Page 6 of Atlas
By the time I get back to the club twenty minutes later, church is over, so I go into Axel’s office. “Sorry about that, Pres,” I say, and he glances up. He points to the seat in front of his desk, and I take it.
“Pit told me it was about Anita.” I nod. “She okay?”
I shrug. “She’s difficult,” I admit, and he laughs.
“Ain’t they all?”
“I told her I’d never give up on her,” I continue, “but I’m close.”
“We all have a limit, brother. You’ve put a lot of time into her. We’ve all noticed.”
“But she don’t wanna be my old lady,” I tell him, the words causing an ache in my chest. “And as much as I think deep down that she does, I can’t keep putting myself through this torture.”
Axel nods in understanding. “I get it,” he says, “and we’ll back you whatever. Hell, we’ll find a different lawyer for the club if we need to.”
I smirk. “Thanks, Pres. What did I miss?”
“There’s a new club in town,” he says, and I sit up straighter. Gangs have come and gone, we’ve made sure of that, but a new biker club? “Relax, they’re good. The president is an old friend of mine. He’s setting up and was looking for somewhere to store his shit.”
“What shit?”
“Mainly drugs,” he mutters, glancing away.
“And we’re okay with that?”
“You know I hate that side of things,” he says. “If I can pass our business their way, knowing they’re keeping it good quality like we have, I’m more than happy.” The only reason the club took on that side of things was to stop gangs running shit onto our streets. I nod in understanding. “It means we can concentrate on weapons. It’s what we’re good at.”
“And this club’s gonna run alongside us?”
He nods. “I put it to a vote in church. All voted in favour.”
“You know you have my vote, Pres. Whatever you think is good for us.”
He leans forward. “You need to lay things on the line with Anita,” he tells me, “then get your head in the game. We’re gonna be busy, and if I can send you on runs, it might help you get over her.”
I nod, pushing to stand. “I’ll talk to her.”
Anita
My head is pounding, and I groan as I feel around for my mobile phone. Once it’s in my hand, I drag it closer and force one eye open. “Shit,” I mumble, when I see it’s gone ten in the morning. I force myself to sit, grabbing the glass of water from the bedside table and gulping it down. It’s warm—fuck knows how long it’s been there—but right now, I don’t care.
I drag myself into the shower and then dress for cold weather, because standing on the football lines on a Saturday is always cold, no matter what time of year it is.
By the time I get across town to the football field Damian pinged to me yesterday, I’m very late. I sip on the black coffee I grabbed on the way here and sidle up to where Damian stands. He glances at me like I’m something he stepped in. “Late as usual,” he mutters.
“Sorry. I worked late.”
“Worked?” he questions, smirking. “Or played?”
“How’s he doing?” I ask, focusing on my thirteen-year-old son, who’s currently chasing after the ball.
“He scored two in the first half, then realised you were a no show and played shit in the second.”
I bite my tongue, something I often do around this man. “So, they’re winning?”
“No, Anita. Look at the damn board,” he snaps, nodding in the direction of the large scoreboard.
The final whistle blows a minute later, and I groan. How the hell did I sleep through my alarm?
