Page 4 of Property of Max
“I did,” I say with a short nod. “Two prospects moving up to members, and five hang-arounds earning their prospect shirts.”
Spike grunts his approval, already moving on to the next detail, but I catch the weight of it. The club keeps growing, shifting, pulling in fresh blood. And here I am, still trying to remember how to breathe in the skin of a brother I’m not sure I deserve to be anymore.
“Maverick, do you still have contact with that donut-eating, badge-wearing, law-abiding pain in my ass?” Skip asks, grinning as he leans back in his chair.
Maverick shakes his head, though there’s the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, Skip. Cooper’s a friend. I talk with him often. Why is he a pain in your ass?”
“Fucker pulled me over last week because I was going a tad bit over the speed limit,” Skip says. “Even tried using your name to get out of it. When that didn’t work, I tried to pay my way out of the ticket, and when that didn’t work, I offered to fuck him.”
“And when that didn’t work?” Foster asks, grinning.
“Who says it didn’t work?” Skip shoots back, his grin wide and shameless. “Anyway, he let me off with a warning. Told me if I wanted to keep my bike, I should try driving it like I didn’t steal it.”
The table roars with laughter. Knuckles shakes his head, muttering about Skip’s mouth writing checks his ass can’t cash.Even Crusher cracks a rare smile, his fingers tapping a rhythm against the wood like he’s keeping time with the noise.
Maverick only snorts. “You’re lucky Cooper didn’t haul your ass straight to the station. He’s got patience, but not enough for you.”
“Patience?” Skip chuckles. “Pretty sure that’s not what he was showing me. More like begging…pleading.”
The laughter grows louder, easy and unbothered, the kind that comes from men who know exactly where they stand in the circle.
I laugh, too, because it’s expected, because that’s what brothers do. But the sound feels off in my throat, hollow and thin.
On the outside, I’m one of them.
On the inside, I’m still the traitor they thought I was.
“I need someone to lead the run next week,” Spike says, his tone all business. “Weapons are cleaned and ready to go. Nothing out of the ordinary. Same buyer we’ve dealt with for years.”
“I’ll do it,” I offer without hesitation.
Spike’s eyes narrow. “You’ve been on the last seven runs, brother. Take some time off. Let someone else handle this one.”
The words land heavier than they should. Is he saying that because he doesn’t trust me to lead anymore? I wouldn’t blame him if he was. While I never betrayed him, I did steal information to pay off my mother’s debts. A sin that still hangs around my neck like a chain. Truth is, if I were him, I wouldn’t trust me either.
“Ain’t got nothing better to do, brother,” I admit with a shrug, keeping my voice casual.
Spike studies me for a long moment before moving on, but the damage is already done. His doubt…or maybe just my own guilt…lingers long after the conversation shifts.
Chapter Five
Lila
“Bree, honey, go grab one of those carts while I push your uncle.”
“I can push Uncle Micah,” she offers quickly, her small hands already reaching for the chair. The earnestness in her voice makes me smile.
“Not in this one, sweetheart.” I bend a little so we’re eye level. “It’s not like the chair at home. This one’s a lot heavier and you have to control it with a handle.”
Her shoulders sag, but she nods, obedient as always, and trots off toward the line of carts. I watch her go, my hand steady on the back of Micah’s chair, and for just a moment, the weight doesn’t feel quite as heavy.
“Alright, kiddos,” I say, pushing open the door to Marv’s Market and steering Micah’s chair inside. The blast of air-conditioning washes over us, a welcome break from the summer heat. “Let’s grab what we need for a picnic and then head to the park.”
“Did you get Uncle Micah’s food?” Bree asks, glancing back at him like she’s already double-checking me.
“It’s all set,” I reassure her, patting the bag strapped to the back of his chair. “Hooked up to his G-tube and packed safely with his feeding pump. It’ll run for the rest of the day.”
Bree nods, satisfied, and skips ahead toward the produce section. I adjust my grip on the control of Micah’s chair, guiding him between displays of bright fruit and stacked boxes. The faint hum of his pump follows us, steady and constant. A reminder of the careful planning it takes just to go anywhere. But I wouldn’t trade these little trips for anything. They’re ours.
