Page 69 of Straightened Out

I stand corrected, he’s not an imbecile, he’s a fucking moron.

“How. Many. Bikers. Are. There?” I repeat, slowly annunciating each word. “You can use your fingers to count if it helps.”

“How the fuck should I know?”

“You’re useless,” I mutter and step out of the car. Pulling out a pair of sunglasses from my suit jacket, I fix them to my face and enter the bakery. I order two dozen cannoli and three pounds of rainbow cookies for Parrish and the bikers. Where I come from you don’t go anywhere empty-handed. I hope they have an espresso machine at this clubhouse or these cannoli will go to waste.

With the two boxes in hand, I make my way back to the Bianci’s truck. As soon as I open the door his gaze darts to the boxes.

“What you got there?”

“I went with the basics—cannoli and cookies.”

“Wait a minute,” he says, twisting to face me. “Where you going with those?”

I stare at him for a moment unsure what to say. He can’t be this stupid—there’s no way.

“Did you just make me stop at the bakery so you can bring Jack Parrish cannolis?” His lips quirk and my eyes nearly fall out of their sockets. I didn’t know he knew how to smile. Go figure. “Oh, this is too good,” he continues, barking out a laugh as he throws the truck into drive.

He continues to chuckle as we pull away from the curb. In fact, he doesn’t stop until we enter the gated compound belonging to the Satan’s Knights. I ignore him and take in my surroundings. There are tires and recycled scraps of metal thrown all around the lot. Two luxury buses are parked among the sea of chrome motorcycles and they sit in front of what appears to be an abandoned warehouse. There are picnic tables and a smoker that has seen better days too. All in all, this place is the fucking pits.

Bianci parks the Escalade haphazardly next to the bikes and kills the engine.

“C’mon fancy pants, grab your cookies and let’s get this shit over with.”

He slides out from behind the wheel and slams the door shut behind him. I glance down at the bakery boxes sitting on my lap and start to rethink my peace offering. Maybe cannoli wasn’t the way to go here. Judging by that smoker, I would probably have more success at winning over Parrish and his posse if I stopped at the butcher and offered them a fucking cow.

I set the boxes on top of the console and make my way out of the car. Bianci doesn’t wait for me and I find myself jogging across the parking lot to catch up. He pulls open the front door of the clubhouse and I follow him inside. I’m immediately engulfed by the scent of stale cigarette smoke and as we cross the bar area, the soles of my designer shoes stick to the floor.

“Don’t these people know what a mop is?”

Anthony doesn’t respond—I told you. Three phrases. That’s all he’s got.

He leads me down a narrow hallway and that’s when I hear the rowdy bunch known as the Satan’s Knights. Bianci pauses in front of a closed door. I wait for him to knock, but he just opens it and strides through, leaving me in the fucking hallway.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite brother-in-law,” someone sing-songs from inside the room.

“Don’t recall you marrying my sister,” Bianci grunts.

Oh, look, more words. There’s hope.

“Made her my Kitten, Bianci, that shit is worth more than my given name,” the other guy responds. Before Bianci can get add another word to his limited vocabulary, another voice sounds. It’s deep and menacing.

“You’re late. Any particular reason?”

That’s my cue.

I straighten my shoulders and slide one hand into my pants pocket as I make my way inside the room. My gaze shoots past Bianci, to the long wooden table and the men gathered around it. Picture the last supper only the apostles are dressed in leather and instead of bread and wine, they’re passing blunts.

Very biblical.

“What’s he doing here?” the man at the head of the table growls.

I don’t need to look at his name patch to know he’s Jack fucking Parrish or more commonly known on the streets as Bulldog.

“Parrish,” I clip. My eyes sweep around the table. “Gentlemen.” It’s a stretch—a far one—but my options are limited.

“That’s a first. Don’t recall the last time anyone called any of us gentlemn,” the man with the grizzly beard scoffs.

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