Chapter 27
Priest
Six o’clock came really fuckin’ early. My boots were heavy on the clubhouse stairs as I trudged down dressed similarly to my brothers in jeans, a black Henley, and my LCMC cut. Prospect was behind the bar, pouring coffee from a carafe brought in from the kitchen.
“Hey, man,” he said, stifling a yawn. Thor and Tank sat at the bar nursing steaming cups of coffee and quietly talking to each other. Sticks and Bard were at a booth going over the route I assumed. Taking the mug offered by Prospect, I took a sip of coffee and nodded my appreciation.
“I have a job for you while we’re gone, Prospect.” He set the carafe down and walked to the unoccupied end of the bar when I motioned in that direction. “It’s, uh, kind of sensitive. So I’m gonna need your discretion.” Prospect’s eyes widened slightly, and he leaned forward, looking like an eager puppy.
“Yeah, man, anything you need.” If he had a damn tail, it’d be wagging right now, I swear.
“Okay, well… in my room, I have a mini fridge. In that fridge are two white paper bags. I need you to put one bag in front of Indigo’s door every morning we’re gone. Make sure she doesn’t see you leave them, okay?” I took another sip of my coffee and watched Prospect’s confusion.
“What’s in the bags?” Prospect asked, looking curious.
I rolled my shoulders. “Don’t worry about what’s in the damn bags, just leave one a day outside her door in the mornings and don’t open them. And don’t say anything to her, okay?”
Prospect poured himself a cup of coffee. “Yeah, man. Deliver the bags, don’t open them, don’t get caught, don’t mention the secret deliveries. I think I can handle it.” He rolled his eyes, obviously disappointed that I didn’t give him some kind of task to carry out to prove his worth to the club. Until we were sure of him, satisfied that he was Crow material and deserving of our trust, he’d remain a prospective member. He didn’t know it yet, but we’d already decided to allow him to patch into Los Cuervos. We'd have a party when the Alvarez job was done, and Prospect would become an official Crow. Until then, I needed him to help me out, and I didn’t feel at all guilty about exploiting his eagerness to please.
As far as I was aware, Indi had no idea I was the one leaving baked goods at her door every day. When I heard her tell my ma that she wasn’t ever allowed desserts growing up, an idea took shape in my head. How fucking sad was it that she’d never had a Twinkie or an apple turnover? I couldn’t slay her demons for her or erase her shitty childhood, and I couldn’t take back what I did to her in the confessional or how hateful I had been to her in the past… but I could ensure she had a little bit of sweetness every day going forward. So I enlisted the help of the ole ladies where I could and went to a bakery in Sagebrush when needed to deliver a daily dose of dopamine to the girl who was steadily taking over my thoughts. I never signed the cards in the bags because I didn’t want her to know I was leaving the treats. At first, I was worried that if she knew who was leaving them, she wouldn’t accept the bags. Then, as her delight in each treat became evident, I was worried that if she knew they we re from me, she’d feel like she had to give me something in return. I didn’t want something transactional from her or for her to feel obligated to return the favor.
I finished my coffee and thanked Prospect again for his help. Casting my eyes to Bard, he nodded his head, and I knew it was time to ride. Tank, Thor, Sticks, Bard, and I headed outside. It was a little after five o’clock in the morning, and dawn was already breaking. Early September in Nevada was still hot, and we were eager to get on the road before the sun became scorching. Sticks and Thor climbed into a truck while Tank, Bard, and I climbed onto our bikes. As I threw a leg over my Harley, a black 2010 Dyna Wide Glide, my thoughts were instantly drawn back to last night and the sexy sounds Indi made for me. I grunted as I got settled; desperately thinking about loogies, dead puppies, and Gilbert Gottfried's voice to deflate the hard-on I was sporting before it became noticeable.
“You alright there, Priest?” Tank asked, already seated on his Harley Davidson Fat Boy.
He smirked at me. “You look a little uncomfortable. It wouldn’t have anything to do with the tune-up you did last night, would it?” Tank's deep rumbly voice held an edge of laughter like he was just soooo fuckin’ amused. I narrowed my eyes at him and glanced around to make sure we weren’t overheard.
“You say a word to anyone, and I swear to God I’ll pour out every damn bottle of Yoo-hoo you keep in the garage,” I threatened.
Tank let out a deep belly laugh. “No need to threaten the Yoo-hoo, man. My lips are sealed. But hey”—he lowered his sunglasses and focused his umber eyes on me—“you find out who’s been stealing from my stash, you let me know. Their ass is grass.”
“You got it, man.” I checked my phone, but so far, I haven’t heard back from Clover. I was hoping she’d have some information for me on the Petrovs before we left, but it wasn’t looking likely now. Shaking my head, I started my bike, and soon, the snarling of engines shattered the early morning serenity. Lowering my shades, I motioned for us to move out. Bard took point with Sticks and Thor behind him in the truck. Tank and I followed, and we set out for the border and our Alvarez Cartel contacts.