Chapter 47 #2
I've only seen Tommy Price once before, years ago at some party, but I've heard plenty of stories since.
The guy's maybe 5'10", compact muscle wrapped tight like a fighter who never stops moving, never stops calculating angles and weak points.
Dark brown hair styled even now—kept short on the sides, slightly longer on top—and hazel-green eyes.
Full sleeve tattoos crawl up both arms, traditional American style with eagles and skulls and pin-up girls, the kind of ink that speaks to old-school sensibilities.
A small scar cuts through his left eyebrow, probably from some fight he won.
He smiles when we enter—all teeth, dangerous and welcoming at once—and something about it makes my skin crawl in recognition.
This is what a predator looks like when it's comfortable in its own den, when it knows it holds all the cards and isn't afraid to play them.
I take a seat at the scarred wooden table, wood stained dark from years of deals made and broken over its surface.
My mind's not really in this. I haven't been back to school all week, couldn't force myself through those doors knowing she's inside.
Couldn't see her without touching her, and I don't know if I'll ever be ready to see her if I can't have her.
Instead, I drank the week away, each bottle blurring into the next until days stopped meaning shit and time became just another thing I was trying to outrun.
I tried to text her but she must have me blocked—messages disappearing into the void, no response, no read receipts, no indication she even sees my attempts at contact.
Nothing. Just empty space where she used to be.
Nick makes introductions while I zone out, letting his voice become background noise that doesn't require my attention.
Then we go through the details—what kind of relationship the cartel's offering Oakland, percentages and territory and product flow.
Numbers that should matter, figures that represent millions of dollars and major shifts in power dynamics, but they all feel hollow in my skull like someone's reading a grocery list.
"You guys work with them," Razor says, his gaze cutting to me specifically, zeroing in with laser focus that makes me straighten slightly despite myself. "Are you happy with the arrangement? Any issues we should know about before we commit?"
"Yeah." My voice sounds flat even to my own ears, empty of the enthusiasm this kind of opportunity should generate. "It's very lucrative. Cartel's professional, pays on time, doesn't fuck around with territorial bullshit."
He nods slowly, studying me like he sees more than I'm showing, reading the exhaustion in my eyes and the way I'm sitting here like a ghost going through the motions. Probably does—predators recognize their own, can smell weakness and pain like blood in water.
"So, Sofia, you're going to be our contact?" His attention shifts to her, eyes tracking over her face, her body, assessing in a way that has nothing to do with business and everything to do with the kind of interest that gets complicated fast.
She's good-looking—I can see it objectively even if I don't give a shit.
High cheekbones, dark eyes, curves in all the right places.
And Razor's used to getting what he wants, used to women falling over themselves for the dangerous bad boy VP with the scary reputation.
He'll try to fuck her if not today then soon, probably within the week.
Make his move with that charming smile that probably works on most women.
She doesn't know what the wrong decision is going to cost her, doesn't understand MC politics well enough yet to see the trap being set.
For her sake, I hope she turns him down or he'll never respect her and their arrangement won't work.
He'll see her as something he conquered instead of someone he has to take seriously, and every negotiation from here on out will be harder because of it.
I should tell her. Should warn her that sleeping with him means losing his respect, means every deal will involve him trying to get over on her because she became just another conquest instead of a professional equal.
I should pull her aside and explain how this world works, how women who want respect can't also be women these men fuck.
But honestly? I couldn't care less. Not my problem if she fucks up her position. Not my circus, not my monkeys. I've got enough of my own disasters to worry about without adding hers to the pile.
When everything's discussed—percentages negotiated, territory boundaries established, distribution schedules agreed upon—Memphis leans back in his chair with a satisfied exhale.
"We'll talk it over with everyone and let you know what we decide.
Can't make this call without a full club vote, you understand. Democratic process and all that shit."
He leads us out to the bar, and the tension breaks slightly as the main room opens up around us, the oppressive weight of the back room lifting.
Prospects scatter to grab bottles from behind the bar while club girls eye our group with interest that dies when they catch my expression—whatever they see there making them look away quick, redirect their attention to safer targets.
Spider gets a few lingering looks. Even Sevyn's size draws female attention despite his intimidating silence.
We have one beer. I barely taste it, the bottle warming in my hand while conversation flows around me like water around stone—there but not really touching me, not really penetrating the fog that's settled over everything since the day Fallon said she doesn't want me.
Spider talks shop with Memphis, discussing supply chains and distribution networks with the easy familiarity of professionals who speak the same language.
Sevyn stays silent beside me, a comforting presence that doesn't require me to perform or pretend.
Nick makes small talk with some Oakland brother whose name I don't catch and don't care enough to ask about, the prospect doing his job of building relationships and making connections.
And I count the minutes until we can leave, until I can get back on my bike and let the engine roar drown out the thoughts that won't stop circling. Until I can ride fast enough that maybe, just for a little while, I'll outrun the feeling of her absence.