Page 96 of Thug

“Maybe you weren’t paying attention when I said they haven’t spoken in ten fucking years,” I barked. “She thinks he’s a bigger piece of shit than we do.”

He glanced around, hoping for support. “They’re still blood.”

It was an argument I was hoping I didn’t have to make. I looked at Swag. “Hey, Brother Swag. How long has it been since you talked to your Pops?”

He spit out a laugh. “I ain’t good at math,” he said. “But I was sixteen last time I spoke to the that prick. Why?”

My mind raced to find another example. My eyes shot to Chin. “Brother Chin. Last time you talked to your brother?”

“Peter?” He scowled. “I don’t have anything to say to that prick. You know that.”

“But wait,” I said in a sarcastic tone. “Aren’t you two blood?”

“Blood or not, he fucked my girlfriend,” he responded, seeming annoyed that I asked. “Everybody here knows that. Thanks for reminding me, by the way. Asshole.”

I surveyed the group of men. “Forty years on this earth, and I’ve never had an Ol’ Lady. The fact that I trust her enough to let her in my life speaks for itself. She keeps me calm, causes me to think things through, and gives me a reason to be level-headed in my decisions. She’s good for me. In turn, she’s good for the club. You don’t have to accept her, I know that. I’m asking that you consider it.”

“Pig Pen starts nosing around this clubhouse, and I’ll have that prick digging his own grave,” Brisco said. “I’ll go on the record saying I ain’t got a problem with this gal. Just so everyone knows.”

“Me, neither,” Carp said.

Keto looked at Brisco like he’d uttered a blasphemous statement. “But you’re the one that—”

“I made a mistake,” Brisco said. He puffed his chest. “Man enough to admit it, too.”

“She’s good people in my book,” Gunny said.

“I’m with Gunny,” Shady chimed.

“Who gives a fuck if she’s Pig Pen’s daughter?” Pike asked, looking at Keto as he spoke. “Like Price said earlier, she’s been around 1%ers her whole life. Hell, half the men here would have spilled their guts if Chivo was waving a piece at ‘em while they were diggin’ a grave. I say she’s proven herself.”

I raised my clenched fist, hoping to silence the men. When the side conversations and whispering came to a halt, I cleared my throat. “She’s going to be my Ol’ Lady either way, but to save time and get you men back to whatever you were doing, let me ask this. Instead of waiting for endorsements, does anyone have a problem with her? With this? Now’s the time to speak up.”

The silence that followed was music to my ears.

I struggled to keep from smiling. “Meeting adjourned.”

25

Gray

The twisting and turning two-lane road carved into the side of the mountain was ridiculously narrow. There was no shoulder to pass. A wrong move to the left would assure a collision with oncoming traffic. To the right, a treacherous fall off the side of a steep cliff.

My ponytail whipped in the wind. I peered to the right. Upon seeing the thousand foot drop off, I looked away. At nearly two million acres and having a dozen mountain ranges with peaks as high as 11,000 feet, Coronado National Forest was a place that we would likely never be found if such an accident occurred. If someone did happen to witness the catastrophe, there was no doubt a helicopter would be required to recover our remains.

I found the ride relaxing. We’d been on the road for nearly three hours on a motorcycle that was equipped with no suspension. The only shock absorbers were our asses and spines, which were compressing with each pothole we hit. Even so, another three hours would satisfy me to no end.

Price tilted his head to the side. “Pulling into Pusch Ridge,” he shouted over the exhaust’s drone. He nodded toward the road ahead. “Right up here.”

I could care less. With the wind in my face and the sun on my back, I was in heaven. There was no better way for me relax that I knew of than to be on the back of Price’s motorcycle. I’d forever wondered what it would feel like to be a bird. Now I knew.

“Okay,” I said.

We’d traveled north out of Sabino along the road that led to Oracle. Short of that one paved road that snaked through the preserved land, the entire area appeared the way God left it when he was done with the magnificent creation.

We came to a stop in a designated parking area. When I got off the motorcycle I nearly fell, not realizing my legs had gone numb.

I braced myself on a wooden post and glanced at Price’s motorcycle as if it had done something wrong. It was the most no-nonsense mode of transportation I’d ever seen. Nothing more than a metal frame with an engine and two tires, it had no windshield, radio, cupholders, saddlebags, or flashy paint. What areas that weren’t rusted were covered in a thin layer of faded black paint. Strapped to the front forks was a worn leather satchel that could have been around since the mid-1800’s. The only portions that mattered to Price—the engine and the brakes—were world class.