Chapter 31 – Zebulon
Chapter Thirty-One
Zebulon
Deacon has me lure them out, but I don’t see what good it will do.
Wyatt won’t let them get shot, even if I have all the proof I need that they’re responsible for the drugging situation.
Listen, they claim to have good reasons for it and I didn’t ask too many questions aside from if I was getting paid and how much I was getting paid.
For all I knew, this directive came from a higher-up. Deacon comes strolling into my room, unlocking my door with his key like a crazy entitled motherfucker. If I had my gun on me…
“Get up, they’re all getting to the casino within the hour. I need hands.”
He means scary motherfuckers who can stop this situation from turning into a gunfight. We can’t bring any of this to Wyatt until we get answers, but if we all turn and kill each other while he isn’t looking, I can’t say whether it will be better to be dead or alive after that.
Deacon is a harsh boss. I groan and get out of bed, assuring him that I’ll be ready within the next thirty minutes or so. He tells me to hurry my ass up and follows up with a few more choice words. The whole thing is fucked.
I’ve been stacking my money aside to move out to Boston or Buffalo on the East Coast. Frankly, I haven’t decided which.
For a while I was seeing this girl who wanted to take us over to Pittsburgh.
She went. With her drug dealer. Ghosted me and I never saw her again.
God never makes mistakes – I can’t stand the thought of a meth head dragging me down.
Saw the addictions take my mother, father, and a whole bunch of other folks associated with the Blackwoods.
It’s either meth or the military with us – not a whole lot of in between.
Luckily for me, I did well in the military.
It lets me conduct my covert operations a lot more easily when you understand how civilians think and how to avoid detection.
Whatever. I workout. Pray. Take a shower.
Pray again. I consider praying again to dispel the disturbing thoughts in my head, but I should have work soon to make it easier for me to stay away from the darkness.
Exposing the truth to Magnum will be… interesting.
I never took him for mentally stable and the Sinclair men need about a fifth of whiskey a day to stay level.
I grab our prisoners who we are pretending aren’t prisoners from the apartment Deacon put them up at. The redhead looks up at me with her raccoon eyeliner around those eerie blue eyes.
“I can’t be in trouble,” she says. “I was supporting my husband and doing what was right to keep my family together.”
“None of my business.”
“If it’s none of your business, you would be doing the bullshit with Deacon to take away our freedoms.”
Her husband speaks in a low voice, “Baby, that’s enough…”
“Come along with me. I’ll drive you out to Deacon’s casino.”
“I’m pregnant,” the red-head says with a typical entitled snarl on her face. “And by the way, does my brother know what the hell you’re up to out here?”
I don’t answer. Not getting paid to answer, so it makes no difference to me as long as it makes no difference to her. Her husband puts his hand on her lower back and offers me a sympathetic look.
“We’ll do whatever Magnum wants to make this right,” her husband says. I grunt and nod because frankly, I don’t care what they do. Deacon didn’t pay me to worry about all of that and I’m just here to get my money so I can fuck off to the East Coast.
I want to live in a city that starts with a B.
I heard Buffalo and Boston have equally terrible winters, but I can always spend the winter time in the southwest and make my way up the East Coast earning money along Route 66 until I hit Chicago.
Then I’ll gun it back to Buffalo (or Boston, wherever I end up) and settle in with booze and bad bitches until the season changes again.
Now that I’m almost twenty-two years old, I want to settle down and get some space from the club during the year. I’m ready to retire and focus on my own hobbies and interests aside from fixing bikes, which I’m pretty good at, I’ll be honest.
Magnum’s ride sits outside the casino parked next to Deacon’s when we get there. Red-head gets nervous. She looks over at her husband like there’s something he can do to save her ass right now.
“We should call Wyatt,” she whispers.
“We don’t need to call Wyatt,” he grunts. “Trust me.”