Page 12 of O'Mega's Revenge
His eyes locked with mine. “If I could have, I’d have let you have the Heritage.”
It was just barely above a whisper. My own reply was just as soft. “I know.”
He straightened with a laugh and slapped me on the back then made a good show of trying to egg Crete into a fight. They had a good time baiting each other. Jackson and I shared a nod. It was all a game. We’d just avoided a war that no one needed.
“This calls for shots. Where’s that fancy scotch Sprout promised?”
Jackson led Nonno to the clubhouse.
As Crete passed me, he paused. “She worth it?”
I wasn’t nearly as adept as Nonno at this game yet, but I was learning. “Who?”
“The girlie with the white hair.”
“Excuse me?”
“The bitch you won from Nonno.”
“Oh, I see where you got things mixed up. That chick with the white hair? She’s with a group that grows good weed south of here. Real party chick, you know?”
“I thought she was Nonno’s. What happened to the chick in the story?”
“That bitch died. Come on, let’s get inside before Nonno drinks all the good shit.”
Law two, never put too much trust in friends. Learn how to use your enemies.I slapped Crete on the back and led him inside.
I might have told Jackson not to lie, but that didn’t stop me from doing it.
Kush was propped up against the bar, practically a puddle, but still standing. I helped him stand by wrapping one arm under his in a brotherly hug. He was weaving something fierce. I got a younger member to take him outside so he wouldn’t embarrass the club in front of our guests. Jackson lined up the drinks and poured me the last glass. Nonno lifted his glass into the air.
“Raise hell.”
“Or die trying,” we all answered back.
Twenty-three-year-old scotch wasn’t meant for slamming home in a rat hole of a biker club in the middle of a junkyard. Then again, not everything was always what it seemed. Years we’d scraped by, living low, moving stacks of cash through the strip club and tattoo parlor. But last year changed some shit. When you see six zeros behind a bank account balance, suddenly seventeen grand in pocket seems like chump change. Our little group of four men was likely worth as much money as Sprout’s wife. But not a one of us flaunted it.
Trouble is, bitches smell that shit on you.
The combination of money and power is an aphrodisiac for the kind who flocked to biker parties to get laid and paid. One such woman set her sights on our group. Where one went, others followed. Pretty soon, Nonno, Crete, and Jackson were taking turns on the mattresses. I sipped my scotch and kept a close eye on what was and wasn’t happening. Sometimes you can do both, and sometimes there’s someone hell-bent on getting in your way.
“You’re not partaking?”
The woman was a looker, I’ll give her that. She also was the conductor of this orchestra. “I notice you’re not either.”
“Business before pleasure. What is your excuse?”
“Same.”
“Liar.”
The drink I had poised at my lips hung precariously at an angle.
“What did you call me?” I used the tone I usually reserved for assholes and prospects.
“A liar. I heard you took pleasure earlier.”
That I had. Not that it was any of her business. “If you know that, then why are you being a fucking bitch about it?”
