Page 37 of Jasper
Suddenly, Tessa is not just some surrogate, carrying my baby. She’s the one I want in my bed.
She’s lining up another shot, with one eye squinted like it’ll help her aim better. The cue angles awkwardly under her fingers, but she’s trying.
I’m about to step in, hand at her back, ready to guide her grip when movement catches my eye. Onyx appears in the opendoorway across the bar, his shoulders squared, and he jerks his chin at me. Something’s up and he wants me to come.
I straighten. “Hey,” I say, quiet now. “I need to go take care of something. Can you give me a few?”
She looks intently up at me, trying to read my expression, no doubt. The flirtatious mood has evaporated, and she can see that.
“Club business?” she asks.
I nod, feeling like she’ll be fine on her own for a few minutes. “I won’t be too long.”
She doesn’t push for information or complain about being left on her own. She accepts what I’m telling her, gives me a nod once, and lays her stick across the table. “Sure. I’m a big girl. I can handle being on my own for a bit.”
I want to kiss her temple or say something soft to keep the warmth between us. But I don’t, because she’s not mine to worry over that way—not yet anyway. Once she agrees to be mine—instead of just being my surrogate—I’ll do all that and more.
As I walk away, I feel myself transition from being a brother on a date to being the VP of the Sons of Rage MC. It happens clean, fast, and automatically. One second, I’m a man teasing a woman I want in my bed. The next, I’m the VP of a one-percent club with a potential threat on the horizon and a table full of officers waiting for answers.
We don’t talk club business with our women. Not because we don’t trust them, but because once they know too much, they’re involved. And selfishly? We don’t want them to see the ugly part up close. So, I keep the two worlds separate and locked down.
When I push through the door into our meeting room, all of that softness stays behind me.
***
Once we’re all settled down at the table, a short silence spins out in the room. Something must be up because Rock doesn’t usually call church at such short notice. Onyx closes the laptop, his fingers drumming once against the lid. Mica leans forward now, finally serious. Slate hasn’t moved since he sat down, but he’s watching me closely. All three of them are. Our old man strolls in last and takes his seat at the head of the table.
We established early on that this situation with the Hyenas was my chance to show him I’m ready to take over the role of Prez when he steps down. I asked for more responsibility, and he gave it. My old man taught me long ago that you don’t get to wear the patch and not carry the weight.
I slowly come to my feet and jerk my chin at Onyx. “So what’s happened? You got some info?”
Onyx doesn’t waste any time getting to the heart of the matter. He turns the laptop towards us. The first image up is a grainy but clear mugshot.
“This is Leo Marquez,” he states flatly. “The Hyenas’ president. Fucker’s not local. He’s from Aberdeen, Texas. He came west about eight months ago. No one in our network recognized him, which is why he slipped under the radar this long.”
“Texas?” Onyx repeats. “That’s a hell of a reach.”
“It gets worse,” Onyx continues, flipping to the next tab. “This is his rap sheet. It’s long. Arrests include assault, weapons violations, suspected trafficking. None of it stuck, but he isdefinitely a well-connected career criminal. We ran him through old DEA bulletins and found a match. He’s connected, loosely, to a violent gang with cartel connections. They’ve been laundering cash through freight companies down near Laredo.”
“Cartel?” Slate says, voice low.
“Yeah. Marquez’s name came up in connection with two separate cases. Both fizzled out, but his name stuck to them.”
I lean in closer, reading the scanned police reports. “What about their money?”
Onyx switches tabs again. Bank records. Diagrams. A red string map made digital.
“Most of their incoming cash for the past year has been money orders. All processed in the same bank, different names, always from addresses along the Texas-Mexico corridor.”
“That’s not small time,” I say.
“It’s not,” he agrees. “But now those money orders have dried up. Last two months, we’ve seen the shift.”
He clicks again. A shot of a printed invoice with the company name Verde Cement & Paving. The signature line is blank.
“They’re creating fake work orders,” Onyx continues. “For cement jobs, lot grading, concrete repairs—only the labor never happens. They bill for it. The backers pay them for a job on paper. The club launders the payment through that shell business.”
“How did you find all this?” I ask.
