Slipping from his office, confusion filling my entire body as I make my way toward Pinkie. I feel as if I’m walking in a daze. None of this feels normal. Then again, do I even know what normal is? No. No, I don’t.
JAGUAR
I’m not surprised to see Mamba watching me as I walk through the warehouse door. What I am surprised to see is a fuckload of product. It’s everywhere, but it isn’t broken up or packaged at all. It’s all sitting stacked high on about five rectangle banquet tables.
“What the fuck is going on?” I ask.
Mamba arches a brow, obviously not too willing to give me all of the information quickly. He clears his throat, then jerks his chin toward the lone folding chair that is sitting behind one of the rectangle tables.
“Sit,” he demands.
I don’t deny the demand, not only because I’m his bitch and every other patched members’ bitch until I earn my place back, if I earn my place back. Clearing my throat, I try to hide my groan of pain as I sink down in the chair.
“Your bitch job for now is to package and weigh the coke.”
“Sure you don’t need me to cut it with anything?” I ask like a smart-ass. This is a woman’s job. I have never known a man to actually package this shit, but I know that they’re having me do it, partially because I physically can’t do much else, also because it demeans me.
“Pretty fuckin’ sure,” Mamba grunts. “Package those into one gram baggies.”
“Seems like a lot of legwork for us. Why don’t the Italians just do that shit themselves?” I ask.
Mamba’s eyes narrow on me, and I know I’ve said the wrong thing. It’s no longer my place to question a damn fucking thing. This is going to be a lot fucking harder than I’d anticipated. Swallowing, I dip my chin and reach for the first brick.
“Seriously though, do I need to cut it with anything?” I ask.
Mamba grunts. “Comes cut with caffeine,” he explains. “We order it that way to cut down on the actual packaging time. We got rid of our packagers. Too many hands in the cookie jar, too many people fucking up.”
“This have anything to do with Maci Marshall?” I ask.
“Has to do with her piece of shit father, yeah,” he grunts.
I get it now. Slipping on the medical rubber gloves, I unwrap the brick and get to work, but not before I ask one more question.
“Where is she, Maci Marshall?” I ask.
Mamba doesn’t say anything right away, he watches me and I can tell that he’s not sure if he should tell me or not. Maybe he doesn’t know, or maybe he wants me to wonder. It doesn’t matter much to me. It wasn’t Pamela, and she’s the one I have been concerned with this entire time.
“Bones took her to the Sinister Skulls,” he announces after a long silence.
Clearing my throat, I keep my head down and work. I have a job to do and I’m going to do it. I have trust to earn and I’m going to do that too. I wonder how much of this shit I can package in a day, because I honestly don’t think I can stay with my ass planted in this chair for weeks at a time.
“A couple of prospects should be in here soon to help you. This shit needs to be done today.”
Nodding my head, I don’t say anything right away in response. I work in silence for a while, Mamba watching over me. Then the warehouse door opens. Lifting my head, I watch as Maria makes her way toward him.
She stops close enough that she could touch him if she reached out, but she doesn’t. “I need to talk to you,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
Shifting my gaze back to my work, I try not to eavesdrop, but I can’t help myself. Mamba, Gator, and Maria intrigue me, they always have. I always thought Mamba leaned more toward his own sex. It always surprised me when he would be with a woman.
I think he likes women, he thinks they’re sexy and beautiful, but I truly believe he prefers the company of men.
So, when they all three got together, I wondered how that would play out—looks like I’m about to have a front row ticket to the conclusion of the story. Maria sounds as if she’s nervous but resolute, so I have a feeling something serious is about to go down.
“It’s time,” Maria murmurs. “I need to leave.”
Chapter Nine
PAMELA
Pinkie giggles at something that one of the men says. I don’t know all of their names yet, I don’t even know half of them. She gave me the duty of cleaning the glasses and I’m glad for it. Washing and drying glasses is mindless work and I can listen to the world around me, then get lost in my own thoughts.
Then I hear a woman shout as the door to the bar flies open. There is a man charging after her. He stops and turns to another man. “Go and watch Jag, I got to deal with this shit,” he growls.
“This shit?” the woman screeches.
I don’t recognize her, but I’ve seen him around the past week. There is a moment of silence while they stare one another down. He takes a step toward her, reaching out, he wraps his fingers around her elbow and tugs her against him.
I’m frozen staring at them. There is something between them, something heavy, I can practically taste it. They have a pull, but it’s frayed and a bit torn. Pressing my lips together, I can’t look away from them.
“It doesn’t work for me anymore,” she announces. “I’ve been trying to tell you, trying to make it
