Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77236 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77236 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
I knew exactly what it would drift to.
Her.
So it was better to head into the club, to be around people who might engage me in different conversations.
“Haven’t seen your ass in a while,” Huck greeted me, on his way out of the door as I was walking up the path.
“House is a mess,” I admitted, shaking my head.
“Think I made the right decision in building new rather than fixing someone else’s problem property,” he said.
“Yeah, it’s fucking exhausting,” I agreed.
“Seems to be doing you good, though,” he said, shrugging.
That was the fourth time I’d heard someone comment on the couple pound weight gain I’d put on.
Huck, Velle, Eddie, and even my sister Sass.
Had I gotten that thin that they’d been, I don’t know, worried about me?
I mean, yeah, actually, that made sense. There had been several false-start conversations with my brothers and their women over the past year or so, them clearly coming to me with concerned voices and sad eyes, but as soon as they tried to speak, I found an excuse to do anything other than listen to them.
And, if I was being honest with myself, I’d been obsessing.
About macros and micros.
About calories in versus out.
About the gym.
Had I developed some sort of disordered eating without fully recognizing it for what it was?
“Yeah, it’s a good workout,” I said, pushing those worries back to work through some other time. “Something going on?” I asked.
“I needed to talk to York,” he said.
“About?”
“His mob connections up in New York state,” Huck said.
York had worked for most of his life by hiding bodies for the mafia. A task, it seemed, that had involved a lot of grave digging in random forests where they would never be found.
He’d moved down to Florida when his grandfather got sick, then stayed on after he’d died because his work up north got taken over by someone else.
“We having issues with the mob?” I asked.
Tony Barelli, the boss of the local mafia family, always seemed to be friendly with the club, ever since his connection to Donovan was made clear to everyone.
“Had a visit from Barelli,” Huck said, exhaling. “He’s having some… disagreements with one of the New York families. State, not city,” he clarified, though I didn’t know anything about the mafia up north to know the difference between the ones in the city or state.
“And, what? He wanted information out of York?”
“That… seemed to be what he was fishing for,” Huck admitted.
“Doesn’t he have enough to do with the never-ending feud with the Russians?”
“You’d think. Guess that shit is old news at this point,” Huck said.
“How are you handling it with York?”
“Leaving it up to him,” Huck said. “I get that he has old loyalties. Wouldn’t exactly trust him in my club if he immediately rolled on his old allies. But if shit went sour at the end, or there is new… management… that’s up to him if he’s willing to speak.”
“Alright. Good to know. Coast is a good shot, by the way. Sloppy in form, but he can get shit done.”
“Good,” he said, nodding. “And Velle?” he asked.
I forced myself not to react to that.
“When he focuses right, he’s passably accurate,” I told him, giving him enough of the truth without saying too much.
“Not every shot needs to be a head shot,” Huck said, shrugging. “You test York yet?”
“I’ve seen the fuck throw an ax and hit the bullseye,” I said, smirking at the memory of the guy who looked like a lumberjack acting like one.
“Still. Want to make sure he is similarly accurate with a gun.”
“Got it,” I agreed. “I’ll have an answer by the next time I see you.”
“Sounds good. Eddie’s over at the shop, but there’s always leftovers in the fridge,” he said as he made his way toward his bike.
I made my way inside, finding York alone in the kitchen, standing there holding a mug of coffee that looked like a child’s toy in his giant hand.
Again, he looked out of place in Florida. He looked like he belonged where he used to live. In the woods. Doing manual labor.
He was tall and wide, the very thick kind of fit, with brown hair and a matching beard.
Really, the only thing missing was a fucking flannel shirt.
I wouldn’t doubt that’s exactly what he wore back in New York. In Florida, though, he wore a white tee under his leather cut.
Despite being new, he was closer in age to the OG guys than the newer crew. Thirty-five? Thirty-six? Somewhere around there. Definitely older than the crazy Coast, introspective Velle, and good-time-loving Levee.
“Debating your options?” I asked as I made my way to the coffee pot to get my own cup.
“Got to come here because of Barelli,” York said.
“But you have ties up north too,” I added.
“Yeah.”
“Definition of that whole rock and hard place shit,” I said, walking over toward where the club’s pet blue and gold macaw, Mackie, was putting little beak holes in the curtain, and grabbing his foot, so he was forced to step up.