Page 175 of Rebellious

Christopher considered walking away. But Zoann was pregnant. Val deserved the big payout, even if he’d split it with Torrin. It was an unfortunate fluke that Val rarely acted as lead on the big deals, although Johnnie and his motherfuckers couldn’t cry conflict of interest.

Besides, the club, his family, flew too close to the sun. If they constantly fucked with fire, it would eventually burn them.

They’d all end up with payouts. The clubs. The individual members. The family. It was a lot of fucking money. Enough to start on the infrastructure in McKay. Enough for the Death Dwellers to start fresh, away from prying eyes.

Hart waved his hand to indicate his expansive office. “This isn’t good enough for you.”

“This…isn’t—” he remembered at the last minute, “—secure enough for me.” He lifted his eyes toward the ceiling. “Cameras.”

Surprise crossed Hart’s face, but then he smiled. “You’re always this suspicious?”

Christopher glowered at him.

Hart raised his hand. “Fine. Where to?”

“In the wooded area, ten minutes from here,” Christopher answered, certain that even the exterior of the building had cameras.

“Didn’t I tell you I had a board meeting?”

“I ain’t givin’ a good fuck,” Christopher said, fed-up. He wasn’t getting a bad feeling per se. It just wasn’t fucking good. “I had shit to do today, too. You called my ass outta the fuckin’ blue and I dropped everyfuckinthing to get here.”

“You must need me—”

“Need and want two different fuckin’ things,” Christopher interrupted.

“Indeed.” Hart made an arc of his hand. “After you.”

Hand at his side where his gun was holstered, Mortician turned, placing himself in front of Christopher, prepared to take the first shot if it came to that and he wasn’t fast on the draw. Still not completely trusting Hart, Christopher kept his hand on his holstered gun, too. Hart was directly behind him. The motherfucker could always shoot him in the back.

But, no. They made it down without harm. While they mounted up, Hart got into an Aston Martin. Motherfucker insisted on showing off the car’s speeding ability. Christopher let the peacock preen, though he wasn’t riding his Touring bike. He was on his single-saddle motorcycle with ape hangers and speed, so he could’ve easily caught up.

They arrived at the same time. Christopher sped ahead of the Aston, guiding him to where he wanted to meet, a clearing off the main road, then he dismounted and signaled to Val, Mort, and Stretch to cut their engines.

“Pat him down, Mort.”

Exiting his car, Hart looked around, met Mortician’s gaze, protesting mightily when he had to strip down to his wife beater and tightie whities.

“Maybe I should’ve brought security,” Hart said.

“I don’t have a reason to fuck you up,” Christopher said, flicking the cigarette he’d lit while Mort searched for weapons and hidden cameras. “If I did, ain’t bringin’ you out in the woods. Ima shoot the fuck outta you and then dispose your body.” He thrust his chin a little distance away. He’d give the rundown on the meeting but men like Hart wouldn’t want details discussed in the open. “Walk with me.”

Hart swallowed, glanced at Mortician, Val, and Stretch, then nodded.

“Don’t mention my club to no fuckin’ body,” Christopher ordered once enough distance was between them and the other three. “When you talk to motherfuckin’ Bash, tell him your deal with him fell through so his services no longer needed.”

“Done.”

Christopher dug in his jacket pocket. “Ima send you a new burner every week. More if I think shit’s sketchy. Don’t fuckin’ text me. Don’t give out the fuckin’ numbers to nofuckinbody. If I ain’t answerin’, sit your fuckin’ ass down and wait until I call back.” He held the phone out to Hart. “Hear me?”

Nodding, Hart took the phone and glanced at his suit, laying on the hood of his car. “I suggest we each make one call a week. One of us at the beginning and the other at the end. No more than five minutes. If we have more to discuss, we should meet.”

“Not at your fuckin’ office and not at my clubhouse. I’ll send you directions to an old farmhouse. We meet there.”

“As long as I can bring my guys.”

“As long as you know, we’ll shoot the fuck outta you if you make one wrong move.”

Hart smiled. “This isn’t a low-grade operation. This is military hardware. Thousands of individual units. You don’t want your club identified? I don’t want my hands dirty.”