“Late night meet, not even one other brother?” Spooks asked.
“This is just gonna be you and me,” Pope told him.
Spooks’s eyes narrowed.
“You know this shit ain’t right,” he said.
“Get shot of her,” Pope ordered.
Spooks’s whole face got tight. “You cannot tell me who to fuck, brother.”
“You love her?”
A muscle ticked in Spooks’s cheek.
He didn’t love her.
Not a surprise, the bitch was a bitch.
“She mean anything to you at all, man?” Pope asked.
“Yeah. She’s a great fuckin’ lay.”
“She’s radioactive.”
“And we give a fuck . . . why?”
“She’s a cunt. In a perpetual bad mood that she excels at spreading around. All the men hate her. All the old ladies can’t stand the sight of her.”
“And I give a fuck . . . why?”
“You’re fuckin’ her to get back at Taz, who she fucked over, doin’ this after you fucked Taz over and she got shot of your ass, and you felt like a dick but want Taz to pay for that.”
Spooks opened his mouth, but Pope raised a hand to him and kept talking.
“I don’t give a shit about your love life, brother. Fuck who you want. Fuck over who you want. You know how I feel about Taz. She was good for you. She was good to you. That didn’t work out, not my business. Generally, I don’t care where you put your cock. You do somethin’ with it that might get our brothers dicked over, that’s when I care.”
“No one gives a shit about Naomi Allen.”
“Right, Spooks. Three women dead who did not have a direct association with the Chaos MC, but had ties to the Chaos MC. A pussy is takin’ a Chaos cock, she’s covered. Any pussy who has shit to do with Chaos past, present, or just in case these motherfuckers made a deal with the devil and can read a crystal ball, future, should run for the hills. I’ll tell you this, Naomi is banned from Chaos. Not a single Chaos brother would squeeze out a tear she got whacked. But Rush Allen and Tabitha Cage would lose their momma, and that’d cut. So that would cut Tack. Which means that bitch has a target on her back.”
“Sounds to me, that mess in Denver drags Naomi in it, you won’t care.”
“She’s fuckin’ one of my brothers. Any woman who’s takin’ Range dick has Range protection. You make it so I gotta care,” Pope clipped.
Spooks shut his mouth.
Pope did not.
“Word is, Chaos is stavin’ off Armageddon down in Denver. That mushroom cloud ain’t gonna land here in Boulder, Spooks. Get . . . shot . . . of . . . that . . . bitch.”
Spooks gave it long enough his pride could handle it before he forced out, “Not really a loss. She fucks like a pro, but she’s a pain in the ass.”
“Tonight, Spooks. Go home and send her packing.”
“Whatever,” Spooks muttered and turned to leave.
“As your brother, you got my love, man, so I’m gonna add, make shit right with Taz,” Pope called to his back.
Spooks couldn’t hide the pain behind the pissed in the look he shot over his shoulder at his president before he repeated, “Whatever,” and slammed out the door.
He missed his old lady.
Dumb, proud fuck.
But Pope sighed.
After burning her bridges to ash in Denver, Tack Allen’s ex-wife, the dread Naomi had been making her way through the bikers of Boulder for God knew how long, raising Cain, causing mayhem and breaking as many hearts as that soulless bitch could manage.
But outside Spooks, who was working through some issues the wrong way, no Range brother would touch her.
So now that was done.
Which meant if that sick fuck Valenzuela or that revenge-fucked-in-the-head Chew had turned their eyes north, their focus would be narrowed.
So now Pope could sleep.
His Queen
Valenzuela
Present Day
Benito Valenzuela walked in at the back of the set, his eyes on Tallulah, who was standing with the blonde, who Rodrigo, his other director who managed his other line, had wanted to hire as a fluffer, but she’d insisted she was a licensed cosmetologist and had been a stylist at some upscale department store, so she did makeup.
Or something.
Shanna?
Dana?
“That works, Janna,” he heard Tallulah say.
That was it.
Janna.
The blonde stood there holding some outfit on a hanger and smiled at Tallulah like she was the leader of her cult.
Benito respected this.
He admired it.
Tallulah Monroe had gone through his other operation, cherry-picked what she wanted (all of it gash), brought them to their new production facilities and set up her little queendom with her acolytes who were all panting to do her bidding.
Oh yes.
Benito respected this.
He admired it.
He wanted to own it in more ways than he already did.
He wanted to fuck its face, yank its hair while it was on its hands and knees in front of him, taking his cock, making it beg.
As he headed to a chair at the back of the set, he took the nods and the scuttling near-bows of the crew while they made their way around him, giving him plenty of room.
He moved slowly.
This was to hide his limp.
Sucking his dick, that little cunt Camilla had sliced his femoral artery.
But the stupid piece of trash didn’t have the balls for it. Got sick, puked right on the bed that was soaking with his blood, and she took off before she’d made sure the job got done.
Pretty much anyone knew how to fashion a goddamned tourniquet.
And anyone in his business had a direct dial to Dr. Baldwin.
The man made house calls.
An extra five grand, he provided transport to his extensive facilities.
Ten grand a day, they brought fresh flowers once a week and you ordered off any menu in town for breakfast, lunch and dinner in your recovery room.
An extra twenty grand, and the good doctor was a master at keeping his mouth shut.
Camilla had sent his own men to come and clean up after her.
Dr. Baldwin’s staff were a font of information, if the price was right.
He’d gotten word and was in the middle of a transfusion and battling passing out due to the pain meds when he’d brokered those deals.
It’d taken more money (a great deal of it) to make sure he’d regained their allegiance, and when he did, he’d had them tell her they’d taken care of business and the body would not be found.
It ended up money well spent.
And since they’d first turned for Camilla’s snatch and whatever promises she’d given them, although she was currently resting eternally in a marked grave, now that he was fully back, they were not.
Their bodies would never be found.
Benito was not a man who refused to admit making mistakes.
If you could not make those admissions, you learned nothing.
He’d made mistakes.
Not instilling loyalty in his army was one of them.
He relished greed, was filled with it. It fed him, and he had no problem with those around him worshiping at that altar.
But if he didn’t want another bitch to cut him, he needed more.
Now, he was getting more.
He took his seat watching Tallulah rise from hers.
She moved to the “actors.”
They both wore serious faces as they listened and nodded while Tallulah spoke to them, like they were about to film an Oscar-winning performance, not go at each other in a room filled with people until they both came, loud and obnoxiously.
This set had none of the feel of Rodrigo’s set, and Benito found he liked sitting in that chair at the back that was reserved for him.
Being there calmed him.
Watching Tallulah work stirred him.
It also instructed him.
Now Tallulah, she knew how to instill loyalty.
Attention.
A listening ear.
Caring about what people had to say.
Benito understood his weaknesses.
As you’d get nowhere if you did not learn from your mistakes, you’d get nothing if you did not understand your weaknesses.
He could not do any of what Tallulah did.
But he could fake it.
His phone in his breast pocket vibrated and he took it out.