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The one Devil’s Rebel in the room, who’d gone with them to pick up Sel and Bennie, said, “Kirk’s and Mal’s issues have been resolved, so they’ll be here soon.”
“Not to worry,” Dante said. “Their Denver business comes first to them. I understand them staying in Denver. They’ve already moved their entire lives once, from LA. If you and whoever else can deal with anything that comes up, it’s fine by me.”
He was a grizzled man who looked like he’d been to hell and back with a bald spot on the back of his head, but the hair he had was long and shaggy, much like the two teeth left in his mouth. “You know them, Dante. Kirk can’t handle business with the club happening without his immediate input.”
“I do know that.”
Indio Baca looked pointedly at Sel as he asked Dante, “Dante, uh, I get he’s related, but should he be here to discuss club business with you?”
Sel winced, thinking Dante would tear the man a new one, but he was as diplomatic as ever. “Indio, if he wasn’t trustworthy, he wouldn’t be here. He’s working to become the head of my organization someday. If we’re all alive by then, we’ll be in business directly with him. I suggest everyone learn his name and to trust him.”
Knowing that was all that was needed, Sel relaxed, but Indio glared at him for another moment before he said to Dante, “Fair enough.” He finally dragged his eyes from Sel and glanced around the room. “We are here for the Carrillos, for sure, and we don’t plan to leave anytime soon. Dante, his brother and…” Again, a brush of his hateful glare in Sel’s direction before he went on, “This one, are our partners. The problem is, there are a couple of clubs that run Montana. As long as we’re on this property, we’re golden, but not all the guys are going to want to stay on this property all the time. Not all the Aztecas or Rebels are gay.”
Dante nodded, then walked over to the small bar in the corner that was just a table with bottles of booze on it and plastic cups. He poured himself a scotch as he asked everyone else if they wanted anything.
“I’ll get them, Dante,” Bruno said, then took Dante’s place when Dante stepped away with the red Solo cup in his hand.
“That’s perfectly understandable,” Dante said, looking into the cup while he swirled it. “I wouldn’t expect them to be stuck here. What will the clubs need from me?”
“Incentives,” Indio said without hesitation. “Guns, the pass on the meth distribution that I hear is pretty heavy around the state.”
Growling a little, Dante told him, “You know, everyone knows I hate that shit. I refuse to come here and stir things that have already been simmering, Indio, but I won’t contribute.”
“That’s all I’m asking. My club or the Rebels aren’t into it, which is a plus for us. We don’t want them to think we’re moving into their territory to take over the drug trade.”
“Weapons, however, are up for grabs? That doesn’t seem likely.”
Sel hated the thought of guns, but he couldn’t deny his family had been using them, selling them, buying them, and running them for the entirety of the organization's lifetime.
Indio carefully looked to him, as if reading his mind. “The new generation doesn’t much like guns. How are you planning to deal with them once you’re running things?”
The first time he’d been pushed for an opinion from an associate of the family, he was at a loss for an answer. With everyone watching him for a reaction, even before he answered, Sel knew if he said the wrong thing or even looked uncomfortable, he’d never have the respect of the men in that room.
Rising from his seat, he knew the only way to deal with hard men was to be harder than they were. Unfortunately, he’d had very little reason to be hard in his life. His hardest moments were keeping his younger, more hyper siblings in line.
The good thing about that was he’d learned to think quickly. He moved to Bruno, who had just given out the last drink to Marius, held out his hand and asked, “May I use your gun, Bruno?”
As he knew he would, Bruno looked away from him, pointedly to Dante. Dante chuckled dryly, “Do it, Bruno, thank you.”
After unsnapping his holster, Bruno pulled the gun from it and laid it in Sel’s hand.
“Thank you, Bruno,” Sel said, then his eye caught the stack of red Solo cups on the little table. He grabbed a stack and started for the front door, calling back to Indio Baca, “Come and see, Mr. Baca.”
The entire room followed him outside and Sel saw the motorcycles that stood at the far end of the driveway.
The thoughts in his mind were insane, and if he made one little mistake, not only would Dante lose any respect for him, but they all would, and Indio would likely want him dead.
Go big…or go home. And Sel had no intention of going home.
He went to the motorcycle and set a line of the cups over the seat, fender and gas tank, then he walked back to the steps of the porch, the porch where all the men were standing behind the rail, and he glanced at Indio and asked, “That’s your bike, right?”
“It is,” he said, his mouth a thin slash of pissed off. Sel barely saw it through the thick facial hair, but he saw it, nonetheless.
Never in his life had he been allowed to fire a gun. He knew it was a Sig Sauer .357 with a ten-round clip, but he hoped he only needed the five bullets.
He pointed the gun at the first cup on the fender and heard Indio tell Dante, “Your nephew so much as scratches my paint, we’ve got issues, Dante.”
Dante simply chuckled, but Sel knew if he fucked up, he’d be on a plane back to LA so fast, he wouldn’t be able to so much as apologize.
