I’d gone to therapy when Callie did in Sacramento, so I knew my triggers, but sometimes I let myself slide. If Cody had noticed, that meant I hadn’t been doing a very good job.
“I’ll do better,” I told him nervously, hating the fact that he’d noticed one of the things that made me so far from perfect.
“Baby, you’re doing fine, okay? I love you and I fucking love your body. I just want you to be healthy.”
“How did we even get on this subject?” I asked.
“I was talking about how I miss your tits.”
“Ah, breasts,” I sang, a relieved smile stretching across my face.
“Yeah, those. I can’t fucking wait to get my mouth on them. I think next time I see you, I’m gonna fuck you bare and then come all over those beautiful pink nipples . . .”
We went back and forth, describing the parts of each other’s bodies we missed the most, and by the time we were done, both of us were panting with frustration. We made plans and detailed exactly what we’d do first. It was one of the hottest conversations of my life.
We had no idea that it would be close to three months before I’d see him again.
Chapter 26
Casper
“Time to head out,” Grease called from the doorway as I lay on my bed talking to Farrah.
Three months had passed since I’d dropped Farrah and Gram off at my aunt Lily’s, and I was so fucking sick of waiting. Slider had brought in a couple of camping trailers so we could spread the families out a little, but it didn’t help much. There were too many people in too little space, not to mention that people had lives outside the club that they’d had to completely put on hold. It was a mess.
We’d been making plans, going over shit with a fine-tooth comb, and for the first time I was right in the middle of shit. I’d gone up to Portland a few times, trying to get a feel for things on the street, but it hadn’t done us much good.
I’d always been a huge history buff, not just of American history, but also world history. And one thing that all really successful leaders had in common was their ability to inspire loyalty in their followers. They instinctively knew what would endear them to the masses and they used it. A well-known cartel leader in South America funded hospitals and jobs, and Hitler exploited the economic weakness of Germany after WWI; the tactic was as common as the lies politicians in the US spouted during elections.
The McCafferty brothers in Portland had found their loyalty with meth distribution, a drug epidemic that was becoming common all over the US. They’d created perfect little minions, dependent on them for their supply and loyal to the death. It was irritating as fuck, but it did give us a bit of an edge. Our men weren’t junkies, for the most part. There were a few who used on a recreational level, but the minute they got sloppy Slider took care of it, one way or another.
However, it did mean that no one was talking, not the men on the streets or the drunk shits in the bars. We hadn’t heard any more news in all the months we’d been trying to ferret out information, which left us standing around holding our dicks while waiting for the other shoe to drop. They’d been quiet, too fucking quiet, which meant either the information I’d gathered had been false, or they had someone watching us.
The problem was that I didn’t make shitty mistakes. I’d been studying the body language of the people around me since I was seven years old, at first in a desperate need to fit in, and later to become invisible. That meant that they had someone—or a network of people—who knew that we’d battened down the hatches, and they were just waiting for us to let our guard down.
I guessed that Slider was finally ready to make the first move, and hopefully the last.
“I gotta go, Ladybug,” I told Farrah as I sat up in bed. “I love you. I’ll call you soon.”
“Wait, what’s happening?” she asked, sounding scared that I’d cut her off midsentence.
“Nothing, baby. Grease needs help with something. I’ll call you later.”
She was quiet, then with a small sigh, she replied, “Okay. Love you too.”
I hung up without saying anything else, my mind already focused on the task ahead. As we walked toward church, Grease updated me on what he knew.
“I think we’re going in quiet. Chaps my ass, but I’m pretty sure we’re leaving our bikes down here. We’re too fuckin’ close to Portland.” He stopped mumbling as we walked into the small room, closing the door behind us.
As soon as my ass hit the chair that had become way too fucking familiar, Poet started to speak.
“Tonight’s the night, boys.” He looked around the table, meeting each man’s eyes before continuing. “Be ready to leave at seven. Leaving the bikes home for this one—”
The guys grumbled until Slider raised his hand in warning, instantly shutting them up.
Poet paused and then continued. “We’ve got close to fifty women and children we’re leaving behind with a skeleton crew to guard them. Any of you want to paint a giant fucking bull’s-eye on my club by riding ten bikes up to Portland?” He looked around the room and nodded once as the words sank in.
“We’re hitting them hard tonight, taking out as many as we can on their property in Southeast. Used to be an old drive-in, now it’s a series of warehouses. Top of one a those warehouses is their living space,” he said. “Not sure if they’ve got women there, but we’re gonna assume they do. Not usually the way we do business, rubs all of us the wrong way. But they wrote the rules to this fuckin’ war, and fuck if I’m gonna worry about their women when they were fuckin’ targeting ours.”