Page 2 of Raff
“Pretty sure he can see it for himself when you make your ass back to California,” Huck said, shaking his head at me. “I was looking for you,” he added.
“What for?”
“I got a call from Zayn. He wanted me to put in an order.”
Zayn was an international arms dealer connected to the Golden Glades club. But because his clients wanted more weapons than Huck and his club could feasibly supply on their own, I picked up extra guns on my travels to sell to Huck, who unloaded them to Zayn.
“I just gave you half of what I had.” Slash would not be happy if I came back to Shady Valley with an empty car. Which either meant I dealt with his anger… or I extended my trip and picked up more guns on my way back.
“No, this is for a specialty gun. Specially built, if you know what I mean.”
I knew what he meant.
One of my club brothers, Sway, was with a woman who was a weapons designer. But she made all the shit herself. Which meant it wasn’t cheap.
“That’s gonna cost,” I warned.
“Trust me, this client can pay.”
“Alright. I’ll talk to Murphy as soon as I get back to Shady Valley. Put her in touch with you, and you can figure it out from there.”
“Good. Appreciate it. Now go ice that eye before it swells so much that you can’t drive your troublemaking ass out of here tomorrow.”
It might not have sounded like it, but Huck loved my trouble-making ass. He was a president who found reckless behavior more amusing than frustrating. It probably reminded him of his early life before he settled down and started a family.
I made my way inside the clubhouse, snatching a frozen bag of peas out of the air as it was thrown at me.
“How’s everyone’s damage?” I asked, looking around at York, Velle, and Dixon. Velle had a split lip and bruised jaw. Dixon’s shirt was ripped and bloody from his nose taking a hit. But York, that mammoth, lumberjack fuck, seemed mostly uninjured, save for the splits on his knuckles.
“Haven’t had that much fun in a while,” Dixon admitted, shooting me a smirk.
“What time are you heading out?” Velle asked. “You have time to party? We could have some girls over.”
“Far be it from me to turn down your club girls, but my motel room is a mess. I gotta get it cleaned up before I head out in the morning. Should probably head out.”
“When you planning to head down here again?” York asked.
“You know me. I never stay planted anywhere too long. Probably just a couple of weeks. Maybe two months, max, depending on what my club has going on. I’ll text you when I’m heading back this way,” I said, tossing the peas at Velle. “Been nice fighting alongside you.”
With that, I turned and made my way out back, climbing in my ancient little car that had been a home away from home of sorts for a long time.
I’d never admit it aloud to any of the guys, but recently, I’d been feeling something akin to frustration when I climbed into the car.
Maybe it was because most of my trips were solo ones now. No brother in the front seat with me. No friends to talk to orhang out with. Just me, the car, and empty hotel or motel rooms. And this growing feeling like I was missing out on something.
By the time I made it back to my clubhouse, I’d typically been gone for weeks. It seemed like new relationships had formed, babies had grown, the town had shifted. And I’d missed it all.
Maybe getting stabbed in the leg and grounding me for a lot longer than I planned had softened me or something.
All I knew was there was this ache in my chest that seemed to grow stronger each day. And because it was there—gnawing, unavoidable—I did what I could to drown it out. Life on the road was full of bars, clubs, women, the occasional bar fight or two, and every single activity I could squeeze into a day to distract me from what I was feeling.
That was why I was in a hurry to get my shit packed up before I crashed, so I could leave as early as possible in the morning. Everything would start feeling better as I made progress toward home.
It was on my second trip out to the dumpster to trash all the take-away containers that had been piling up that I saw something out of the corner of my eye that had my heart stuttering.
Curious, I turned, looking across the street toward another motel on this little strip of highway frequented by truckers.
I’d opted for the motel I was in only because I’d stayed in the other one once, and the water pressure was more of a trickle, and life was too short for that shit.
