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Jackson pales, eyes widening at the picture I’m painting for him.
“Six minutes, Jackson. If I do it right, that’s all it would take to drain you. I want you to remember that, because the next breath you take in my sister’s direction,” I whisper, “will be your last. You got me?”
“Y-Yeah. I got you, Nick.”
I offer a condescending slap of my palm against his cheek. “Good boy.” Shoving him backward, I allow him to scamper away while I turn to head back toward my trailer.
“Seriously?” I glance up to be met with J’s annoyed stare. She stands before me, hip cocked, her brow curved in a perfect judgmental arch. “I had that under control.”
J’s no stranger to track life. While she doesn’t travel with me, it’s not unusual for our parents to fly out with her during my summer season. Not to mention, before I ever went pro, she spent almost every weekend at the track with me. She grew up around a lot of these guys, so she knows they’re dogs.
“I don’t doubt that for one second, Baby J. You are without a doubt the most badass chick I know. But if I’m around to witness it, you best believe big brother’s handling it.”
“Mmmhmm.” She eyes me skeptically, dropping her voice. “You can’t kill people just for hitting on me, Nick.”
“Baby J, on my list of justifications for killing another human being, that one holds top spot.” It doesn’t escape me that the casual nature with which I’m able discuss taking a life is probably a sign of a much larger underlying psychological issue. If it’s an edge that didn’t benefit me in my current business, it’d probably behoove me to seek professional help.
I may have only founded The Dukes a year and a half ago, but you can’t run a drug organization and not get your hands dirty. I’m not sure what surprised me more, the fact that I was able to gain a handle on the drug trade in the area so quickly at such a young age, or the fact that the occasional bloodshed required of me when someone steps out of line doesn’t faze me in the slightest. If anything, it calms me.
Life’s always moving so fast, coming at me from all angles. To hold another’s in my hands? It shifts the scales, allowing me to regain control.
Most of the idiots slinging drugs in the area were unorganized junkies themselves, aside from Maverick Bishop. As much shit as I give that fucker, I actually don’t mind him. We share a similar belief system when it comes to how we run shit, and if I had to split territory with someone, I’d prefer they have an IQ higher than my sister’s childhood pet hamster, so he’ll do.
He also came in handy earlier this year when we had to snuff out a little problem involving fentanyl-laced product. While I prefer to handle issues myself, that incident resulted in a lot of bodies that needed burying, so I was happy to share the load.
“Listen, Nick.” She pulls my attention back to the present. “If I’m gonna be causing problems here for you, then maybe I should just stay home.”
My beautiful, innocent baby sister completely glosses over the fact that I’ve fucking killed people, instead trying to assume responsibility for my homicidal tendencies. A good man would send her ass home, ensuring she is as far away as possible from my stupid ass. But I’m not a good man, which is only proven when I voice my objection.
“The fuck you will, brat! Who the hell’s gonna work on my bike between motos if you’re home just dickin’ around?”
J rolls her eyes, waving me off. “Yeah, because you couldn’t take this bike apart and put it back together with your eyes closed.”
I could. And in half the time she’s able to.
But between motocross and The Dukes, I barely get to see her as is. If it wasn’t for these visits, our time together would become practically nonexistent. The thought knocks me off kilter, forming an anxiety-ridden knot in the pit of my stomach.
As if she can read my mind, she says, “If I didn’t know any better, big brother, I’d think you miss me.”
“Every damn day.” I smile, extending my hand toward hers. She mimics the action, allowing the tips of our fingers to wiggle against one another as we chant, “Woogity woogity.”
It’s a ridiculous handshake. One we’ve executed almost every time we’re together since the day she first saw it in some old school cartoon. It’s a juvenile tradition…and one I desperately hope she’ll never outgrow.
Motocross seasons are hard. This week we’re actually in New York, but that’s not usually the case. January to August is pretty much nonstop traveling. Race days average once a week, but when you factor in arrival, setup, practice runs, and media, it’s more of a two-day ordeal at minimum, sometimes three. My sponsorships and endorsements make up the vast majority of my legitimate income, and therefore come with their own set of obligations. Photoshoots, interviews, commercials—it’s a fucking circus, but my agent’s pretty good at clustering them into a single week each month. On off days, my team’s traveling to the next event while I’m flying home to Queen City to check on my other business—the one I don’t broadcast to the world. Rico does a good job of keeping things in line when I’m gone, and we talk every day, but I strive not to go longer than three days without making an appearance.
Between shipments, distribution, and day to day operations, I also have to ensure no one makes a play for my somewhat newly established territory. Sure, things are civil between The Dukes and The Rebels, but I don’t need Bishop getting any ideas.
You leave a throne vacant long enough, someone eventually starts eyeing your seat.
“Come on, bro. Let’s get you ready for the next race.” She turns, making her way over to my bike. “How’s it feel?”
“Clutch is slippin’,” I say, coming to stand alongside her. “Started acting up on the last two laps.”
“All right. Pull it onto the trailer. I’ll check the cable.”
“I ever tell you what a great sidekick you are?” I nudge her playfully with my shoulder.
“Bitch, she is main character energy and don’t you ever get it twisted!” The familiar voice has us spinning on our heels, and before I can even fully register her presence, J is launching herself toward her best friend.
