Page 3 of Property of Indiana

I spit into the drain and step back under the spray, washing away the foam from my lips. Turning the nozzle, the shower shuts off and I grab my towel. As I dry, I lean toward the door and listen for any movement. When there is none, I swing it open and let the steam billow out so I don’t feel like I’m in a sauna.

“Good, the bitch listened,” I mutter, then dress. After I’m fully dressed outside of my boots and cut, I comb my hair and use my beard oil to maintain it and make it shine. I have issues with keeping the hair on my face hydrated so I sought out a local hairdresser who recommended this routine, and since I’ve started, my shit looks healthy instead of raggedy. I was catching shit from some of the brothers about becoming high maintenance until they saw the results. Now several of them have started using product on theirs as well. Fuckers.

The second my ass hits my mattress to lace up my boots, there’s a pounding on my door. “Yo, Indiana?”

“Door’s unlocked, LoneStar,” I state, letting him know he can come in without verbalizing it.

“Wasn’t sure if it was a one or two girl kind of night for you and didn’t want to walk in on you if you were busy,” LoneStar smirkingly says as he walks into my room. “That one bitch that walked out of your room was cussing you up one side and down the other. She was not a happy camper.”

“Stupid bitch did nothing but complain once I told her to kick rocks,” I gripe. “There needs to be some sort of rule book passed out to them when they come to party.”

“Some of them are so damn ditzy I wonder if they can read,” he teases. “There are rules set in place and they’re made aware of them at the beginning of the night. Maybe they should have to sign something beforehand.”

“If they can’t read, what makes you think they can write?” I counter.

“Good point,” he parries. “We make it clear that they’re here for nothing more than to have a good time and scratch an itch. They all come in with stars in their eyes hoping to land themselves an old man.”

“I’m not on the market,” I say, sighing. “Maybe I should tattoo that on my forehead.”

“That’d be a fashion statement,” he snickers. “I don’t think I’ll be jumping on that bandwagon.”

Shaking my head, I stand and grab my cut from the back of the chair, and as I slide it over my shoulders, I ask, “What did you stop by for?”

“The Harley shop called and our order is in. Pres said you’re the one who’s listed as the signature to pick it up, so you get to head to the mall,” he enthuses.

“Fucking hell. Isn’t today the start of that tax free shopping shit? That damn place is going to be packed with screaming kids and parents getting pissed and screaming at the top of their lungs trying to wrangle them in,” I moan.

It’s not like I hate kids, because I don’t. I’m more ambivalent toward them seeing as I don’t plan to ever have an old lady and therefore, kids are not in my future. So, to willingly go to thefucking mall where they’re going to be virtually everywhere has my head already pounding.

“Uh huh,” he says, nodding his head. “Sure is.”

“I’m going to jail,” I mutter. “Have my bail money ready because I’m gonna knock some dad’s teeth down his throat.”

“Is that a prediction?” LoneStar asks, smirking.

“Fuck you, asshole. Keep that shit up and I’ll volunteer you to go with me,” I taunt.

“Nope, sorry. I have to head to the underground bunker and see who’s mummified enough so we can burn them to ashes,” he informs me. He’s full of shit, we burn those fuckers after a fresh kill, they don’t need to be fossilized to hit our furnaces.

“I can call the Harley shop and put your name on the approved list, we could switch,” I offer.

“No thanks, I prefer the dead to the living,” he rebuffs. “They don’t talk back.”

“Who’s my partner then?” I ask, pushing my keys and wallet into my jean pockets.

“Icer,” he tells me.

“Forget jail, I’m going straight to the death chamber,” I snort. The thing about Icer is he mentally has no capacity for bullshit. You look at him sideways and he’ll pull his piece and shoot you between the eyes and walk over your body whistling. Nothing satisfies him more than a dead body at his feet.

“He’s chill today,” LoneStar advises.

“Oh, yeah? Did somebody roofie him or something?” I inquire.

“Pres gave him a happy pill.” He smiles, looking awfully proud of himself.

“You slipped it in his coffee, didn’t you?”

“Absofuckinglutely,” he answers, grinning. “When his name came up as it being his turn, we knew we needed to take precautions.”

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