Chapter 9
nine
JUDE
The tension in my shoulders eases as Greer’s taillights disappear down the country road. Stomping over to the peeling road sign, I yank off the handwritten advertisement for a ten dollar burger special. What the fuck is Malachi thinking? The last thing we need is daytime foot traffic.
With the compound off limits to most visitors, the MC rents the back room as a daytime meeting place. Malachi knows what this means for his business, and happily pockets the cash every week.
Carrying the sign indoors, I stride past the front of the bar, shooting daggers at Malachi as I pass. Thanks to his stupidity, Greer almost saw…
Well, let’s just say Three-Peat is still cleaning up the mess. The private event room is separated from the bar with a set of swinging doors. They thud against the wall as I storm toward Folgers.
He looks up from the scuffed wooden table, demanding an explanation for my entrance. Once he notices the poster board I’m holding up, my sponsor rolls his eyes heavenward. “How long has that been outside?”
“Long enough for Greer to stumble on it and come looking for a burger.” I don’t think twice about telling Folgers the truth. An attempt at covering up will be met with suspicion.
Folgers shakes his head in frustration. “Someone had to have told her the club hangs out here.”
My eyes lock with Folgers. I answer, “She was driving by on her way back from Maisy’s bookstore. I saw the bag.”
He turns his eyes back to the brick of cash in his hand, banging it against the table to straighten it, masking his expression. “Do we have anything to worry about?”
“No, I’m certain.”
I don’t want to think about what might have happened if she’d not been too distracted by my scars to really take in what was going on around her. She might have wondered why I was at the Gator Pit, but she’s clueless as to how I’ve spent the afternoon.
Folgers scrubs his hand down his face, “Call her later. Make sure she knows nothing.”
“This won’t be a problem,” I assure him, even though we both know it was close to being a catastrophe.
I glance across the room, trying to imagine it through Greer’s innocent eyes.
The room reeks of bleach. Three-Peat has a black light in his hand, making sure all the splatter’s properly cleaned.
A desktop money counter zips twenty dollar bills through one side, the surface almost cleared of stacks.
Flinch is carefully separating the last of the cash into white envelopes, everyone’s personal cut for today.
Just another drop off, all proceeds from gambling.
Folgers reaches for an envelope on the edge and hands it to me. “Good work today.”
Reaching for the packet, one thicker than the last, I shove it into my cut and give him a curt nod. “Just doing my job.”
The more I earn, the more I’m securing our future.