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Chapter Twenty-Two

The man stubbedout his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, then tilted the chair back and crossed his hands over his stomach. “Pretty fucking stupid to sell to the president of an outlaw MC. What the hell were you thinking?”

“How the fuck did I know the asshole had a daughter living on the reservation? I didn’t even know he was Injun.”

“Now you do. What a mess.”

The young man with white-blond hair shook his head. “I told Dustin about it. He said the fuckin’ Insurgents are snooping around, trying to find out where the shit’s coming from. He wants to cool it for a while until things die down.”

The man scowled at him. “And how the fuck am I supposed to make money? I paid a lot of money for a product that I can’t sell. That won’t do.”

The short, blond-haired guy wiped his mouth with his hand. He’d been drooling and it repulsed the distributor. He was beyond angry at the inept MC who’d been privy to the smack operation. He’d told Dustin to just leave it to him, but he’d insisted on bringing in the group of punks—something about owing them or some shit like that. All he knew was his operation was in jeopardy, and he wasn’t ready to call it quits by a long shot.

“Maybe you could set up shop in another county. One that’s not controlled by the Night Rebels.”

The man’s fingers itched to be around the young idiot’s throat. He wanted him out of his sight; he was irritating the fuck out of him, and the urge to strangle him was intensifying. “Maybe you could shut the fuck up.”

“Just trying to help.” The young man glowered. “You need to treat me with respect. My brothers don’t fuckin’ like the way you’ve been treating us.”

“Do I look like I give a fuck? Yourbrothersare a bunch of morons. You live in this godforsaken county. Why in the hell didn’t you let me know an outlaw MC controlled the area? They have a fucking deal with the sheriff’s department to keep hard stuff out of the county.” He spat into a tissue; his phlegm was yellow.On top of all of this, I probably have a goddamn sinus infection. I hate this fucking dry heat.“How long does Dustin want to cool it?”

The blond shrugged. “I dunno. He didn’t say.”

“And what do we do with our customers? Just tell them we’ve closed shop?”

“Nah. They’ll go to another county or something. Quit asking me so many fucking questions.” The young man paced.

“We’re done. You and your club of dumbasses lay low. I’ll talk to Dustin. I’ll figure it out.” The only positive thing in this disorganized mess was that the Skull Crushers—hehatedthe name—would be out of the picture, and he could have all the control. He preferred working alone. He had no intention of “laying low” until Dustin gave the word. As far as he was concerned, all these outlaw biker clubs were morons, including the Night Rebels. He just didn’t like that he had to worry about a crazed president trying to play vigilante. He’d sell off the smack and then set up shop in another state, but he sure as hell wasn’t losing a hundred and fifty thousand dollars because Dustin fucked this up. He also had a drawer full of EBT cards he had to sell.

He fixed his stare on the club member whose blotchy red face made him sick. “Why the fuck are you still here?”

“I said watch it.” The distributor gazed at him placidly. “I’m going becauseIwant to, not because you said so.”

The man didn’t say a word.

The Skull Crusher shoved his hands in his leather jacket and slinked out.

The brown-haired man picked up the phone, dreading the call to Dustin. He was sick to death of working with incompetent criminals. He couldn’t wait until he could move on to another location.Just a couple more years of this, and I’ll be on easy street.

Paradise was not so far away.