Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Rez’s eyebrows rose. “I look like a pig?”
“You look like somethin’.”
“That an insult?”
“It ain’t if you love pigs.”
“Hate pigs. Of both the pink and blue varieties.”
Saint considered him for a few more uncomfortable moments. But during that time, Rez kept his expression blank and he stayed as relaxed as possible in his chair.
“You smell like a pig.”
Rez showed him both hands. “Do you know any pigs who have tats all over the backs of their hands? I sure fucking don’t. Pig departments like those clean-cut white boys. I’m far from their preference.”
Again, Saint stared at him for far too long. He must have a mistaken idea that he was intimidating.
“You lookin’ for smoke?”
Rez shook his head. “Nope. Already got a solid source for quality bud. And I said party, not sleep. Weed makes me want to eat a whole bag of fucking Doritos and then curl up in front of the TV to watch Golden Girls reruns all fucking night.”
Man, Saint was sure fighting back his amusement. He was doing his best to keep a stony face.
“You got a sled?”
This was a test. Not many people knew that MCs used that slang for their bikes.
“Yeah, got one. Parked for the winter, though.”
“So, you’re sayin’ you’re a pussy,” Saint concluded.
“Tend to like my body parts not to turn black and fall off. If that makes me a pussy, then I guess I’ll wear that badge without honor. Plus, I love pussy. I guess you don’t? I didn’t know an MC like yours accepted members of the rainbow mafia. Congrats on breaking that glass ceiling.”
One side of the biker’s mouth pulled up. Not quite a sneer, but also not quite a grin. “My club’s lookin’ for more recruits.”
Holy fuck. He wasn’t expecting their conversation to go in this direction. Especially since he had unmistakable Venezuelan blood running through his veins. He was not white-passing in any sense. The Deadly Demons members were all so damn white, that when they got together, you’d think you got lost in a blinding snowstorm.
Rez would stick out like a fucking beacon among them. And that made him not want to explore that opportunity any further. Hell, Crew would be just as fucking shocked as he was.
“Not sure I’m interested in joining any club, but will think on it. In the meantime, I’m still looking for what you’re selling.”
“Thought you said you don’t got any scratch.”
“I don’t. But would like a taste and if the sample’s up to snuff, will buy more on payday.”
That would also give him time to get Crew to approve him doing buys at The Peach Pit. Documenting buys would also be a good excuse for Rez to stop in at the strip club so he could keep an eye out for that low-life T-Bone. As well as get some of the meth off the street.
He wasn’t sure if he’d even mention the offer about prospecting to Crew. He didn’t know if he wanted to get stuck going undercover. That would severely limit what he could do with his personal life.
Decker had hated every damn second of being undercover as a Demon prospect.
As it was, Saint didn’t have any fucking authority to make that offer. Wolf was the Demon in charge of the Uniontown chapter. He might not be so welcoming to a prospect with very tan skin. Plus, Viper, the Demons prez, would also need to sign off.
“Don’t got nothin’ to sample,” Saint finally said, scratching at his beard. “Come in next time you got scratch and see Mutt at the bar. He’ll have some extra ice for your drink. But ’til you got scratch to spend in my club, you gotta go. You want free fuckin’ entertainment, go watch TV.”
“Getting paid for a job on Monday.”
Saint’s brow pulled low. “What kind of job?”
“I do construction.”
Saint rubbed a hand over his mouth as he considered Rez’s latest lie. “Club’s closed on Mondays.”
“Yeah, I know. Let Mutt know I’ll stop in on Tuesday. How about letting me in for free then, since you’re kicking my ass out tonight and I didn’t get my five bucks worth.”
“Ain’t happenin’. Gotta pay to play.”
Saint might be wrong about a lot of things, but that wasn’t one of them.
Chapter Two
Rez jogged up the stairs to the third floor. He had two minutes to spare before this afternoon’s task force meeting was supposed to kick off.
Technically he wasn’t late.
He tried the knob and was surprised to find it unlocked. As soon as he stepped through the door, he heard, “Lock it behind you, chamo.”
Rez stopped in his tracks and shot Crew a look. He never should’ve taught the task force leader the slang they used for “bro” in Venezuela. “En boca cerrada no entran moscas, pendejo.”
Luis Torres, a DEA Special Agent as well as the task force’s plant manager, slammed his hand on the conference table and fell forward in laughter.