Page 12 of I Stop Somewhere Waiting For You

Bentley’s hand slammed down on top of my papers, sending pens and various office supplies flying about. “I’m not fucking around, Mav! Nicky may be a prep school punk, but he’s also a boss with a fucking body count. Things are decent right now. He stays out of our territory; our business is thriving. He don’t start shit when we’re on neutral turf like Lounge. That status quo will most definitely change if he finds out you’re fucking his princess. Plus, not for nothing, Bish, she don’t seem interested.”

My head slowly lifted, my glare downright murderous. “Bentley, you are my brother. Your mother changed my fucking diapers. My first crime I ever committed, you were by my side. Because of this, I grant you more liberty with how you address me. But you best believe I will break your shit off if you do not get your fucking hand out of my space.”

He slowly removed his hand, shifting to stand upright.

“Shut the door on your way out.” I gestured toward the exit with my pen without giving him a second glance.

Bent lingered a moment longer, no doubt glaring at me, before storming off in a huff, slamming the door on the way out.

I tossed my pen down in frustration, staring at the folder he left behind.

“Shit,” I muttered to myself before scooping it up and dropping it into the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet to my right. I stared down at it, my fingers itching to rip it open and learn all her secrets. Just when I was about to cave, my foot jut out, kicking it closed.

Over the course of the last five days I must have taken this thing out a million times and just stared at it, refusing to open it. I’ve been treating it like a straight-up bomb that’s about to detonate because I knew the second I looked inside, my world would implode.

Jonsie Hunter is a drug I’ve barely had one hit of, and I am already hooked. This file detailing her life may as well be a super-concentrated dose, one that would condemn my fate as a lifelong addict.

I almost set it on fire earlier today. Heeded Bent’s warning and quit while I was ahead. I even left the Cathedral to get a ride in, trying to clear my head.

The Rebels are different from the Dukes in many ways, one of the main ones being we live together in a compound. There’s various trailers and cabins sprawled throughout the grounds, ensuring everyone has their own space. Me, Bent, Finn, and T all live in the main house at the center of the compound, which we also conduct business out of. It’s a weathered old farmhouse that’s seen better days, though is massive enough to accommodate us all. We call it the Cathedral.

Nicky C. runs a business; his employees all report for work and then go home to their million-dollar mansions at night. I’m the head of a family. I wouldn’t wish this life on anyone, but the members who find their way to the Rebels do so because they have nothing left. Life has beaten them down and stripped them naked. I provide for my family, and in return they pledge their loyalty. We take care of each other. I may be a piece-of-shit criminal, but I’m a piece-of-shit criminal who’s gonna leave Hydetown better than he found it for the future generations. That’s why I’m so hell bent on going legit. I’m working for a better life for my family.

The road to Hell may be paved with best intentions, but the road to Heaven is littered with collateral damage.

I tore out of the compound and took off throughout the sprawling backroads of Hydetown. This place may be trailer trash central, but it’s my kingdom. If forced to live in a cesspool, you may as well be at the top.

Our business is good, but nowhere near the machine Nicky has built. I didn’t have a trust fund to launch my empire, and even now most of my profits were being filtered into the development of our legitimate businesses. I know that fucker’s trying to expand into new territory as well. The only reason I hadn’t bothered calling a Parley to discuss terms is because I’m hoping to be done with this gangster shit by the time he transitions into his new wannabe Scarface role.

I found myself absentmindedly navigating the roads until the trailers became few and far between and the houses slowly began to morph into those more representative of the American Dream.

I knew where I was going before I was willing to acknowledge it. I’d always known where Nicky C. lives, but I had never been. It wasn’t forbidden for me to simply be within the town limits of Dutchess. The rules only stated I couldn’t conduct business on his turf. Even still, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve crossed into Duke territory. While Nicky and I don’t particularly care for one another, we don’t have any current beef and things have been relatively chill.

Bent’s right to worry. I was rocking the boat.

I pulled off to the side of the road not far from his place, shaking my head at how fucking stupid I was being. I removed my smokes from the front pocket of my leather jacket, snatching one from the pack with my teeth before striking my zippo and bringing the flame to my mouth. I snapped it closed with a flick of my wrist, slipping it back in my pocket with my cigarettes before taking a long pull. The mint of the menthol burned slightly on the way down.

“Come on, Mav,” I whispered to myself. “Pull your shit together. It’s just pussy.”

The nicotine mixed with the clear, open air helped bring me to my senses, and by the end of my nicotine fix, I was feeling much more myself. I was about to start my bike back up and head home to torch that folder when I heard it: the hum of a motorbike off in the distance through the trees.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I found myself dismounting my bike to go have a look. I trekked through the foliage of the woods, the humming growing louder as I pushed onward. Coming to the edge of the brush, I was able to peek through the trees to look down upon a giant dirt track.

A figure in a lime-green FOX hoodie and shredded oversized jeans whipped around the turns and navigated jumps with the utmost skill and precision.

Nicky C. The king in his element.

My eyes narrowed as I watched him round a turn and speed up, hitting a triple, leapfrogging the second jump before launching off the third. He did it all as though it was second nature.

It pained me to say it. He was a piece of shit, but he was a talented piece of shit. It almost made it worse. Nicky came from money, had a family that loved him, dominated the motocross circuit, and from what I hear he had his fucking pick of Ivy League Schools for college due to how smart he is.

All that potential and what did this shitbag do? He became a fucking drug dealer. God handed him the world on a silver platter, and he still wanted to play gangster. Stupid rich prick.

Scoffing to myself, I was just about to turn around and head back toward my bike when king dipshit overcompensated going into the S curve and wiped out. He rolled across the dirt before popping up and attempting to run off the pain.

I chuckled as he slowed, bending over with his back to me as he shook out his wrist. Guess the king is human after all. He gripped hold of his helmet and yanked it off before standing upright and… flipped a wild mane of luscious blonde locks out into the wind… because it wasn’t Nicky—it was her. My breathing hitched in my throat.

Her delicate fingers continued to shake out her hair before she reached back to fist the fabric of her hoodie and pull it up over her head. She discarded it on the ground beside her, leaving her exposed in a black sports bra, the kind with all the straps sprawling out across the back.

---