Bastard pulled himself out of bed around four a.m. after thinking his alarm was part of a dream. His body was leaden and dull, actively protesting the early rising after having stayed up so late to see Kit’s show. He wouldn’t have missed it for the world though, even though it was yet another night without talking to her, without touching her.
Just being able to watch her in her element was worth the bleary start to his day. He yawned, stumbling to the bathroom. He’d need an extra huge coffee if he expected to make it to Mexico that afternoon, though the crisp morning air was sure to help wake him up too.
He splashed water on his face, his mind wandering as it always did now to Kit. She consumed him. Wondering what she was doing, if she was feeling okay, whether or not she’d made any big decisions that might affect…whatever this was.
She didn’t know it yet, but she wasn’t gonna shake him so easily. The moment he decided to show up to her dressing room, he’d known Kit was for him. And once she found out she was pregnant, he’d known it was forever.
It didn’t scare him, either. Not like he thought it might. Because what he hadn’t realized back then was that it wasn’t just about him anymore. Even if it was scary, it didn’t matter. Life had to be lived.
Bastard splashed water on his face, a shiver racing up his spine. Kit had a protector, whether she wanted him or not. And he’d be making sure his girl and his unborn baby were safe.
He hurried through the quiet clubhouse, ready to feel the cool air on his cheeks and get some miles behind him on this trip. Truth was, he didn’t want to head to Mexico right now. He wanted to stick around LA and keep an eye on Kit. But this run had a high payout, and if he needed anything right now, it was money to convince Kit that he could be stable. That he could help provide for her and this kid, at least on the front end while she looked for a doctor and shit like that.
Outside, the early morning air was bruise purple and almost churning into dawn. He headed around to the back of the clubhouse to the garage, where his international chariot awaited: Mick’s Plumbing, the trusty van that had smuggled immeasurable amounts of contraband between countries. Bastard tended to cross only on days that he knew a specific border agent was working. The relationship ensured things flowed more smoothly, made for fewer hiccups and less time spent scanning the vehicle.
The van rumbled to life, breaking the eerie stillness of the dawn. He looked behind him, into the outfitted van, full of equipment and harnesses and all manner of plumber paraphernalia that was routinely never used. Off to the side, three black duffel bags were tucked between toolboxes. That’s where the money was.
He double checked the glovebox for the regular documents—the passport with his fake identity as Mick Rowland, vehicle registration, paperwork showing the registration of the business, and even the invoice for this purported plumbing trip for those extra curious border agents. He’d made this trip so many times that he could rattle off the numbers of Mick’s passport, something he couldn’t even do for his actual passport.
Bastard waited until he was out of the early morning LA traffic and coming up on Huntington Beach before he pulled over to gas up and grab his coffee. And even though it didn’t make sense, he checked his phone compulsively to see if Kit had called or texted. Even though surely she was asleep; even though he had a snowball’s chance in hell that she would reach out to him so soon.
The trip south down the coastline was pleasant enough. Once daybreak hit, Bastard remembered what he loved about this part of the country. Husky red hues ripped across the sky, illuminating streaks of clouds in the growing light. The ocean off to the west looked deceptively calm and alluring in the morning rays. He smiled out at the water. This was one of his favorite times of day to catch.
If only Kit were here to see this with you.
The smile faded from his face. Their carefree days down the Oregon coast still haunted him, feeling like a fantasy more than his past. He hadn’t known it was possible to feel so free and open with someone. And maybe it was because he had never met the right someone before.
Come on, Peach. Call me. I just want to hear your voice.
The thought replayed in his head like a mantra all the way to the border, or maybe more like a desperate plea. He wanted to tell her where he was going, that he was about to make money to support them, that she didn’t have to worry about being a single mom. He would reassure her as much as she needed; remind her that he wasn’t going anywhere. And then he’d confess all the things he’d been imagining about the two of them, the fantasies ranging from sweet to lurid, from the back of his bike to against the wall of her dressing room after a gig.
Bastard cleared his throat, his cock pressed against the fly of his jeans. He knew better than to let his mind wander when it came to Kit. And jacking off while heading to the border crossing didn’t seem like a particularly smart way to celebrate his crossing into Mexico.
Besides, there was something deep inside that liked the idea of waiting for her. Only for her. It might drive him crazy, it might even kick off a dry spell…but if he was in, he was going all in. Their night at the clubhouse was perfect jackoff material. Feeling her silky pussy come crashing down around him was like coming home in a way he hadn’t known was possible. He only wanted her; wanted that. His hand could only satisfy him for so long. But he didn’t want anyone else either.
Just his Peach.
The border station was more backed up than he’d expected. He crept through the line at a glacial pace, and by the time he made it up to the agent he was all but waved through. On the other side of the border, the air hit him dryer and freer, the late morning imbued with a sense of triumph that he couldn’t entirely explain. As his pace slowed nearing Tijuana, the vowels of Spanish began to reach him, the smell of corn tortillas, the hustle and bustle of a foreign country that was so close yet so different.
The Calicos had their headquarters on the outskirts of Tijuana, another place he could navigate to in his sleep if he had to. Once he made it through the city center and waved off enough panhandlers trying to sell him magazines and gum, he finally crested the familiar dirt road and gunned it, enjoying the flare of dust behind him.
When he pulled up to the heavily fenced compound, two armed guards approached him wielding AK 47’s.
“Para quien vienes?” Their steely eyes and overloaded guns didn’t scare him. They had to treat every visitor this way.
“Miguel Amaya del los Lobos.” His Spanish wasn’t great, but he knew enough to handle basic conversation and questioning. And in any sticky situation, dropping the code name of the Calico boss would grant him easy access.
The guards shared a glance and then nodded. The wrought iron gate protecting the entry road swung backwards slowly. Bastard inched forward as a guard signaled to someone else down the road. Usually they would point him in the right direction. After all, when half a million dollars were on the line, they knew where to send him.
He drove town the winding asphalt road cutting across dusty, burnt land dappled with cacti and bushes. Guards waved him onward, around corners, until finally he reached a small cement block warehouse, something comically contrary to the other more grandiose buildings on the property. Bastard parked by an open garage door and pushed out, groaning as he stretched his legs.
Miguel sauntered out of the warehouse a moment later, sweat shining on his forehead. It had to be close to a hundred degrees already at noon.
“You’ve arrived.” Miguel smiled broadly, a gold tooth glinting in the sun.
“Mick’s Plumbing at your service,” Bastard cracked. “For all those toilet problems you’ve been having.”
Miguel laughed, gesturing him inside. “Please. You must look at these pipes. They are absolutely broken.”
Bastard pulled the duffel bags out of the back of the van before following him into the warehouse.
Inside it was only slightly cooler, with enormous fans whirring at each corner of the warehouse roof. Most of the contents warehouse was obscured behind makeshift walls, so Bastard couldn’t see what, exactly, went on in here. But judging by the wall of armed guards standing nearby, it probably had to do with cocaine.
“Come. Let’s sit. So we can talk about the plumbing.” Miguel sent him a mischievous look, waving him toward a long table flanked with chairs. As they sat near the end of the table, Miguel waved toward one of the guards, sending a curt whistle.
Bastard set the three duffel bags on the table. Miguel’s eyes glazed over immediately. They both knew this song and dance well. Hell, Bastard had been here enough to be invited to dinner once. Had the best tamales of his life with Miguel and his family of employees and blood relatives.
“This has been our biggest order yet.” Bastard unzipped each duffel bag in turn, slowly revealing the crisp stacks of bills, stacked by the hundreds. “You know that the Damned Devils only do business with you. You’re the only guy we trust.”
“And we are forever grateful,” Miguel murmured, nodding slowly as Bastard peeled the last bag open. Bastard tapped his finger against the table. It was a little painful to leave so much money behind…but the MC would only turn it into so much more profit down the road. As long as they kept their heads down and their contacts vetted.
“Count it. Please.” This was another part of the familiar shuffle. Miguel would count one bag, and leave the rest to their friendship, a sign of good faith. Bastard sat back in the folding chair while Miguel brought out every stack from the duffel bag, arranging them meticulously in front of him. His white wife beater stuck to his chest in spots, sweat making his caramel skin look glossy. Bastard crossed an ankle over his knee, smiling as Miguel made his way through the stacks.
“Very good.” Miguel nodded, replacing all the stacks inside the duffel bag. “This one has two hundred thousand. I assume the other two are equal.” The zipper hissed as he closed the bag. “No need to count, since I trust our friendship so much.”
Bastard leaned forward, offering a hand. The Damned Devils would forever support the Calicos; it was one of the few stable alliances in the MC world. “It’s a joy to work with you, Miguel. You know, you have to let us know if you come to L.A. Some of the other brothers want to meet you. You’re famous, you know.”
Miguel’s crooked smile glinted. He whistled to the guards, who shuffled off. “You know I don’t make trips north.”
“Yeah, but someday. If you ever change your mind.”
Miguel sighed, resting his palms behind his hand. “That reminds me. I’ve been thinking about our…arrangement.”
Bastard cracked a knuckle. “Oh yeah?”
“We want you down here more often. Is there any way we could rent you out from your president?” Miguel’s smile widened just as the guards returned with a large crate. The product. Miguel pried it open, one of the walls falling away. Inside, neat plastic packages were stacked.
Bastard laughed, assessing the goods. “I’m not sure I’m up for rent.”
Miguel’s smile fell. “But would you consider working more with us down here?”
Bastard blinked, letting the request sink in. “What do you need done?”
“We’re a growing operation,” Miguel said. “We need more hands, but more importantly, more trusted hands. I feel like you are one of the family, Bastardo. There would be runs, deliveries. But you could help us reach out to other gringos like yourself. You could be the perfect link.”
Bastard rolled his knuckles against the tabletop. When he didn’t agree, Miguel added, “We would pay you. Handsomely.”
Bastard sighed, deflating slightly. If this were even two months ago, he would have agreed outright. This was the benefit of being a nomad: he could get into MC favorable business on his own behalf, take up residency between Tijuana and LA.
But now? The offer reeked of trouble down the road. Not because of the Calicos…but because of Bastard. If he took this gig and it went south, it wasn’t just his life on the line. There was so much more at stake now.
“I don’t know, Miguel.” Bastard squinted up at him. “I have a family now. Or I will…soon. I just don’t think my girl would like it much if I’m gone more.”
Miguel’s jaw flexed as he watched him for a moment. And he nodded, chair scraping against the cement floor as he leaned forward. “You are a family man now. That is admirable.”
“We just found out she’s pregnant,” Bastard said in a low voice, offering a small smile. “I can’t fuck this up. I need to be there for her.”
Miguel reached out, squeezing his shoulder. “Understood. I know what it is to worry endlessly about kids. I have three of them, and they give me heart attacks.” He laughed. “But remember…if you ever change your mind…”
Bastard nodded. “Right. Trust me, if this was earlier, I would have agreed on the spot.”
Miguel looked a little disappointed, sniffing as he pushed to standing. “So, does the box look good or what, amigo?”
“Looks like the high-grade rock we’ve come to expect.” Bastard stood as well, offering his hand again. Miguel clasped it firmly, looking deeply into his eyes.
“Be careful going back,” he said in a low voice. “I’ve cleared the way for you as much as I can, as always.”
“Of course.”
“And here…take this.” Miguel reached into the back pocket of his jeans, whipping out a wad of money. He thumbed through the bills. A tip was standard procedure, but today Miguel had pure hundreds. And it looked like he was counting out a far higher number than usual.
“A tip. For your family.” Miguel pressed a wad into his hands. “Be safe, sell the product, and we’ll see you again soon amigo.”
Bastard gaped down at the money in his hand. It had to be a grand, at least, just at first glance. But maybe much more. “Wh…thank you.”
“It is nothing.” Miguel waved him off, heading toward the recesses of the warehouse. “I see you next month.”
Bastard waved, scooping up the crate before heading for the van. With the sun beating down his back, he flipped through the bills. Twelve hundred dollars. He stuffed it hastily into his front pocket, heart racing. Normally he got four hundred as a tip, if he was lucky. Tip money was always his, not discussed or shared with the brothers, which meant he had another payout from Rock waiting for him once he got back.
Between the tip and the payout, Bastard already had half of Kit’s pregnancy paid for.
I told you Peach. I’m gonna take care of you.