Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
“Sorry for the quick call, fellas.”
I gave him a small nod. No apology needed. Not in this room. Not with us. We were men who knew the game. Trouble didn’t send invitations. That shit, it came like a thief in the dark.
“Got word,” Pop said, voice even. “Mayor’s making moves again.”
The whole table tensed. Hampton fucking Stanley. Mayor of Dreadnought. Resident parasite. Our personal pain that never went away. Couldn’t prove the shit, but we all thought he rigged the votes.
“Fuck,” I muttered, pushing back against my chair.
Tower snorted. “Guy’s got serious small-dick problems. Can’t find a hobby that doesn’t involve pokin’ the fuckin’ bear.”
Loco grinned. “Every time he kisses his wife, he tastes Pop’s cock. Hard to focus on hobbies when your home life smells like another man’s balls.”
The table erupted. Even Pop cracked a smile. And he didn’t deny it, either. No need. Everyone knew Mrs. Mable Stanley had warmed his sheets long before her husband started rattling around in our business.
The smile didn’t last. Pop leaned forward. “He’s changing shit up. Managed to get a new district court judge appointed mid-term. Fuck face doesn’t even live in our district. How did he pull that shit off?”
That sucked the oxygen out of the room.
Jester slapped the table. “How? We had Bishop on lock.”
Bishop. Our ace in the hole. Watauga County’s one and only district judge, bought and paid for by us. We kept him comfortable, padded his pockets, reminded him where his loyalties lay. He was our firewall shielding us from the law. If one of us got tangled up in a way we couldn’t prevent being in the courtroom he was the last stop to getting off. The life of an outlaw didn’t come easy and required always having people in your pockets.
Pop leaned back, exhaling slow. Calm before chaos. That’s why they called him Squally—the storm.
“Bishop’s gone,” he said flatly. “Took early retirement. Family medical leave type of excuse. Left town. No goodbye.”
Peanut cursed, shoving a hand through his hair. Burn’s jaw flexed like he was grinding teeth into dust.
“Dumbass move,” Peanut spat. “Saint’s Outlaws don’t just get left behind. He crossed us. I’ll find him, Pop. Just give me a city.”
“Not yet,” Pop said, sharp. “We play this smart.”
And that was the thing with Pop. He always thought two steps ahead. Where the rest of us were fire and gasoline, he was the matchbox. Calm, measured, but lethal once the strike came.
“Mind your shit,” Pop continued. “Get word out—heads on swivels. No heat until we know who this new judge is and how he plays. Everybody walks the line until further notice.”
We all nodded. Orders received.
“What’s the play, Pop?” I asked, wondering which direction he was feeling this may sway.
His gaze cut to Burn. “Intel on Bishop. Where he went. Why he left. Need as much as we can, make it fast.” He slid a folder across the table. “Once we sort where he is we can determine the punishment for his transgressions.”
Burn caught it, silent. That was his way. He’d burn the world down if Pop asked, but he never wasted breath on words.
“Bishop’s from Utah,” Pop went on. “Only been here two years. Write-in candidate. Never made sense how Stanley moved him in, but he played ball with us. We need to know why he left and who Stanley put in his place.”
Stanley. Always fucking Hampton Stanley. Man couldn’t keep his nose out of our business. Maybe it was jealousy, maybe it was his wife’s moans echoing in his skull. Who Pop Squally fucked wasn’t my business. If her man didn’t satisfy her and Pop did, that was adult behaviors that weren’t mine to dabble in. The why Stanley wanted to fuck with us didn’t matter. He was a problem, and now he’d slipped a new judge onto the bench like a dagger in our ribs.
“Monday’s the switch,” Pop said. “New guy’s name is Walsh. Never on the ballot. There wasn’t a public vote. Emergency poll from the city council. Already sworn in.”
Burn nodded once. “I’ll find him.”
The weight pressed in. Monday was too damn close. Too many unknowns. One of us gets tagged doing some club shit, we go inside without someone in our pocket it could mean hard time.
“Time is of the essence,” Pop said. “We’ve got orders going out. Last thing we need is heat from some judge trying to prove himself.”
He raised the gavel, mahogany and heavy, and slammed it down on the table. Church dismissed.
We broke like a pack of wolves spilling from the den, climbing back into the common area, the heartbeat of the clubhouse. Smoke curled in the air, pool balls cracked, jukebox hummed low. The outside world was locked out, but in here the storm brewed in bourbon, whiskey, smoke, and murmurs among us.
I drifted to the bar, grabbed a bottle, and poured heavy. Burn slid in beside me, silent as ever, folder tucked under his arm like an extra attachment that wouldn’t be removed. Jester followed, grinning wide.