Page 106 of Kings Against the World

“The ex-wife?” Ozzie guesses. “Or the kiddos?”

“Neither. The Road Rebels. This is Rollins’s number.”

Ozzie and I glance at each other as Silver answers. We aren’t privy to the words being spoken, but reading Silver’s ever-shifting expression tells us it’s nothing good. He holds his phone to his ear as he takes a couple steps back and forth.

“You know what the bylaws state,” he growls. “If you do break them, there will be consequences.”

More listening.

He pauses to let Rollins say whatever he needs to say on the other end, then clenches his jaw.

“We need some assurances you’ll keep your word. Neutral turf. You and your rank only.”

The conversation goes on for several more seconds until Silver hangs up hardly looking pleased. Ozzie’s arm disappears from where he’s kept it swathed over my shoulders. He’s too focused on Silver, edging forward out of curiosity.

“What’s up? What’d he say?”

Silver sighs, scrubbing a hand across his jaw. “Wheels wants to meet. Our club and his to talk out how we’re going to cohabitate the county. He says it’s a peace offering. Negotiations like the clubs used to do.”

“Yeah, how many decades ago? There might’ve been peace in your and Cutty’s day, but after all the shit that’s happened? All they pulled just last year with Velma and his nephew? They can’t be trusted!”

“Nate Rollins is probably the last person on this earth that I trust. But talks with other clubs are part of our existence. We’ll meet up with them… with some backup in case things go south. Tomorrow night.”

The next twenty-four hours pass in a blur, a strange mixture of routine and unpredictability. I spend the night with Ozzie in his trailer, calling back to our time together in Vegas. We fall into an effortless routine, like we’ve done this a dozen times before.

Our time together is full of late-night passion and then conversation in the dark as we lay in bed, voices low and bodies relaxed. Moments ago, we were ravenous, devouring each other for the first time in months.

But that’s how it happens with us—we explode and then collide.

I thought we’d break Ozzie’s bed as he contorted my long limbs into different shapes and his dick sunk deep. I rode him to climax and then he ate me out like my juicy pussy was the finest delicacy.

We sucked on each other’s tongue and moaned at how good we tasted.

As we fade off to sleep, I realize this kind of natural chemistry is what’s always been missing from my relationships and short trysts. This kind of simple ease from the rest of my life.

He’s warm and solid, stretching like a lazy cat when he wakes up, mumbling something half intelligible about how he likes the morning view. His gaze is set on me as he says this, the sleepy smile he gives making me laugh in a bashful way.

We make breakfast together—Ozzie handling the eggs while I brew the coffee—and the domesticity of it is unexpectedly soothing. It’s a slow start to the day that I could get used to.

The rest of the morning into the afternoon is spent at the armory, cleaning, inspecting, and rationing weapons in preparation for tonight’s meeting with the Road Rebels. Once again, Ozzie and I slip into a partnership that flows, complementing each other as if by design.

He makes the most mundane tasks entertaining, cracking jokes while we disassemble and reassemble assault rifles in order to clean and inspect them, making me laugh even when I try to stay focused. He asks about my time as an FBI agent, wanting to hear my craziest stories, and I give in, recounting a stakeout gone wrong that ended with me dressed as a caterer just to get out of a high-end gala undetected by the drug cartel members in attendance. He tells me how impressive I am, shaking his head like he can’t believe the things I’ve done.

As night falls, the rest of the Kings filter in to collect their weapons and ammo, each one checking and loading up for what’s to come. Silver gathers everyone around and lays out the plan. He and a small group—Cash, Tito, and a few others—will head out first for the peace negotiations with Rollins and the Road Rebels. Mason and another group will be lurking in the wings, armed and ready in case things go sideways. If the Rebels decide to go back on their word, they won’t make it out without consequences.

The atmosphere is tense but purposeful. Everyone knows their role. One by one, the bikes roar to life, headlights cutting through the night as the group disappears down the road. The only ones left behind at the club are me, Ozzie, Mick, and a couple of others, including a man nicknamed Mudd and another with sheets of greasy hair known as Johnny Flanagan. With the club feeling strangely empty, Ozzie and I decide to take a break from the armory and head to the bar for drinks and something to eat.

I settle at the counter, watching as the club owner, Mick, polishes a glass with slow, methodical movements. He’s an older man, reminding me of a grandpa of sorts, with heavy white brows and kind eyes. He casts me a sideways look from behind the counter.

“So, Ozzie finally pulled a catch like you,” he says, whistling. “I never thought I’d see the day—and at my age, I’ve seen a hell of a lot of days.”

I chuckle, caught off guard, warmth creeping up my neck. “Oh… uh… that’s one way to describe it.”

“Don’t gotta say nothing, darling. I’ve been at this club long enough to know a match when I see one.”

“Are you a member yourself?”

“You kidding? This old man?” he laughs. “The only value I could provide is keeping the beer and liquor flowing, which is exactly what I do. Here’s your Texas tea.”

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