Page 71 of Grim

“Anything recent?”

“No, nothing new.” Creed gave me a look. “But if you’re feeling an itch, you could always pay a visit to Tyrone.”

“Awe, hell. What is it now?”

“He’s asking to push back the drop day again.”

“The one for tomorrow?”

“Yeah, he said there’s something going on with his guy, and he can’t get his hands on the goods until next week.”

“You think he’ll pull through?”

“Don’t have a reason to think he won’t.” Creed chuckled as he glanced over at Prez. “We’ve been working with him for years. We all know he’s a fuck-up, but he always managed to pull through. But lately, he’s been off his game, and it might be time to give him a little direction or cut him loose entirely.”

“Yeah, it’s not like we don’t have options.” Creed leaned back in his chair. “Gus mentioned that their chapter has a new supplier who’s got some really good shit. Said it was a game changer.”

“Who they buying from?”

“Some club out of Nashville. Pretty sure they’re growing it themselves.”

“Might be worth looking into, until then, you good with me going over and having a word with him?”

“Absolutely. Do your thing,” Prez answered. “Let us know how it goes.”

“You know I will.”

Tyrone wasn’t the issue. He had a guy who had a guy, and Tyrone was at their mercy. But that didn’t stop me from getting up and heading out of the room. I needed to dot all my i’s and cross all my t’s, and this was just a start.

I was on my way to my bike when I spotted Skid hunched over Creed’s Harley, and he appeared to be struggling. I walked over and asked, “What have you gotten into now?”

“Changing Creed’s oil, but he’s got a stripped bolt that’s refusing to give.” The muscles in his arms tensed with exertion, beads of sweat glistening on his brow as he complained, “Whoever did it last over torqued it.”

“You need a hand?”

“Nah, I got it.”

“You sure?”

“I said I got it, Dad,” he huffed. “I got it.”

It had been months since he’d called me dad, and while it was out of anger that he’d let it slip, it still meant something to me. He was my son, through and through, and while I wasn’t always that great at showing it, I loved him. Nothing I wouldn’t do for him—even if it meant giving up my role as his father while he prospected. He wanted to earn his patch on his own, and I got it. I would’ve felt the same if I was in his shoes, so I played along.

I continued to play along as I told him, “Spray some 40 on it and let it sit. It’ll help lubricate the threads.”

Skid looked up at me with a soured expression and disgruntled breath. He dropped the wrench and reached into his toolbox for the WD-40. When he started spraying, I turned and started for my bike. “A dab will do ya!”

“I said I’ve got it!”

“You do now.” I chuckled under my breath as I called out to him, “See ya when I see ya.”

“Where ya headed?”

“Got something I need to take care of.”

“Need a hand?”

“No.” Using his own words against him, I shouted, “I’ve got it.”

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