Through a Glass, Darkly (Assassins of Youth MC #1) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Layla Wolfe
by limitless vistas. You felt like you owned the land. God had given it to you.
Maybe I was becoming sappy, hanging around those polygs. All of Mr. Chiles’ talk about how he was sealed to his wives for all eternity, and all of that blather. But suddenly I wanted to make my name ring in the streets with this job. I’d be the best damned gun runner the club had ever seen. Papa Ewey would welcome me back with open arms and maybe even a promotion in the club.
And just maybe that woman Mahalia had gotten under my skin. Her eyes were so round, so haunted with something she’d seen. Or maybe just the horrendous life she had to live every day. Fuck, those women were subjugated. They were so defeated they folded their hands and bowed their heads when spoken to by a man. Plus, she had a balcony you could do Shakespeare from, under the severity of that old-fangled, prim red dress.
I’d actually gotten a bit hot and uncomfortable under the warmth of her gaze. Aside from the fact that Mr. Chiles was at least sixty years old—a man was allowed to do what he was able to get away with, after all—it was just downright gross thinking of him putting his hoary old wiener anywhere close to that creamy, café au lait skin. She was part Native American, maybe Navajo, with her high cheekbones and sad eyes.
I knew right off the bat I had a savior complex. Like little kids playing Superman, I wanted to sweep in with my cape and take Mahalia off to—where? Who the fuck was I kidding? I had a nice enough home in Bullhead City, being the manager of the quarry and all. But I was in love, or so I thought, with Chelsea, the old lady of Papa Ewey.
Yeah. You heard right. That’s probably why I was sent on this asinine run, come to think of it. A couple days before he’d ordered me out here, a Prospect had caught Chelsea and me grinding crotches up against the door of the woman’s room in our clubhouse. Hell, we were leaning against the fucking door! Why was the guy shoving and pushing, anyway? We sort of fell back against the toilet—me banging my head like a son of a bitch—and that fucking Prospect was all over it like boom on an A-bomb. The guy couldn’t wait to score his little fucking brownie points and sob to Papa Ewey and, well, the long and the short of it was, I wasn’t out bad, but I was at least exiled bad.
Papa Ewey took away my cell so I couldn’t keep in touch with Chelsea. I’d heard he’d beaten Chelsea pretty roundly, just like I heard Allred Lee Chiles beat his women, too. Maybe I was a sucker for a downtrodden woman. Maybe I liked to think of myself as a guardian angel. But I didn’t dare show my face in Bullhead until I’d made this exchange with Chiles a success.
Maybe I was transferring my protective feelings from Chelsea onto Mahalia. I’d been thinking about the stunning maid with the honey glow more and more often. I felt no shame. I’d already been caught macking on another guy’s woman. Might as well push up on two. I must have a penchant for it. Although of the two ladies, Mahalia was by far the most forbidden. And that was saying a lot.
Now I’d been leaving messages for Chelsea from Chiles’ burner, something that made me wonder if I wasn’t too dumb to pour piss out of a boot with the instructions written on the heel. I mean, I thought it was safe because only Chiles knew the number and he wouldn’t give a shit if I had a side bitch. Papa Ewey couldn’t track it. But Papa Ewey sure as shit could track incoming calls to Chelsea’s phone.
“I want you to stay embedded up there and wait for the guns to come to you.”
My jaw hung low. I had to make Papa Ewey repeat it because I was sure I’d heard wrong.
“I want you to wait for the iron to make its way to you. Should take two, three weeks. Our man Bagrat in San Diego said there was a slight glitch with the shipping manifest and they have to try again.”
I paced like a caged maniac in front of the hotel’s dumpster. I couldn’t protest
Maybe I was becoming sappy, hanging around those polygs. All of Mr. Chiles’ talk about how he was sealed to his wives for all eternity, and all of that blather. But suddenly I wanted to make my name ring in the streets with this job. I’d be the best damned gun runner the club had ever seen. Papa Ewey would welcome me back with open arms and maybe even a promotion in the club.
And just maybe that woman Mahalia had gotten under my skin. Her eyes were so round, so haunted with something she’d seen. Or maybe just the horrendous life she had to live every day. Fuck, those women were subjugated. They were so defeated they folded their hands and bowed their heads when spoken to by a man. Plus, she had a balcony you could do Shakespeare from, under the severity of that old-fangled, prim red dress.
I’d actually gotten a bit hot and uncomfortable under the warmth of her gaze. Aside from the fact that Mr. Chiles was at least sixty years old—a man was allowed to do what he was able to get away with, after all—it was just downright gross thinking of him putting his hoary old wiener anywhere close to that creamy, café au lait skin. She was part Native American, maybe Navajo, with her high cheekbones and sad eyes.
I knew right off the bat I had a savior complex. Like little kids playing Superman, I wanted to sweep in with my cape and take Mahalia off to—where? Who the fuck was I kidding? I had a nice enough home in Bullhead City, being the manager of the quarry and all. But I was in love, or so I thought, with Chelsea, the old lady of Papa Ewey.
Yeah. You heard right. That’s probably why I was sent on this asinine run, come to think of it. A couple days before he’d ordered me out here, a Prospect had caught Chelsea and me grinding crotches up against the door of the woman’s room in our clubhouse. Hell, we were leaning against the fucking door! Why was the guy shoving and pushing, anyway? We sort of fell back against the toilet—me banging my head like a son of a bitch—and that fucking Prospect was all over it like boom on an A-bomb. The guy couldn’t wait to score his little fucking brownie points and sob to Papa Ewey and, well, the long and the short of it was, I wasn’t out bad, but I was at least exiled bad.
Papa Ewey took away my cell so I couldn’t keep in touch with Chelsea. I’d heard he’d beaten Chelsea pretty roundly, just like I heard Allred Lee Chiles beat his women, too. Maybe I was a sucker for a downtrodden woman. Maybe I liked to think of myself as a guardian angel. But I didn’t dare show my face in Bullhead until I’d made this exchange with Chiles a success.
Maybe I was transferring my protective feelings from Chelsea onto Mahalia. I’d been thinking about the stunning maid with the honey glow more and more often. I felt no shame. I’d already been caught macking on another guy’s woman. Might as well push up on two. I must have a penchant for it. Although of the two ladies, Mahalia was by far the most forbidden. And that was saying a lot.
Now I’d been leaving messages for Chelsea from Chiles’ burner, something that made me wonder if I wasn’t too dumb to pour piss out of a boot with the instructions written on the heel. I mean, I thought it was safe because only Chiles knew the number and he wouldn’t give a shit if I had a side bitch. Papa Ewey couldn’t track it. But Papa Ewey sure as shit could track incoming calls to Chelsea’s phone.
“I want you to stay embedded up there and wait for the guns to come to you.”
My jaw hung low. I had to make Papa Ewey repeat it because I was sure I’d heard wrong.
“I want you to wait for the iron to make its way to you. Should take two, three weeks. Our man Bagrat in San Diego said there was a slight glitch with the shipping manifest and they have to try again.”
I paced like a caged maniac in front of the hotel’s dumpster. I couldn’t protest