Page 63 of Judge's Mercy

“Ryder shouldn’t be left alone that long. I’ll cat-sit.”

“Fine, but this isn’t going to be like the other times. I can’t—I mean, we shouldn’t—” She stutters, and it’s adorable.

“You trying to tell me you won’t want to have sex tomorrow night?”

“How is it so easy for you to just say whatever you’re thinking?”

“Practice.” I grab one of her fries and walk to the door. “And as far as me not fucking you tomorrow night, we’ll just see about that.”

After taking a long ride to clear my head, I pull into the parking lot of Dope, the weed shop the club owns and Bones operates. The club doc is who I’d say I’m closest with out of all my brothers, though I’ve been a shit friend as of late, too busy taking care of my hissing kitten, and I don’t mean Ryder. Bones won’t care, though. He never does, mostly because he’s always high and loses track of time, but also because he’s just cool as hell that way.

The skunky, pungent scent gets stronger the closer I get to the entrance of the shop. Doc says he doesn’t even notice it anymore, but I don’t know how because it nearly knocks me to the ground each time I come and see him here.

“Hey, man,” I say to Tobi, a prospect who spends a lot of time guarding the shop. It’s boring as fuck, but that’s what prospects are for—to do all the shit none of us want to do.

“Hey.”

“Have you been hitting the gym?” I squeeze his bicep playfully. Being twice his age makes me feel more like a parent to most of the prospects. Laughing, he gives me a shove that’d get him in trouble with the other guys, but they’re the bad cops, and I’m the good one.

“Could you tell, really? Or were you just playin’?” he calls out as I walk away. “’Cause you can catch me at the gym every day now.”

I laugh, not answering because I know it’ll drive him crazy. There are a couple regular employees behind the counter helping customers and one I haven’t met before who is cleaning the glass case. She has long, pin-straight strawberry-blonde hair, is tall and willowy, and has more freckles than I’ve ever seen on a person. There’s no doubt she’s beautiful but in a very hippie way. She’s wearing a crocheted vest over a long, flowy cream dress that hides any shape she might have.

“Let me guess.” She holds a finger to her bottom lip. “You’re Judge.”

“Not a guess when I’m basically wearing a name tag.” I point to my patch, grinning.

“Okay, yes, but even without it, I would’ve known. Bones talks about you all the time.”

“Where is the bastard, anyway?”

“Office.”

“Thanks.” I walk behind the counter and down the hall, past fire-safe rooms that house Doc’s weed, until I reach an open door with smoke billowing out. I wave a path through the door, finding him kicked back, a fat blunt between his fingers. “You’re not supposed to smoke inside.”

“I deserve this shit. It’s been a day, brother.” He takes a long drag, ducking his chin as he holds it in for long seconds before blowing it out in a cloudy haze. It cracks me up that Navy and Tinleigh call him Jesus Biker. I guess I can understand because of his long hair, beard, and tall, slim build, but he has multiple facial piercings and is always smoking weed. Add in the fact that there’s no way Jesus was a white dude, and I’m pretty sure none of Doc’s traits are Christ-like.

“What happened?” I take a seat on the comfy sofa opposite his desk.

“DPBH showed up for an annual inspection without notice.”

“Shit. Everything go okay?”

“Yeah. Had my asshole puckered up tight, though.” He drops the blunt into a glass doob tube and pops the cap on it. “You look like you’ve been clenching too. What’s up?”

“Just haven’t seen you in a while. How’s the crop going?” I ask, knowing Bones loves to talk about his new venture. He petitioned the county to get a grower’s license recently and now has a grow facility out back. Most cannabis these days is grown under grow lights, but Bones has a vision. He’s using organic soil and mostly all-natural light to grow his flowers. It’s a high-tech yet back-to-basics approach that attracts enthusiasts from all over for tours and to try his product.

“It’s awesome. We’re yielding more bud than we anticipated and are going to start making our own edibles.”

“We, huh?” I lift my brows. The club owns Dope, but Bones staked his claim, and we leave him to it. I help him out when he needs it, but mostly, it’s him and the prospects who keep this place going. At least until he got the grower’s license. That required a couple new employees he bitches nonstop about. “Meaning you and that flower child out there?”

“She’s sweet, huh?” He grins.

“You’re fucking your employee?”

He hushes me, getting up to shut the door. “Shut the fuck up. The whole place doesn’t need to know my business.” Sitting back down, his grin returns. “But to answer your question, hell yeah, I am. She’s a yogi, so I can bend her body into any shape I want. It makes up for the hair.”

“Hair?” I ask, amused.

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