Page 7 of Biker's Enemy

“What have you got?”

He pulls out a binder of pretty legit looking documents. I glance through them, but it doesn’t take me long to figure out what he wants us to get invested in.

“This might be legal, but it’s goddamn dangerous, Hunter. And un-Christian.”

“When the fuck was the last time you went to church?”

“My mama is going to make my life a living hell if I invest in a titty bar.”

“It’s not just a titty bar,” Hunter says. “We’re also gonna sell shrimp.”

“What does your old lady think about that idea?” I ask him.

“She hates it,” he says. “That’s why I need you to run it.”

I laugh. Hunter ought to get back to drinking if these are the brilliant thoughts he comes up with outside of liquor’s influence.

“I’m not running a titty bar.”

“Fine,” Hunter says. “Then get some lazy ass Hollingsworth to come up here from Texas and run it for us. I don’t give a shit. Fact of the matter is, I crunched the numbers and the last three around here… all the girls got deported.”

Running a strip club is far too much work. Deportations mean potential border control involvement and other bullshit if anything goes wrong. We can find money elsewhere. Hunter gives me the most serious look. This ‘legal’ business venture is already beginning to sound like far too much trouble.

“Is there a reason you want to get into this business?” I say.

“Why the fuck else?” He snaps. “Money.”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Yes, money. The Hollingsworth family has always had enough of it since investing in gas stations along the old Route 66 highway and our whiskey distillery that produces Hollingsworth whiskey and other products, not like that ever stopped any of us from looking for the opportunity for more. I just didn’t think Hunter Sinclair was hurting for cash.

“Didn’t think you needed any.”

He gives me a dark look and then lowers his voice as if his old lady might pop out from around the corner at any minute.

“This is about Wyatt. We need $750,000 for the Rebel’s but… I have personal matters to attend to. I need another $100k on top of that.”

These motherfuckers spend money like it’s going out of style and they don’t have the head for figures to keep up with the expenses. The Sinclairs are at least a little better than the Shaws.

“A strip club isn’t going to get you $100 grand quickly,” I try to explain. These kinds of things take time.

Hunter’s face darkens again. “I know.”

“I see.”

“You don’t have to be involved in the other business.”

“Drugs are risky,” I respond, perfectly interpreting Hunter’s insinuation. Running drugs out of your own club is the perfect combination of risky and smart, but it’s the kind of business you can get away with in your twenties. I don’t know if Hunter really wants to risk jail with his wife and baby at home.

“I know,” he says, taking a sip of Dr. Pepper that looks almost wistful. “But Juliette’s pregnant again. And she’s having twins.”

Fuck.

I don’t have to say the cuss word out loud. My face says it all. That’s the thing about being born red, you never get the privilege of hiding your emotions. My cheeks are always quick to match the color of my hair.

Hunter tries to hide his emotions, although I can see how complicated this is for him. Bringing twins into the world on top of Mackenzie might be tough if he keeps up the habit of bailing out Southpaw’s stupid ass.

“What if we come up with a better idea?”

“A legal idea?”

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