Page 3 of Property of Tacoma
The sleeping monster inside me rattles its cage, a constant reminder that it’s still there.
A curvy waitress with dark hair and a tiny outfit approaches our table, her tray balanced on one hand. “Your refills, gentlemen.” She places fresh drinks in front of each of us.
“Thanks, darlin’,” Bash says, his eyes tracking her movements appreciatively. “You new here? Don’t think I’ve seen you before.”
She smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Started last week. I’m Lydia.”
“Well, Lydia,” Bash leans forward slightly, “when do you get off tonight?”
“Depends,” she counters, batting her lashes. “You offering something worth staying up for?”
I exchange an amused glance with Bane. Bash never quits, and the women in this town never seem to learn that he’s not the settling type.
“Sweetheart, I’m offering the ride of your life,” Bash winks.
“Hmm.” She taps a manicured finger against her lips, considering. “I get off at two. Better bring your A-game, honey.”
Gator snorts. “He loves a challenge.”
She laughs, a mischievous glint in her eye. “We’ll see.”
With that, she turns and walks away.
Gator’s eyes shift to the bar and his lips turn down. “He’s here.”
The mood at our table shifts instantly. I straighten up, squaring my shoulders as I glance over at the bar.
“Look at this motherfucker,” Bane mutters under his breath.
Camden is perched on a barstool, chatting it up with one of our female bartenders. He winks at her then mops his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Looks like he’s high as a fucking kite,” I add, noting his rapid blinking and fidgety movements. “Bash, go bring our esteemed public servant over. Let’s get this shit done.”
Bash slides out of the booth, his face settling into the hard expression that’s earned him his position as Sergeant at Arms.When he reaches Camden, I watch the mayor’s ruddy face pale slightly before he plasters on a politician’s smile and follows Bash to our table.
“Gentlemen!” Camden booms as he approaches. I don’t miss the way he eyes us like we’re scum beneath his penny loafers.
Well fuck him.
He doesn’t ever have a problem taking our money.
The rat fucking bastard.
“Appreciate you meeting me on such short notice.” He might regret the expedience if I don’t like the reason for this little meeting. He’s pushing his luck. Has been for months. If he doesn’t play his cards right, this night just might end with him staring down the barrel of my forty-five.
“Sit down, Tom,” I say coolly, not bothering to stand or shake the weaselly fucker’s hand.
He slides into the booth, his breathing labored from the walk across the club. The smell of garlic and sweat wafts across the table as he settles his bulk into the seat. Up close, I can see the beads of sweat dotting his forehead and the telltale redness around his nostrils. Fucking coke head.
“So,” I begin, cutting straight to business. “What’s this pressing matter that couldn’t wait?”
Camden pulls the sweaty handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at his forehead. “Well, Tacoma, I wanted to discuss our arrangement. In private.” His eyes dart nervously to my men seated around the table.
“I’m here, Tom,” I say flatly. “It’s late and I have shit to do. How about you stop wasting my time?”
Camden shifts uncomfortably, his eyes darting around the club before leaning forward. “The thing is, expenses have gone up. The election’s coming next year, and campaigns aren’t cheap these days.”
I stare at him, my face expressionless. “And?”
