Sugar (The Henchmen MC 12)

"He said there was some static online about the prez a few months back. A few of the guys like us asking questions."

"But nothing on the prez himself?" I asked, running a hand up the back of my neck, sick of this shit already. The texts just kept on coming, full of threats and promises of long, tortuous deaths if we didn't give him 'the money.'

Problem was, we didn't have 'the money.' We didn't even know what money he meant. The MC had done alright, but we had never been rolling in it. Virgin and I had just enough to get by while we were there, and barely enough to get us to Navesink Bank when we left. We certainly weren't stashing some huge sum of cash.

Let alone his cash.

We didn't even know he had it.

How could we have taken it?

But when I had tried - now that my phone was being watched by Barrett - to tell him as much, there was simply no reasoning with him. He had his mind made up. We were the ones he believed took his money. There was nothing I could say to change his mind.

So... it was a waiting game.

For Barrett to try to get a lead, to point us in a direction so we could handle things.

We knew what 'handle things' meant, too.

We didn't like it.

But we accepted it.

Sometimes you had to do shit that you didn't want to.

Like track down and kill your old president.

Neither one of us had left a lot of bodies in our wake, but we both did what had to be done in certain situations. Virgin took his first life in a deal gone wrong when he was sixteen. I didn't have a body until I was twenty-one. But we'd both done it. Because we needed to. And we would do it again... when the situation called for it.

And when a man who clearly had a screw loose was coming after you for something you didn't have, and in doing so threatened the new life you had built for yourself... well, the situation called for it.

Case closed.

Once it was handled, we could bring it to Reign.

Hopefully, it wouldn't be too much longer.

We already had to watch our backs because of V. We didn't need more reasons on top of that.

"Nothing by his name. But who would keep their name when they are on the run?" Virgin said with a shrug. Trying to be casual, but it was clear it was weighing on him too. "But he's only been on it two days. It's gonna take time."

"Hopefully we have it," I agreed.

"Yeah," he said, moving back toward the door. "He said he'd check in tomorrow."

"I am taking Peyton shooting," I admitted, pretending to ignore the interested look he shot me.

"'Aight," he said, nodding. "I'll deal with him then."

"Just until the afternoon," I specified, feeling guilty suddenly. I didn't put anything before my brothers, before Virgin especially. I certainly never chose a chick over him.

"Don't worry about it," he said, and he meant it. He wasn't someone who would bullshit me to my face just to keep the peace. If he had a problem with me, he told me. "Fill you in when you get back," he added, already out the door.

I stripped down, took a shower, and climbed into bed, intent on falling asleep fast. But all I could seem to do was stare up at my ceiling, images of her running through my head.

The sexy ones were expected.

Her riding me.

Her bent over the counter, letting me take her ass.

Those thoughts invaded my head the majority of the day.

It was the other ones that troubled me.

Seeing the way her eyes danced right before she said something smartass or off-the-wall. The way she laughed. The sarcastic sense of humor. The way she was softer, sweeter, more open after sex.

That was the shit I couldn't stop rolling around my mind.

For what felt like hours.

Before I finally passed out.I was standing in the doorway when she pulled in, parking her car up front since she knew we would be taking it later.

She didn't get right out, though.

From where I was standing, I could see her lean forward, gently banging her head against the steering wheel.

So one could say that this woman was not a morning person.

Me? I was used to getting my jobs swung around. I functioned fine no matter what time of the day. This was clearly not true of Peyton as she climbed out of the car with an audible grumble I could hear even from a few yards away, her colorful hair tied back, giant cat-eye sunglasses taking over most of her face. Her legs were swallowed up by tight black jeans, and she had a cut-off white tee on with simple black lettering.

Talk dewey to me.

And, because this was Peyton, she had ankle-breaking heels on. Even at ten after seven in the morning.