“Where’s it headed?”
“You and I and a few of the others will take it to New Orleans.”
“New Orleans? We’ve never sent guns there before. We have new customers?” Snake says.
“Aye. Stone met a guy at a gun show. He deals in the top end and exotic stuff for rich types in the Southeast. The kind with more money and time than they know what to do with. People who just want to shoot rocket launchers out of their private helicopters or whatever the fuck those types do. He called Stone up a while ago. His usual supplier got caught up in some shit in Venezuela. Some guerrillas put a bullet in his head. Stone came through, pulled a few strings, and the club will make a good percentage for doing this last minute.”
“How long we going to be in New Orleans?”
Mack shrugs. “A week, probably. Few days to make the deal and a few to enjoy that beautiful, sweaty armpit of a city. Tell me, Snake: why the fuck does a place like New Orleans have to be fucking 90 percent humidity all the fucking time? If I didn’t feel like a river of sweat was running down my ass the whole fucking day, I might be tempted to live there for a while.”
“Is that the real reason, Mack? Or is it because you could only get a sitter for Matyas for a week?” Snake says.
“It’s both,” Mack snaps. “It’s economic, and it’s climatic. We Irish aren’t aquatic, we aren’t meant to live where the air is fucking water — it’s not fucking natural; I ain’t a fucking mermaid, Snake. But it also doesn’t help that childcare is fucking disgracefully expensive, and it’s either pay for a quality sitter, or entrust Matty to some fucking feeble-minded, Tide Pod-swallowing catastrophe of a human fucking being.”
“Christ, Mack, calm the fuck down. We’ve got a ride coming up, no need to get heated about babysitters.”
“Have you ever interviewed babysitters, Snake? No, of course you haven’t. It’s a fucking nightmare, the human pestilence that comes out of the woodwork and offers to look after your child. I nearly murdered seven people last Friday, all while trying to find someone suitable.”
“Then how about we hit the Twisted Sisters on the way over, brother? They’re on the way, and we can grab some Texas BBQ afterward. A nice ride, nice view, then some good grub. That’ll cure your ills.”
“Aye, we’re doing the Twisted Sisters. And, whether or not Stone wants to make a detour, we’re hitting the Pig Trail in Arkansas on the way back.”
I smile just hearing the names of those two roads, some of the best riding in the country, and places that I’ve fantasized about visiting someday. I have a cherry red Harley Sportster SuperLow sitting right out front; a beautiful light bike, perfect for riding, but the furthest I’ve taken it is a road trip to Venice beach. Life as the president’s daughter means I don’t get to venture out too much. Especially when there are threats against the club.
I love my family, but sometimes my position in the club absolutely chafes.
Finally, I shake my head clear and decide I’ve been creeping on Snake and Mack long enough. I take the beers and set them down on the table in front of them.
“What’s this for, lass?” Mack says.
“For saving Josie from a lifetime of unemployment and isolation.”
Snake chuckles. I savor the brief glimpse I get of his smile.
“We do what we can. When we can. Sometimes there’s just no stopping her.”
“She gets older and keeps her attitude up, she might end up wearing a patch and I don’t think there’s a damn thing any of us could do about it. You ever tried telling her ‘no’ directly?” Mack says.
“Oh, it’s impossible,” Snake says. “You better watch your back, Mack. In a few years, Josie could come gunning for your Sergeant at Arms patch.”
For a second, the smile on my face wavers. I know they’re kidding — mostly — and I love Josie, but hearing them joke about patching her in spurs a pang of regret and jealousy in my heart. All my life, I’ve wanted to be a part of the club — to have some of the freedom and independence that they enjoy — but I’ve always been held back; it’s not easy being the President’s daughter.
“Enjoy the beers, boys,” I say, flashing another smile at Snake. “And thanks again. For what it’s worth, Mack, I don’t think Josie could ever do your job like you; she’d probably do it better.”
I wink at him so he knows I’m joking.
“Oh, lass, if Stone wasn’t your father, you’d be eating those words,” he says, laughing.
“But he is,” I say, and I leave it at that, returning to my spot behind the bar. I get back to work, letting the repetition of prep work soothe my agitation — it’s hard seeing so many people in the club enjoy their freedom while I carry the weight of being my father’s daughter; I love him, in so many ways I am so grateful to be Stone’s daughter; even though I’m adopted, I feel as close to my parents as if their names were on my birth certificate, but the restrictions I live within chafe me.
After a time, I sidle closer to my mom.
She’s got her head down, chopping onions and garlic for the dinner she plans to serve the club tonight. Most nights, she’ll cook up something simple for the boys — stew, a roast, steaks — and they’ll usually devour it in a flash.
“Hey, mom,” I say, grabbing a spare knife and an onion and chopping along with her.
“Hey, Addie,” she says, her focus still on the knife.
“Dad’s heading to New Orleans soon?”
She nods. “Club business. He says it’ll be a week or
