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“Nice to see you too, Bishop.” I shoulder past him into the conference room, dropping into one of the high-back leather chairs.
Bringing my Doc Martins up to rest on the dark wooden surface, I shift the brim of my white baseball cap to the back before sipping on my coffee. I’m about to lean forward to place my cup on the table when I notice Maverick looming over me.
“Something on your mind, cupcake?”
Mav’s lit cigarette now dangles from his lips as he looks at me like I’m batshit crazy. “What the fuck are you wearing?”
I glance down at the oversized cable knit dark green cardigan covered in gold cheetah print I’m rocking. It hangs open, exposing a plain white V-neck tee that I’ve paired with black skinny jeans.
“Clothes?” Compared to a lot of things I have in my closet, this is pretty tame.
Mav’s right brow, the one with the scar slicing through it, arches accusingly. “Is that what you wore to the meeting today with Hector?”
“No, dick. I wore a fucking suit. However, I had a free hour to kill before this little rendezvous of ours, and nothing else on the books for the day, so I ran home to change. That okay with you?”
Mav shakes his head, muttering something to himself as he waves me off. “There ain’t nothin’ okay about that sweater, Nick.” He rounds the table, dropping down into the chair across from me before snubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray in front of him.
“Never took you for such a hater.” I laugh, reclining in my seat as I stare at the man who couldn’t be more my opposite.
Maverick Bishop—Club owner. Drug dealer. Former gun runner. Leader of the Renegade Rebels.
While close in age and height—we both clock in right around 6’4”—that’s the extent of our similarities. Mav’s a wall of broad solid muscle, his skin drenched in intricate tattoos that sprawl around his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt, only to reappear on the backs of his hands.
I, on the other hand, while still muscular, am much leaner than Mav. Just the nature of the game in the motocross world. My skin is a blank canvas, save for the interlocking crowns I have tatted on my forearm for my baby sister. Well, and the one other. But no one knows about that one.
“Not hatin’.” A few strands of his dark hair drop in front of his eyes, and he swipes at them, slicking them back into place. “Just stating the obvious. Gotta say, though, that’s OG Nicky C. style right there. Been a minute since I’ve seen you out and about in stuff like that.”
He isn’t wrong. My style back in the day was possibly the only creative liberty I allowed myself. I’ve always been partial to less conventional pieces. Leather, pops of color, vintage, bold prints—I have a pretty distinguished taste. One of the benefits to not giving a shit about what others think is you aren’t deterred by whether anyone else likes your style. Ironically, that actually gave me an edge in high school, and even helped cement my brand as a professional athlete. Fueled the whole rebel without a cause image I was projecting. However, in our shift from small time to international drug trade, we both had to make concessions. Apparently, suits aren’t optional when playing Scarface.
If you’re gonna talk the talk, you gotta walk the walk.
The sacrifice was greater on my end, by far. If Mav ever wore a color other than black, I’d die of literal shock. Man went from black tees and ripped black jeans to black-on-black Armani suits. If anything, it was an upgrade.
“Yeah, well, it’s rare I don’t have a meeting I’m running off to, so I figured I’d seize the moment and opt for a dress-down day. Plus, Baby J got me this for Christmas, and I been wanting to wear it.” I catch myself a second too late, my eyes slipping closed with regret as my mouth snaps shut. “Fuck, man,” I exhale. “My bad. I’m having an off day.”
Mav shakes his head, attempting to act unfazed. Like the mere mention of my baby sister doesn’t gut him. “Don’t know why you’re apologizing. Your family’s shopping selections don’t got shit to do with me or this meeting.”
To anyone else, I’m sure they’d buy that act all day long, but I see the shift in him almost instantly. Mav’s previously relaxed body is suddenly taut with tension. His jaw tightens, a clear struggle to maintain a neutral affect, as he begins absentmindedly flexing his fingers. I shouldn’t give a shit, but the image claws at my chest, appealing to a sense of humanity buried within me that I wish I didn’t possess.
I think of Jonsie, across the country, and wonder if she experiences a similar reaction when she’s reminded of the man before me. I want to believe she doesn’t, that day to day life is fun and fulfilling, and pray the face of Maverick Bishop doesn’t haunt her dreams. But as quickly as those thoughts run through my mind, I dismiss them like the lies I know them to be.
That underlying humanity of mine momentarily shifts into a conscience, and I find myself considering an offering that has me questioning my sanity.
Don’t do it, Nick. Don’t.
Against my better judgment, I decide to throw him a bone. Dropping my feet to the floor, I lean my elbows atop the table, inclining my body forward.
“Okay, listen. I will give you one Jonsie-related update if you want it.” His head snaps up, his typically lifeless eyes suddenly flooding with interest. I half expect the poor son of a bitch to start salivating. “It can be random or a single question of your choosing, but that’s it. Once you have it, all rules relating to my sister are still in full effect. You got me? Choose wisely.”
Mav sits silent for a moment, his attention drifting off far beyond the confines of this room. Sinking back in my chair, I await his response, curious as to what he’ll ask. After three and a half years away from my sister, what’s the one thing he’s dying to know?
Reaching into his jacket, Mav removes his pack of cigarettes along with a silver Zippo. I recognize it as the one he always carries. Flipping open the pack, he pulls one of the tiny tobacco sticks free with his teeth before tossing the box onto the sleek wooden surface of the conference table. He doesn’t move to light it right away. Instead, he stares thoughtfully down at the lighter, his thumb rubbing circles over the smooth metal surface. In a single fluid motion, Mav flicks it open and sparks it, tilting his head toward the flame.
He inhales deep, briefly withholding the smoke before expelling a cloud into the air on a resigned sigh. “Let’s get a move on here. I got other places to be.”
“What?” I don’t bother attempting to mask my shock. “You’re telling me you seriously don’t want to know anything about J right now?”
“Your sister is your business, Nick. I got my hands full with my own woman. I don’t need to be worrying about another one.” He takes another pull from his cigarette, and for some reason his indifference surrounding my sister surprisingly irritates me.
