Dillon had gotten fairly used to the creative threats Top tossed around on any given day, but this sounded particularly unpleasant. When she looked up at Nasa for direction, he was struggling not to laugh as he explained.
“Top ordered some vitamins from one of those companies whose whole scheme is automatic renewal? The vitamins sucked and didn't do anything for him, so he wanted to cancel, but they've continued to charge his card.
“I told him I'd take care of it, but he insisted on doing it himself. I think it makes him feel like there's a gaping hole in his life if he doesn't have new assholes to tear on the regular.”
Nasa pulled her hand out from under his shirt in order to press a kiss to the center of her palm, rubbing it in while they eavesdropped.
“Oh, you think I don't know where you live, huh?” Top chortled wickedly. “Chester Abrams of Greenbriar Court, Denver Colorado, age thirty-seven, divorced with no kids, working this criminal pyramid scheme to bilk senior citizens out of their social security.
“That's right. I know who you are, you rat-ass mother fucker, and I will come for you like the shadow of death. My money, by this time tomorrow, or I will shove my boot so far up your ass, you'll lick your lips and taste leather. You get me, son? Good.”
After a brief pause rife with muttered curses, Top's voice blasted through every intercom speaker in the building with the subtlety of a fog horn.
“Church, mother fuckers! Right now!” Even over the ringing of her ears, Dillon heard the scuff and shuffle of Top's cowboy boots on the concrete floors headed their way. He was scowling, but there was a definite sparkle of glee in his bright eyes. Right up until he saw the blender on the counter. “Fuck me! Did Athena rope you into making alfalfa ass juice for me?”
“Considering I'm here all the time and she's not, I volunteered. You want extra green shit today?” Dillon teased, just to watch his lip curl in disgust.
“If y'all put any more green shit in it, might as well change my fuckin’ road name to Bruce!” Top complained, but dutifully took the glass from her and made it disappear. She waited, watching him smack his previously curled lips together, peering into the now empty glass with a curious harrumph. “Either I'm losing the ability to taste horrible shit or that actually wasn't as bad. What'd you do?”
“I tweaked the recipe slightly and added apples.” The sweetness of them cut the bitterness of the greens down to a more tolerable level while still providing all the nutrients Top needed.
“Huh.” Top thunked the empty glass down on the counter and pointed a finger gun at her. “You've just been promoted to full time juice maker. Church.”
Dillon let her eyebrows drift up, a smirk curling her lips. “I thought that was a G.O.L.F situation.”
“What? We ain't goin' in there to knock anyone’s balls around.”
“Before the Scots finally got around to naming their sport, they'd hang up a sign that said, 'Gentlemen Only, Ladies Forbidden,' which then became Golf.”
“Learn somethin' new every goddamn day,” Top declared with a bounce of his bushy brows. “Well, this here is a Community Church session, and if the rest of the girls were in house, I'm sure they'd be in on it too.” He strode off, muttering under his breath. “Hate fuckin' golf. I got better shit to do with my time than whack a ball, get in the cart, watch the damn grass grow for a minute, then get out and whack it some more. Fuckin' ridiculous.”
“So what goes on in a normal 'Church' meeting?” Dillon asked Nasa.
He gave her an incredibly serious face, looking around surreptitiously, as though preparing to impart state secrets. “We talk about things we don't want the women involved in. How to avoid Athena's latest health binge, our plans for world domination, talk smack about our Call of Duty squad scores.
“Confidential client info, who we're picking for our Fantasy Football teams, budgets and quarterly statements, and anything semi-illegal we may be preparing to engage in. You know, guy shit.”
She gave a lofty nod and followed along beside him. “Guy shit. Got it. But it's good news, right?”
“Best news we've had in days,” Nasa promised.
It didn't take long for all the bikers in residence to file in and sit down, and none of them seemed tobe bothered or surprised by her presence. Nasa got busy plugging stuff into the big monitor on the wall, and without making them wait, announced victoriously,
“We hit the mother lode.” A list appeared on the screen, slowly scrolling down. “Rachel deserves a goddamn medal when we find her because she stole a complete, extremely detailed list of every single person in Texas, Nevada, and Florida who help move the Leviathans merchandise or are involved with sales.”
Leather creaked as every man in the room eagerly perked up. “And it's not just the patched-in members. Although, I've got stats on every one of them, their history, life stories, how they joined the club, what their vices are, and a cheat sheet of all their priors. The stuff marked off in yellow represent all the shit Perdition has shut down.”
Nasa used an actual laser pointer to circle the portions of the list highlighted, and she was pretty sure she wasn't alone in feeling pleased to see the sizable amount of color to indicate the interference. It wasn't quite a quarter of the list, but almost, and that meant Perdition
