39. Ford
FORD
Roman
Gus wants to meet.
I received the text thirty minutes ago, before rushing down to the kitchen where Roman and Jagger were already waiting for me.
Tension bites through my jaw muscle as I sit in the back of Jagger’s cherry-red Ford Raptor.
Hawke’s missing, like always, and Roman sits in the front seat, his hand grasping the oh-shit handle as Jagger weaves through potholes in the street.
“Anyone know the odds of this being a coincidence?” Roman asks in the quiet cab.
“You mean whether or not Gus’s timing for a meeting has anything to do with our scorched house last night?” I ask.
“I’m gonna go with…five to one,” Jagger decides, tapping his forefingers against the leather steering wheel.
“Five to one?” I scoff. “You’re saying there’s a twenty percent chance he wants to meet for shits and giggles?”
Jagger’s brows raise in the rearview mirror. “Eighty percent is still shitty odds, Ford. What’s your guess?”
“Ten to one, easy.”
“Ten to one?” Roman whistles. “Damn.”
Jagger pulls into the parking lot and cuts the engine. “Ford?”
“Yeah.”
“Keep quiet, all right? I know you’re pissed—”
“We’re all pissed,” I argue.
“All I’m saying is the last time you were face-to-face with Gus, he pulled a pistol on you.”
I scrub at my forehead, anxious to get this shit over with. “Ya know, I think I vaguely remember that.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Keep my mouth shut. Got it.” I reach for the door handle, climb out, and slam the door behind me.
Without another word, we walk inside The Body Shop. Roman leads the way. I lift my chin at Ray inside the entrance. Unlike last night, the magazine he was flipping through is missing, and so is his bored out of his mind expression. Instead, he’s on his feet, his hands clasped in front of him.
“We’re here to see Gus,” Roman announces.
I bite my tongue to keep from tacking on a sarcastic, “No shit, Sherlock,” well aware it’ll only piss off my brother. Gotta keep my mouth shut, remember?
“Follow me,” Ray grunts.
I glance at the bar in time to see Jill staring at me from across the large club.
With a smirk, I lift my chin at her, too.
Her eyes roll, but she doesn’t respond. Not that she should.
She's at least twenty feet away. But I digress.
Tossing a dish towel over her shoulder, she turns back to a customer. My gut squeezes.
Fucking Morgan.
What the hell is he doing here?
I run my tongue along the inside of my cheek and follow the rest of the guys deeper into the club.
Along the back wall is a large booth. Gus sits in the center, his eyes on the stage as one of his strippers spins around and around the pole.
“Boss, these gentlemen are here to see you,” Ray tells him.
Slowly, his attention shifts from the stage to my big brother, and he drops his chin to the booth. “Take a seat.”
Jagger sits first, I follow after, and Roman stays standing, his posture mirroring Ray at the edge of the booth.
I’m not sure why. No one ever asked him to play bodyguard.
We’ve only ever seen him as an equal, but if this is the role he wants to play when we’re in Drift territory, there’s a reason for it.
My focus slips back to the man in front of us.
Funny. His eyes are as dark and soulless as the last time we sat across from him.
Gus tugs at the edge of the white button-up shirt tucked beneath the sport coat, then reaches for the glass in front of him filled with amber liquid.
Twenty bucks says it’s bourbon. Taking a sip, he sets it back down and toys with the massive gold ring on his right hand, watching us the same way someone would watch paint drying.
Joke’s on you, asshole. You brought us here, remember?
I bite my tongue to keep from stating the obvious. Besides, he looks like a damn mob boss in this light. Okay, he looks like a mob boss in any light, but especially when he’s in his element. His strip club. His side of town. His agenda.
The question is, why are we here? Why did Gus ask for a meeting? It’d be a hell of a lot easier if he started talking instead of looking at us like we’re lambs about to be led to the slaughter.
I’ve never understood the whole, don’t be the first to talk or it shows weakness bullshit. And clearly, it’s the game we’re playing right now.
Better start talking, Jag, I silently warn. Because if you don’t, I will.
With a bored expression, I shift in the booth. Seriously. Someone. Start. Talking.
Glancing at Ray, I say, “I’ll take a beer. Anything you got. Thanks.”
He doesn’t move a muscle.
“What? No drink this time? Where’s the hospitality?” I joke.
Ignoring me, Gus demands, “Want to tell me why you were on my property last night?”
Wait. What?
My brows raise. “I’m sorry, are we not invited to The Body Shop?”
A muscle twitches beneath my brother’s eye. “Our girls wanted to support their friend who was working last night,” Jagger explains.
Gus taps his ring against the outside of his glass. “I understand their reasoning. Yours is yet to be justified.”
“Since when do we need to justify our presence in The Body Shop?” I question.
The same twitch hits Jagger’s eye.
Oh. Right. No talking. My bad.
I shift closer, resting my elbows on the table. “Honestly, this is quite the establishment, Gus. I mean,” I whistle and look around. “Ten out of ten, am I right? The things these walls have seen, I have no doubt. Can you blame us for wanting to spend an evening in this place?”
“I cannot,” Gus returns. “That is the reason I invested in The Body Shop.”
“Great minds,” I quip.
“However.” He looks at Jagger again. “I believe your brother is the one to set a strong precedent that invitations are now necessary to enter establishments. Where is Hawke?”
“Busy,” Jagger says, covering for him.
“Too busy to meet with a friend?” Gus pushes.
“Are you a friend?” The words slip out of me before I can stop them.
Shit.
His mouth lifts as his focus drifts back to me. “For now. But if you’d like me to show you how I treat my enemies, I’d be more than happy to.”
“Not necessary,” Jagger interjects.
“Yet,” Gus returns with a sharpness that would make most men cower.
Yeah, he’s pissed. But so am I. How dare this asshole bring us here to pitch a fit over Hawke tossing Morgan on his ass last weekend and us coming to The Body Shop last night?
But the really weird part? All things considered, it doesn’t even make sense.
If he ordered our house to be lit on fire, you’d think he’d be acting differently.
Maybe a little cocky or smug, like he knows he got his revenge for us trespassing last night, even if we didn’t know we were.
But here he is, catering to his little bitch of a nephew. Speaking of which, where is Morgan?
Casually, I twist in my seat and take in the dancer, or at least, I hope that’s what it looks like I’m doing.
From my periphery, I search for Gus’s nephew, but he’s missing from the bar.
My pulse catches, and I fight the urge to pull out my phone and dial June’s number to make sure she’s okay.
Or at the very least, warn Hawke to keep a close eye on the girls. Cobie, June, Violet.
Was this another ploy to lure us away from them? To leave them unprotected. Bile coats the back of my throat, but I keep my expression in check, turning to face Gus again.
“Since your brother isn’t here, would you like to explain why my nephew was kicked out of an event I was hosting last week?” Gus requests.
“I’m sorry, you were hosting?” I repeat with an, you’ve gotta be shitting me look.
His hollow gaze sharpens. “My property. My guest list.”
“And your cut, which was already paid, so I’m failing to see the issue here,” I volley.
“Unsurprising,” Gus offers.
My jaw locks, and Jagger grabs my leg beneath the table, forcing me to stay seated when all I want to do is bury this bastard.
Mother. Fucker.
I smooth out my features and settle back in my seat.
Satisfied I won’t lose my shit, Jagger leans nearer, closing the distance between Gus and himself. “Like my brother pointed out, Roman delivered your cut, and your nephew is more than welcome to take bets like we agreed, so—”
“Do you have an issue with our arrangement, Mr. Harden?” Gus questions.
The way he says it makes my frustration inflate all over again.
Stay strong. Do not take the bait. Come on, Ford. You can do it. We’re going for personal growth here.
“Currently?” Jagger replies. “I believe it’s amenable.
Like you said the last time we met, there’s nothing wrong with competition.
This is capitalism at its finest, right?
However, I’m curious how many…” Jagger sighs as if searching for the right word, “amendments to our agreement you plan to bring to the table to sway the even field in your nephew’s favor. ”
Here it is. The reason why Jagger is the badass he is and the one we trust. I fight the urge to give the man my applause.
A twitch hits beneath Gus’s eye, proving I’m not the only one surprised by Jagger’s response.
Bravo, big brother.
“Excuse me?” Gus challenges.
“The last time we spoke, you informed us that your nephew should be allowed to take bets—”
“Would,” he clarifies. “My nephew would be allowed to take bets.”
“Which we agreed to,” Jagger returns. “And now you want to add that he must be included in any and all Harden events. If capitalism is your goal, why is your nephew unwilling to bring any original business ideas to the table instead of poaching off us?”
Damn. Where’s my mic so I can drop it?
Gus tilts his head. “So, your issue is not his attendance, but his lack of original ideas?”
“Our issue is that your nephew’s an asshole,” I quip dryly.
Slowly, Jagger turns to me with a sharp look, and my mouth snaps closed.
Oops.
“Our issue is your nephew’s desire to sabotage our events instead of actively participating in them,” Jagger clarifies. “Add in his lack of creativity and unsustainable numbers, and we feel like his entire goal is to…”
With a straight face, I watch Gus across from me. “Burn the entire industry to the ground?” I finish for Jagger.
Nothing. Not a twitch. Not a brow raise. Not a single clue. Either Gus has no idea Morgan set our house on fire, or he’s a hell of a liar.
“And how was my nephew sabotaging your event?” Gus goads.
“By making several of the female attendants feel unsafe.” Jagger makes a point of looking around the strip club. “From one business owner to another, I’m sure you can imagine the impact something like that can make.”
Another twitch hits just beneath his eye, but otherwise? The man doesn’t move a muscle.
Yeah, motherfucker. Seems your nephew is kind of a dick. I wonder what else he’s hiding?
“I will speak with my nephew,” Gus replies.
My eyes widen. Damn. Look at you, being accommodating.
“Good,” Jagger returns. “And we will extend an invitation to him the next time we feel like his presence would be beneficial at a Harden event.”
“I’ll give you two,” Gus decides. “Two events without his participation.”
Jagger’s chin dips. “Thank you.”
“Don’t make me regret it.” The light ricochets off his gold ring as he flicks his fingers toward the exit. “Now, get out of my club.”
Seconds later, the cold air hits my cheeks while we head through the parking lot.
Giving me the side-eye, his hands tucked in his coat pockets, Jagger unlocks his truck, muttering, “Good job keeping your mouth shut.”
“Guess I couldn’t help myself.” We all climb into the car. As soon as the doors are closed, I add, “You guys see his face when I mentioned burning?”
Roman nods. “He doesn’t know.”
Shoving his car into reverse, Jagger grips the back of the passenger seat headrest and twists in his chair, pulling out of the parking spot. “Anything from Rafe yet?”
“I’m going this afternoon,” Rome answers.
“Good.”
“At least we got two Morgan-free Harden Nights,” I add.
The engine roars as Jagger turns onto the main road, his knuckles white from throttling the steering wheel. “Yeah, but we had to expose Morgan’s assholery to his uncle.”
Rome nods. “Which will only piss him off more.”
“So, we should be ready for anything.” I reach for my phone and dial Hawke so I can fill him in.
Why does shit have to be so complicated?