Page 13 of Outlaws of Tulsa

Eye for an eye, asshole.

Randall Michael Putnam, Jr.

I pause on Putnam to go on a hunt for his son. He’s twenty-one now. High school dropout. Last known address in New Orleans. I locate his son’s mother, a woman named Lydia who overdosed on methamphetamines when the kid was three. Putnam was an abusive fucker, but it never landed him any prison time. Just in and out of jail. When he got caught fucking with some girls, he went to the pen in Huntsville, Texas. Then, his son bounced around foster homes until he ran away for good at age twelve. Or was kidnapped. Putnam’s release date lines up with the son going missing.

Putnam doesn’t have any bank accounts or anything legal tied to his name, so the paper trail grows semi-cold. But hopefully the guys can come up with more.

“Hey, Prez,” a feminine voice purrs from my office doorway.

Stormy.

I let out a sigh and close out of what I was looking at before turning in my seat to regard her. She looks like a total slut today in her short shorts and fitted tank that dips low, nearly showing her nipples that are poking through the fabric. Her long blond hair hangs in waves in front of her shoulders and her red lips have been painted up.

“Hey,” I grunt out.

“You seen Filter?”

“He’s busy.”

She pouts and prances into my office like it’s her goddamn right. Stormy has gotten too damn comfortable around here. Whereas the guys all live on the compound because we’re a fucking family—Stormy overstays her welcome, shacking up with Filter like she’s his old lady.

“Whatcha workin’ on?”

“Cut the shit, Stormy. What do you want?”

Her lips part in shock at my tone. “Who says I want something?”

I glower at her, not in the fucking mood for games.

“Fine, I need money. Filter always gives me some when I need to buy stuff, but I can’t find him and he’s not answering his phone.”

“How much do you need?”

“Not much.”

I pull out my wallet and drop it on the desk. I’ve got about five hundred on me.

“Six grand is all,” she says, shrugging.

Excuse the fuck out of me. “Six grand? What the hell do you need six grand for?” I bellow. “I fucking feed your ass, clothe your ass, and put a roof over your ass.”

She flinches. “No need to get all pissy, Koyn. I just thought you’d have it is all.”

“Of course I have it, goddammit. But I’m not handing it over without you telling me what the fuck it is you need it for.”

“Boobs. These are ugly.” She squeezes her tits through her tank and bites on her bottom lip.

I whip open my wallet and toss a hundred at her. “Go buy a fucking bra. There. Problem solved. Now get the hell out of my office.”

Her face burns red, but she snatches up the bill before stomping off. I stop her with a sharp bark of her name. She turns around and glares icily at me.

“The Royal Bastards are not a fucking bank,” I growl. “If I ever catch you taking advantage of any of these guys—especially Filter—I will make you apastproblem, Stormy. You can be the bottom of Keystone Lake’s problem. You feel me?”

She swallows hard. “Yeah, I feel you.”

“Get the fuck out of my sight.”

I need a goddamn cigarette.

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