My heart clenches with need just watching her. How can a woman as off-limits as her be so tempting?
“No. He was real vague. I think he also has an idea about some of the stuff you boys do for the club, so maybe he’s looking for a reason to come back.”
“The bitch that was with him definitely wouldn’t mind coming back and putting cuffs on any of you boys,” Tricia adds. “You could build a cabin with all the sticks that surly bitch has got up her ass.”
Mack nods. He hasn’t touched his whiskey, and he’s got a thoughtful look on his face.
“We need to get to Stone, fill him in. And, like it or not, we might have to reschedule the delivery. What fucking timing,” he says, then he turns to me. “Come on, we need to ride. You ladies going to be good here?”
I hardly see Tricia nod, I’ve only got eyes for Adella; the thought of another man hitting on her gnaws at my bones and fills me with burning anger.
“We’ll be fine,” Tricia says. “Go tell my husband what happened.”
Mack and I leave, getting on our bikes and heading across Lone Mesa to an old trucking warehouse halfway on the way to Torreon. It’s part of a small complex that’s all but abandoned, a crumbling brick relic of the decades deep in Lone Mesa’s past, when this area was an industrial powerhouse in Southern California. There’s even the derelict wreckage of a refinery, a memento to the oil and gas history that’s woven in to so much of the fabric of California’s industrial past and present.
We navigate our bikes down narrow alleys between forlorn warehouses until we get to the building that Stone purchased for the club. It’s an off-the-books operation, the building bought in cash and registered to a shell corporation. It’s the site where sensitive cargo is brought in, broken down, and redistributed to our customers.
Mack and I guide our bikes past a broken-down late 80s Honda Civic that sits just outside the warehouse entrance — a fresh addition to the neighborhood; probably the product of some kid’s joyriding, I think. And we slide open the rusty rolling doors to bring our bikes inside.
The small warehouse smells like dust, rust, and old motor oil.
On the inside it looks like those are the only things holding it together.
In the center of the warehouse, underneath a cargo truck up on lifts, is Stone. He’s got a wrench in hand, he’s covered in grease, and deep into working on the engine.
Goldie and Rusty are standing off to the side; Rusty’s doing his best to look alert on guard duty, and Goldie’s managing about as good as expected from a prospect. He’s sitting in the corner, in an old folding chair, half asleep.
“Goldie, I’ve been here not two fucking seconds and already I feel the need to smack you senseless, boy,” Mack shouts. “I’ve seen fucking blind chihuahuas that make fiercer guards than you.”
Goldie practically jumps. “Sorry, Mack.”
“What the hell brings you two out here?” Rusty says, grinning and walking toward us.
Mack ignores him. Raises his voice so Stone can hear.
“Stone, you’ll want to get out here for this.”
“This better be fucking important, I’ve spent nearly an hour under here with this wrench working on these stuck nuts and I’m just about to get them off. If this ruins my progress, I’m sure as hell going to be pissed at you, Mack.”
“This is more important than getting your nuts off, brother,” Mack answers.
“Besides, if you need help with that, well, that’s why we’ve got the prospect,” Rusty adds.
“I am not getting Stone’s nuts off,” Goldie starts.
I glare at him.
As does everyone else, including Stone.
“What did you say?” I growl.
“Did I really hear you right?” Rusty says, looking equally menacing.
“Oh fuck, lad, there’s no fucking helping you now,” Mack says.
“What’d I say?”
Goldie looks from me, to Mack, to Rusty, and finally to Stone, paralyzed in confusion.
Stone leaves his place under the truck and advances on Goldie with a glowering look on his face.
“If I tell you to get my fucking nuts off, you’ll get my fucking nuts off, prospect,” Stone says. “You’ll do the work, you’ll enjoy it, and you’ll thank me for the privilege when you’re done.”
“I’m sorry, Stone, I’ll do it,” he stammers. “It’s just, I don’t understand. Do you want me to work on the truck or is this a sexual thing?”
“What do you think, lad?” Mack says, sharply. “Did you not just hear your president?”
“I really don’t know, and it’s really fucking distressing me,” Goldie blurts out.
Stone takes a final step forward, until he’s right in Goldie’s face.
“Goldie, brother, it all comes down to how far you’re willing to go to earn your patch,” he says, and he pauses for a heated moment while the prospect shakes like a leaf in the wind. “But if you think for one second that I’d want anything sexual from you, when I have a wife that’s as fucking hot as Tricia, you’re out of your damn mind. Go get under the truck, finish up with those bolts and, when you’re done, put fresh ones back on. And don’t fucking touch the torque setting on the wrench. If I find even one stripped thread, I’ll send you walking back to the clubhouse without your clothes.”
“He’ll do it, too,” Rusty says. “He pulled that same shit on Razor and me back in the day. I think I’ve got a permanent sunburn on my ass from it. It still hurts some days.”
Goldie runs to get under the truck and finish Stone’s work, while Stone wipes his hands clean on a chamois cloth he pulls from the waist of his jeans.
“What brings you two here? Is it important, or are
