“I—”
“Tell him no and then come tell me. Can you do that?”
“Okay.”
Done giving me orders, Stump hauls himself out of the car.
Two young guys I don’t recognize are hanging out by the front door.
“Prospect!”
Both snap to attention at Stump’s harsh voice. “Yes, pr…er, Yes, sir.”
Stump rests his hand on my shoulder. “This is my son’s old lady. She needs something, you get it for her. We clear?”
Their scared gazes only stray from Stump long enough to give me a quick scan. “Yes, sir.”
I’d protest, but I know better than to contradict Stump in front of anyone. Or at all.
A battered, green Ford pick-up truck rattles into the lot and parks next to my car. Stump’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second. The corners of his mouth curl up. Not sure I should stick around for whatever sinister business he has in mind, I open my mouth to excuse myself.
He snaps his fingers at me before I can sneak away. “Come here, Mallory. Someone I want you to meet.”
“Uh, okay.”
“What’s with the cage?” Stump calls to the man who steps out of the truck.
“Hey, Prez.” He jerks his head toward the truck. “Hauled all that old carpet and shit to the dump.”
“Good. Got another job for you.” Stump pushes me forward. “Mallory, this is Tally, the club’s Treasurer.”
Tally has a head of curly brown hair, brown eyes, and a warm smile. He holds out his hand to me. “Hey, Mallory. We’ve met in passing, I think.”
Unsure of what Stump has in mind, I shake Tally’s outstretched hand. “Yes, I think so.”
“Good.” Stump rubs his hands together. “Now that you’re acquainted, Tally, I need you take Mallory down to Abbott’s and let her pick out some furniture for the house.”
Tally opens his mouth, but I beat him to it. “I don’t—”
“Just the living room and master bedroom for now,” Stump cuts me off. His voice softens. “You can do that for me, right, sweetheart?”
“Uh, I guess.”
“Carpet too.” He lifts his chin at Tally, who’s still standing there with his mouth open. “Have them put it on my account.”
Done handing out tasks, Stump turns and marches into the clubhouse, leaving Tally and I staring after him.
Well, this is awkward.
A nervous smile twitches over my lips. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s no problem.” He stretches his arm toward the truck and bows. “My chariot awaits.”
I don’t know him well enough to decipher if that’s supposed to be comedy or sarcasm. The poor guy probably had better things to do with his afternoon than take me shopping.
Climbing into the cab of the truck in my skirt is awkward, but I think I manage not to flash my butt. Tally slams the door once I’m inside. I take in the faded dashboard, gravel dotted floor mats and cracked vinyl seats.
“Work truck,” Tally says as he hops in the other side. “You mind if we swing by the house first and get some measurements?”
“No, of course not.”
The awkwardness is thick enough to slice with a steak knife. Finally, Tally breaks the silence.
“How long you guys staying?”
“Not sure yet.”
“What’s Chaser up to?”
I shrug. “Club business, I guess.”
He hmms and nods.
“I wish Stump wouldn’t go to so much trouble. Unless he’s fixing up the house for himself.”
“Doubt it. More like Prez is hoping to fill it with some grandbabies.”
“Ugh.” I’ve never known so many men with baby fever.
He chuckles. “Not your thing?”
“Not for another ten years at least.”
He flicks his gaze over me again. “Not my business.”
“Finally,” I mutter.
“Prez can be real direct, huh?”
That’s one way to put it.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chaser
The coke I’m able to scrounge up here is so diluted, I’ve been back to the same dealer more than once. At least potency is the excuse I use for why I’m too weak to get myself under control.
Feeling marginally functional this afternoon, I step into our room, expecting to find Mallory. Not that I want to face her when I’m fucked up. Again.
My quick sigh of relief when the room’s empty is cut off by a meaty hand around my throat.
I can’t even make a sound when my back smashes into the wall. My skull makes a nice cracking thud against the wood, though.
The bedroom door slams shut.
“Where ya been, son?” My father’s liverwurst and onion breath washes over me, and I try not to gag.
I cough, sputter, and attempt to pry his fingers away from my windpipe.
“That hurt?” His eyes glint with rage from about a millimeter away.
I blink once for yes.
“Tryin’ to help you out, since you seem to have a death wish.”
He finally releases me, and I slide to the floor, landing on my ass like a sad sack of rotten potatoes. Black spots dance behind my eyes while I fight to catch my breath.
“Get up,” my father barks.
Still coughing, I stumble over to the bed and drop down. “What the fuck?” I rasp.