Page 7 of Loving Smoke

I might as well get what I had to say out of the way now. “And it’s all my fault, I get it.”

“Nah, not really what I was thinking. I was your VP and yeah the last few months you were a little preoccupied with the Princess of La Jolla, but I could’ve and obviously should’ve done a deeper dive on that fuckin’ prospect.”

“Princess of La Jolla, that’s a good one.”

“That’s what we used to call her at the clubhouse. We could never understand how a roughed-up bastard like you landed that rich bitch.”

I threw back my shoulders and pointed to my dick. “Had to be my beauty and my big dick.” I smirked around my words, cause although many women were addicted to my dick, I was no beauty. My nose had been broken too many times in the cage, and I had a scar along my jawline thanks to a bar fight in my teens. Yet, Blood was right; women liked my roughed-up, edgy look. For Tamara, the La Jolla bitch, I was nothing more than a walk on the wild side, but I didn’t care cause she loved to fuck.

Blood turned to face me. “It pisses me the fuck off Crank got over on us, and believe me if I ever see his ass again, he’s gonna know why they call me Blood.”

“Yeah, I’ve had fantasies about smoking his ass too, but if I hadn’t been thinking with my dick it never would’ve happened.”

“Just want you to know, I don’t hold it against you, and I take half the blame.” Blood held out his fist and we tapped knuckles. “Now, no more bullshit. I’m dead tired and we got a lot of work ahead of us.”

I made a show out of unpacking my duffel cause Blood’s words meant more than I was able to express. I’d learned at an early age to keep my feelings hidden, but sometimes they surfaced at the weirdest fuckin’ times.

3

ONE MONTH LATER

I sat down at what had become my usual table in the club. A raised section off to the side which gave me a perfect view of the whole room including the stage where the girls danced. We called it our VIP section and charged more for the booze and private seating. For some reason people loved to feel like they were getting something special when in reality they were getting screwed with premium prices for everyday booze.

I shortened the name to The Tropics, and an hour ago, they hung the multi-colored LED sign outside with cool script lettering and flashing palm trees. It was finally all coming together, but the last month was a combination shit-show and hard fuckin’ work.

I’d hired a local contractor Ricky suggested to rip apart the old place from the inside out. After some fast talking and a little begging, which pissed me the fuck off, I bled some money out of Jameson. The Bastards were a national club with chapters all over the U.S. so when he started to give me a hard time I called bullshit. He tried to throw my past at me, but I countered with the reason he wanted me here in the first place—to connect with Sandoval. And what better way to connect with the head of the cartel than to piss him off by changing shit up.

If you’re starting to see a common theme here, you’re right—I have a habit of pissing people off. It started at a young age when I realized if I didn’t fight for what I wanted I got shit. Then as a cage fighter and member of the Bastards pissing people off and playing out of the box paid off—until it didn’t, but old habits are hard to break and in the end Jameson decided to fund the renovation.

I had them gut the place right down to the disgusting kitchen that housed armies of roaches and grease traps that hadn’t ever been cleaned. When they pulled out the stove and griddle Blood almost dry heaved at the dead rats rotting underneath. I felt like the guy on Bar Rescue who helps bar owners revive their business. Only difference was, this was my place and I couldn’t walk away when the job was over. I was here for the long haul so if I had to be here shit was gonna go my way.

I may be a one-percenter, outlaw biker who is a dog with women, but one thing I can’t tolerate is dirt, clutter, or anything resembling the crappy foster homes I grew up in years ago. The brothers ragged me about being OCD and all kinds of other shit but I didn’t care. Even back in San Diego I had the club girls clean my rooms once, sometimes twice a week, so there was no fuckin’ way I could live or work in this vermin infested bar.

I put Blood in charge of hiring the new staff, since we were only able to keep a handful of the old workers. As I guessed the first day, most of them were tweakers and some were outright addicts doing lines on their makeup tables. I even caught one shooting up in the ladies’ room. No fuckin’ way was that happening and it had nothing to do with my high moral character. Addicts couldn’t be trusted. They’d steal from you, lie, and even sell their mother for a high and I had not the time or the patience for that bullshit. I wasn’t running a rehab facility. In fact, I hoped to get this place up and operating at a profit, make my connections with Sandoval and maybe in a few months be back in the States and back in the good graces of my national prez.

So far, Blood hired a much better quality of workers both male and female, plus Blood wasn’t swayed by pouty lips or big tits. He was hard-ass all the way and never let pleasure interfere with business. It worked out well. I basically stayed in the office and took care of the delivery invoices, shipments of liquor, and the bills that followed.

Not my favorite job, but it had to be done, and it kept me busy and away from the staff. Namely, the female staff as I vowed to stay far the fuck away from any of them. A few of them already approached me thinking they could go through me to get to Blood, but I shut them down real fuckin’ quick making it clear they were to report to Blood only.

This was the last stop for me on a long shitty road, and there was no way I was letting a bitch or my traitorous dick get in the way.

“Place looks amazing, boss.” Ricky sat down in the chair next to me. His knowledge of the locals and the language proved invaluable. Plus, the kid loved to work. No job too big or too small. The construction crew he suggested was somehow related to him, and I was starting to believe Ricky was related to most of the town.

“Anything would be better than what was here.” I sipped at the club soda and lemon I nabbed from the newly fitted bar equipped with soda guns that actually worked and beer taps that weren’t clogged with shit. I cut way back on my day drinking and kept my eyes on the workers making sure the renovation went as planned.

“I was thinking.” Ricky pointed to my cut. “How do I get one of those vests?”

“First of all, it’s a cut. Secondly, you don’t just get it you have to earn it.”

“How?”

I cocked my head not quite sure if he was serious. “You gotta prospect.”

“What word means prospect? I don’t understand.”

“Prospect is . . . Someone who works to earn their colors.”

“Colors?”

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