Page 42 of Boulder's Weight

He cuts me off. "Anything else I should know?"

The sedan across the street flashes through my mind.

The threatening texts.

My brother’s hunting me.

"No," I lie again. "Nothing important."

He takes a deep breath, like he's trying to calm himself.

Boulder looks at me for a long moment, disappointment evident in his eyes. "You know what the worst part is? I think you're still lying to me."

Before I can respond, he walks past me toward the door. "I've got to get back to the guys. Enjoy your shift. And never mind about dinner."

His coldness stings more than anger would have.

I watch him go, my chest aching with words I should’ve said, which honestly I’m too terrified to share.

As the door closes behind him, I lean against the wall, suddenly exhausted.

Why the fuck wasn’t I honest with him?

CHAPTERSIX

Boulder

I drum my fingers against the handlebars of my Harley as I pull up to the rundown building at the edge of Chihuahua.

I needed to clear my head, get on my bike and ride around after the shitshow that happened at CatsandJava earlier today.

The sun beats down mercilessly, making the leather of my cut stick to my back.

Sweat trickles between my shoulder blades, a constant reminder that Mexico's heat doesn't fuck around.

It’s humid as all fuck here, but back in Montana it isn’t as bad.

I spot Razor leaning against the wall, cigarette dangling from his lips, a scowl etched deep in his face.

Axel and Python are there too. Axel’s pacing like a caged animal, his tribal tattoos rippling with each movement.

Killing the engine, I swing my leg over and approach them.

Razor's expression doesn't improve when he sees me.

"What's going on?" I ask, running a hand through my sweat-dampened hair. "You got that look on your face."

Razor takes a long drag of his cigarette, then flicks it to the ground, crushing it under his boot. "Este pendejo idiota piensa que puede amenazarnos," he mutters, switching to Spanish like he often does when he's pissed. "Juro por Dios que le cortaré las pelotas y se las meteré por la garganta."

I nod, understanding most of what he said.

My Spanish has improved significantly since moving to Mexico.

One of the benefits of immersion and having a charter with some bilingual brothers, like Razor.

Six months ago, I'd have been lost in the conversation, but now I can pick up the important parts—this idiot thinks he can threaten us, and he’s going to cut off his balls and shove them down his throat.

Typical Tuesday for the club, I guess.

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