.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“What about this one?” Dylan held up a battered VHS box. Sage took it from him and considered the title: Last House on the Left.
“Wes Craven is already represented with Elm Street. Besides, it’s a Seventies flick, and we’re doing Eighties horror.” She handed it back.
Dylan stuck his lip out like a toddler and pushed the box back at her. “Yeah, but it’s a classic. I think you’re making a mistake, organizing by decade. You’re missing Halloween if you only do Eighties. Or you could do a Craven fest—Last House, Elm Street, and Scream—one from each decade. I would love to write a paper on the evolution of Wes Craven as a horror auteur.”
“A paper for who? You dropped out of college, dope. I like my idea—a sampling of different styles. We have to do Friday the 13th, because that’s the one we talked about. Then Elm Street, The Evil Dead, The Thing. Ooh, how about The Shining—do we have a copy of that? And The Fly. That gets us Craven, Raimi, Carpenter, Kubrick, and Cronenberg. That’s a good mix.”
They were sitting on the floor at the back of the Bin, going through the piles she’d made of all the horror movie offerings in the used section. The Spin Bin carried more than new and used records. Abe, the owner, had a saying: If it spins, it’s in the Bin! He’d tried to turn it into a catch phrase and use it in advertising, but there were a lot of things that spun they didn’t carry, and they’d gotten crank calls all the time, with people asking if they sold stupid spinning shit they didn’t sell. They did, however, carry cassettes and CDs, and VHS tapes and DVDs, as well as some old laser discs, too.
With her employee discount, the old used movies were almost as cheap to buy as to rent—especially the VHS. Becker had a VCR/DVD combo thingy under his television. She needed to get him up to speed on horror movies. His experience was severely lacking, and that simply would not do.
Dylan scanned the piles and Jenga’d The Fly out of the middle of one. “I can’t believe he hasn’t seen any of these. How old is this guy? Where has he been?”
“Not that old. He’s just been ... busy.”
She’d been off the clock for an hour, but the library was closed, Becker was still out of town, and she was in no hurry at all to go back to her house.
In the couple of weeks since Denny had stolen everything she’d saved for years, she’d been trying everything she could to stay scarce. That was a lot easier when Becker was around. But he’d had to go to Chicago on club business. What kind of club business put bikers on an airplane, she did not know and thought it best not to ask.
He was hands down the best thing in her life—in her whole life. She was in love with him. Like, sappy Broadway musical, dancing in a rainstorm, belting out a ballad, head over heels in love. She hadn’t told him, and he hadn’t said words like it to her, but he wanted her with him all the time. He called every day, and almost every night wanted her in his bed.
He’d given her his own key to his house, that one night, and she’d given it back the next morning. Since then, he hadn’t offered to let her be there when he wasn’t, but he wanted her there when he was.
She hadn’t felt like she needed a key to his house, or even wanted it, until he’d left town. Two whole days he’d been gone, and now she felt lonely and trapped, with nowhere to go but that house where Denny was claiming her hard-earned, long-saved money—and starting to get snappy with her mom again.
The obnoxious sleigh bells jangled at the front door, and Dylan, who was still on the clock, dropped Last House in Sage’s lap and went up to see to the customer. She picked up the tape and considered Dylan’s idea of a Craven fest. In a way, Last House, Elm Street, and Scream would catch Becker up on thirty years of horror. Besides, she’d already spoiled Friday the 13th for him, kind of.
All she and Becker really did was fuck and sleep, occasionally argue, sometimes share a meal or a ride. They hadn’t just relaxed and been quiet together. A fantasy had been building up in her mind, of curling up with him on his cushy sofa, eating popcorn and watching movies. Scary movies. She could pretend to be afraid, and bury her face in his shoulder.
The phone he’d given her rang, and she smiled and fished it out of her jeans. “Hi. Are you home?”
“Not home yet. We’re still at the airport. I gotta get my bike.”
“Okay.”
“Got a favor, shortcake. You’re not working, right?”
It pleased her that he knew her schedule. “Nope. I’m still at the Bin, but I’m just fucking around.”
The pleasure that had been fluttering around in her chest like a butterfly on PCP dropped dead. “What?”
“Meet me at the clubhouse—well, across the street. The clubhouse is still fenced off.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think, Sage?”
He wanted her to meet the Bulls. A whole club of bikers. Becker didn’t scare her, but a whole roomful of them?
Actually, no—wait. She wasn’t afraid of meeting the club. She wasn’t afraid at all. This wasn’t fear she was feeling. She was nervous, yes, but her doped-up butterfly wasn’t dead. It was stunned.
He was claiming her. For real. Out in public. “Are you sure?”
“I am. What do you think about it?”
“I’ll be there.”
He chuckled, and the butterfly fluttered back to life. God, that sound. Like he knew all there was to know, and the whole damn world amused him. “Good girl.”
~oOo~
Okay, maybe she was a little scared.
Not about the bikers, exactly. More about the quantity of people in general. She’d had to park all the way at the end of the block around the corner, because at least a dozen massive Harleys were lined up on the street, plus as many big pickups and SUVs. That had to mean she was about to meet a lot of people.
Sage wasn’t the least bit shy, but that didn’t mean she didn’t feel intimidated occasionally. It simply didn’t slow her down. So she parked in the first spot she could find, and she walked down the block and around the corner to the address Becker had given her. Not that she’d needed it—it was obnoxiously obvious where the bikers were hanging out. All that chrome was lined up in front of one grungy storefront, and the dusty windows shook with music blaring from within.
It was REO Speedwagon, which was just ... damn, that was sad. Bikers were supposed to be cool. But the sound of that poppy faux-rock went a fair way toward easing her nerves.
She opened the door. The windows and the glass in the door were swirled with soap, so she hadn’t gotten a preview of the place before she stepped in. Now, she stood in what had obviously once been a clothing shop. All the rounds and racks were shoved into a corner, like the bones of their vanquished enemies. The sales desk had been converted into a makeshift bar, and the room was otherwise full of an odd-lot mixture of well-used hand-me-down furniture and folding tables and chairs. They clearly didn’t intend to stay long.
Around that itinerant aesthetic, a whole lot of people milled. The Bulls were easy to pick out: they all wore their kuttes. Other men were around; Sage assumed they were friends or neighbors or something. The women seemed to come in two flavors. The extra spicy versions, in absurdly tight jeans or ludicrously teensy skirts, were, no doubt, biker groupies.
Sheesh, were they around all the time? Around Becker? With their tits and asses and hair?
There were other women who looked more normal—more homestyle flavor, though none of them looked like they’d fit in at the PTA. And they had kids. Shit, there were little kids in here. Like, babies.
This was officially the weirdest mix of people she’d ever seen in one place. Considering the weird people she hung out with as a preference, that was no small feat.
As Sage stood near the door, feeling very short and small—and, in her ripped-up Levi’s and cherished vintage New York Dolls t-shirt, immature—a stunning blonde came right up to her, in a microscopic blue dress that laced up the sides and showed the world her profound lack of undergarments. God, she was gorgeous. And fierce, too. Dark blue eyes that blazed smarts and meant business.
Sage brushed self-conscious fingers over her bangs, wishing desperately that she was six inches taller and hadn’t put her hair up in a ponytail like a high-school cheerleader. But it was hot, and the Dodge’s air conditioning didn’t work. Becker said he’d fix it before it got too hot, so tick-tock, pal.
“Can I help you, sweetie?” the living pinup asked.
Sage pored through her tone, looking for venom, and found none. Intimidating as she looked, the woman looming over her sounded simply curious, maybe even a little concerned.
“I’m looking for Beck-er.” She’d just barely saved the sentence from becoming a question, and the last-minute rescue added a hitch to his name.
The goddess in blue tilted her head. “Becker?” Her tone suggested not that she didn’t know Becker, but that she didn’t believe Sage knew him.
“Yeah.” Sage raised her arm and held her hand flat out, about as high as she could reach. “About yea high, wears a kutte with a patch that says ‘President’—Becker.”
Turning away and showing Sage her irritatingly perfect ass, the woman scanned the room and called out “Beck!”
‘Beck’ was a friendly name to call him. A nickname. Sage discovered that she was really fucking jealous. This sleekly perfect blonde vision probably knew Becker every bit as carnally as Sage did. Maybe more.
Before she could work up a real mad about that, the man in question walked up, and his smile was all for her. Who cared about Miss Biker Bimbo 2002 when a smile like that was all hers?
“Hey, shortcake.” His arm slid around her waist, his hand cupped her ass, and he bent low and put a kiss on her lips. When he stood straight, he turned to the blonde. “Thanks, Ken.”
The Girl Named Ken looked seriously befuddled. “No problem. She’s with you?”
Sage probably should have rebelled against a question like that, but she was too distracted waiting for Becker’s answer.
“Yeah, she is. Sage, this is Kendra. Kendra, Sage.”
Kendra stared some more. Sage stared back. Blondie broke first. With a little shake of her head, she held out a manicured hand. “I’m glad to meet you.”
“Same.” Sage took the hand and shook it.
Then Kendra looked to Becker. “Do you want me to show her around, introduce her to the girls?”
“Nah. That’s not what she is. I want her with me.”
Now Kendra’s mouth literally dropped open. Sage stood between them, feeling way too fucking short, and tried to understand what was happening between these two. Oh, wait. Had she thought Becker was bringing a new bimbo into the club? And Becker was claiming her. As more than that. As his. Okay, cool. Good. Oh—and was that a whiff of eau de jealousy she sniffed? Excellent. Sage slid in closer and hooked her arm around his waist. Yeah, bitch. I’m his, he’s mine, it’s a thing. Back off.
“C’mon, hon,” Becker said. “There’s some people I want you to meet.”
It was all she could do not to stick her tongue out at Kendra as Becker led her away.
~oOo~
“You want a drink? A beer?”
Sage turned to the woman who’d asked the question—another beautiful blonde, but this one wasn’t working so hard to show off what she had. Because she didn’t need to; she was married to one of the Bulls. Which one ... the furball. Gunner, maybe? Yeah, Gunner. Leah was with Gunner.
Damn, there were a lot of people to remember. Ninety percent of them had greeted her with naked shock. A few of the Bulls had given Becker a look that suggested they had shitty things to say later—maybe now, while they were all locked together in back.
At least Leah looked to be close to Sage’s age. Most of the men and women she’d met were noticeably older, and she guessed that all the shitty things people had to say to Becker out of her earshot would have to do with their age difference. She’d gotten used to Dylan’s teasing comments about her ‘biker daddy,’ but this was the first time she’d been on the other side, and it sucked.
Today was the first time she actually felt too young for him.
“Sage?”
“Uh, beer, yeah. That’d be good.” She didn’t like beer, or booze at all, really, but whatever. Asking for a soda here would be like flipping on flashing lights above her head that spelled out JAILBAIT. Which she was not. “How long will they be in there?”
Leah looked over at the closed door. “Depends. They sent a team to
Chicago, so it was probably important. It could be a while tonight. What we do on nights like this, when we’re partying together after church, is get the food out, the booze, make sure everything’s set up. This is the first party we’ve had over here, though. We’re working it out as we go. This room is pretty sucky, and there’s no kitchen, so we’re setting up a picnic on the parking lot out back. You want to help?”
“Sure. What do you need?”
Kendra stalked up before she could answer. “Leah, is Willa still around?”
“She and Jenny went to Sam’s with the prospect. Can I help?”
“I don’t know where to tell the girls to go. This place isn’t set up for them.”
Leah’s brow wrinkled with confusion, and then smoothed out. “Right, um. I don’t know. Deb and Cecily are out back. Maybe they know?”
Kendra sighed. “Okay. Can you call Willa and tell her we need condoms? A couple big boxes.”
Sage got it. They were talking about where to put bikers and bimbos together. They were that organized about it? Shit, this place was like a whorehouse.
“Sure. I’ll call her.” Leah turned to Sage and took her hand. “C’mon. We’ll get you a beer, and I’ll call Willa. It’s saner out back.”
~oOo~
“You got it straight now?”
Sage rolled on the sofa, between Becker’s bare legs, and crossed her arms on his belly, propping herself up so she could see his eyes. “Simon is your Vice President. He’s married to Deb, and the cute baby with the curly hair is theirs.”
“Yep. Remember his name?”
“Sammy?”
“Right.”
The meeting at their temporary clubhouse had lasted almost an hour. When all those big men in black leather strode out, they’d looked serious. A couple looked pissed. But they’d all shaken it off fairly quickly, and the whole family had shared a nice, casual cookout-style meal and then, when the little ones disappeared, almost en masse, an increasingly rowdy party had evolved.
Sage had enjoyed herself, overall. She’d caught a few sidelong sneers from some of the glammed-up groupies, but the Bulls’ wives had been nice to her. A couple were close enough to her own age that she’d stopped feeling like a child. Everybody seemed deeply surprised that Becker had claimed her, but after they processed the information, they’d treated her well.
Lead (The Brazen Bulls MC, #8) Page 17