Page 69 of Sully

“They were all adopted,” Niro told her, giving her the soft look he usually saved for his wife and her love of animals.

“And no one wanted her?” Bonnie asked, and I swear water filled her eyes.

“Well, that’s why she’s here. Sully said he might be interested. And you.”

“He did?” she asked, looking over at me, her face a mix of hope and… accusation?

“I did,” I said, nodding.

“They’re a ten-plus year commitment,” she said.

“I know. What’s her name?” I asked Niro.

“Zima.”

“Zima?” Bonnie asked, close to laughing.

“The litter had a whole theme. Discontinued drinks. There was Tab, Surge, Slice, Orbitz. And, of course, Ecto.”

“Ecto,” she repeated.

“She might be a little young to remember Ecto Cooler, man,” I reminded Niro.

“Well, Zima. I would love to look after you while I’m here,” she said.

There was a hint of sadness in her voice I couldn’t ignore. Because she’d just met the dog but was in love with her already. That said, her living situation outside of the clubhouse hadn’t changed. And she was probably thinking it was too soon to hope for more than some casual fun weeks with me.

She then riddled Niro with about a hundred questions about her brand of food, her treat preferences, the types of toys she preferred, and her potential fears.

“She was a street dog,” Niro said, rubbing Zima’s head. “Had those babies behind a dumpster and protected the fuck outta them until a rescue came across them and drove them up to Jersey. She’s grateful for everything.”

The sad look on Bonnie’s face told me that the order of business after Niro headed out and Zima came in from a walk around the grounds was to hand Bonnie my phone and tell her to go crazy buying shit to spoil the dog.

“What’s with all the tabs?” I asked, glancing over her shoulder.

“Trying to decide between these chews and toys,” she said.

“Let me see,” I said, plucking the phone out of her hand so I could add them all to the cart. “There. Problem solved.”

“Can I ask you something?” she asked, watching me with a curious head tilt.

“Anything.”

“How much do bikers make?”

“Ha,” I said, huffing out a breath. “That’s… complicated. For most clubs, even outlaw clubs, they don’t draw any kind of income from the club. They might use their status as a club member to work other jobs. Dealing drugs, enforcing, runninggirls. But there are some clubs, like this one, that let us draw a salary. Aside from the high-ups like Fallon and Brooks, the rest of us all make the same amount. Equal pay for roughly equal work.”

“Is that why your club is so big?”

“It’s actually kind of on the small side,” I explained. “Which is how they manage to pay everyone, I guess. But, yeah, it’s why there’s a lot of interest, a lot of people who want to prospect here.”

“And all of you just work here?”

“Well, here in the clubhouse. But also… on the road too.”

“Oh, so, like, doing… stuff.”

“Stuff,” I said, smiling. “Yeah. We run guns, honey.”

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