Betting on Stocks (Dead Presidents MC Book 7) Read online

  No he hadn’t seen me limp, because I would gnaw off the inside of my cheek to distract myself from pain before I allowed myself that luxury. I didn’t limp. I worked diligently to make sure I didn’t, and there was no way some failing strip mall manager had noticed my prosthetic leg.

  “Will…,” he gestured at my legs because the bastard still didn’t know which one it was, “your condition keep you from being able to do the job?”

  The job in question was for a night security guard. Duties included sitting on my ass in an office all night while I monitored cameras and tried not to fall asleep from boredom. Due to insurance requirements, any and all suspicious activity was to be reported directly to the police and monitored from the office. If I got the job, my only physical activity would come from the occasional bathroom break so I didn’t piss myself. “No, sir. This seems like the perfect position for me.”

  He nodded and dropped his gaze back to my resume. “And this conviction on your record… Can you tell me what happened?”

  Yet another detail I didn’t want to discuss. “A misunderstanding that resulted in the destruction of private property. I’ve paid my debt.”

  He eyed me, waiting for me to continue, but that was all I had to say on the matter. Any additional information would only obliterate my chances of getting hired. As a country, we support our vets… at least until we’re called upon to hire one suffering from PTSD. No employer wants that kind of liability on their shoulders, regardless of how big their Veteran’s Day sale was.

  After confirming that I’d be okay with the graveyard hours, Mr. Rhodes stood, prompting me to do the same. “I’ve got a few other candidates to interview, but I’ll be in touch if we decide to schedule a second interview.” His tone didn’t sound promising, and I wouldn’t be holding my breath.

  With nothing to lose, I shook his hand, looked him in the eye, and went for broke. “I know I have a record, but I promise you won’t find a harder worker. I’ll show up on time, and I won’t call in unless I’m on my death bed. I need to work, sir. If you offer me this job, I won’t let you down.”

  Nodding, he pulled his hand away. “I’ll take that into consideration.”

  He couldn’t meet my gaze. Knowing there was nothing I could say to change Mr. Rhodes’ mind—or my record—I headed out to drop off more resumes on the way home.

  ***

  By the time I made it back to the fire station, it was early afternoon and the Copper Penny was open for business, so I stopped by the club-owned bar to see Flint, the main manager who sometimes threw work my way. Flint was a good, fair man. He’d served as a captain in the Navy, and he ran his bar like it was his ship. Keeping his shit clean, maintained, organized, and staffed only by the motherfuckers he trusted, leaky faucets and shady employees alike were dealt with swiftly and efficiently.

  Built in the twenties and last renovated sometime in the late seventies, though well-kept, the building itself was dated as hell. Wood floors, wood paneling, and an arched wood ceiling made it look like a lumberjack’s wet dream. The ventilation system was shit, and decades’ worth of patrons had all left their individual scents behind to blend with stringent cleaner, fried food, and the relentless stench of old cigarette smoke. It always took me a few shallow breaths to build up a tolerance to the stench.

  In My Darkest Hour by Megadeth was playing over the speakers as I entered, and I couldn’t help but chuckle. This was far from my darkest hour, but life wasn’t exactly sunshine and roses, either. Desperate to turn my luck around, I slid onto a barstool and waved Flint over. Giving me a nod, he wrapped up his conversation with one of the waitresses and approached.

  “Stocks,” he said by way of greeting, sliding a menu in front of me. “Can I get you something, or are you just here lookin’ for work again?”

  Damn. He made me sound so desperate. I had the menu memorized, so I left it where it was. “Both. A Ruben with fries, please. And a water. You need me tonight?”

  He tapped on the bar. “Not tonight, but we’re planning to close down the bar in a couple of weeks to fix the ventilation system and put in the new floors. Wasp’ll be sending out a text to let everyone know, but if you’re available, we sure could use the help. Pay’s the same.”

  Link and Flint had been pushing for a remodel for a while, and the club had finally saved enough money to make it happen. We’d voted a little over a month ago, and the decision to move forward was unanimous. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who hated the stink of the place.

  “Of course. I’ll be here.” And hopefully Flint would need me before that. A week and a half would be too long to go without work, and nobody seemed to want to hire a one-legged former Marine with a record. “Glad to hear the old place is finally getting those updates.”

  He grinned, splitting his weathered face in half. “Me too. We’ll get this place hoppin’ again, and then we’ll need to hire you on full time.” He set a glass of water down in front of me. “I’ll go put in your order.”

  While I appreciated his enthusiasm, I had no desire to be a full-time bouncer. Still, I’d take whatever I could get. Pulling out my phone to keep me busy while I waited for my food, I realized I had a text from the club princess.

  Naomi: Where are you? Why aren’t you at the fire station?

  She’d kick my ass if she ever found out I referred to her as royalty, even though I never said the nickname aloud. It wasn’t unusual for one of the ol’ ladies to contact me, but it wasn’t exactly common, either. As a prospect, I used to guard them when brothers asked me to, but since Naomi was a former Air Force combat search and rescue pilot, she didn’t much need or appreciate protection. Wondering what she wanted, I messaged her back.

  Me: I’m at the Copper Penny. What’s up?

  Naomi: Stay there. I’ll be over in a minute.

  Finishing off my water, I watched the door. Within minutes, Naomi came barreling in. Her long blonde hair was up in a messy bun and she was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Lips pursed, she zeroed in on me and marched right over, stopping in front of my stool.

  “What are you up to today?” she asked.

  “Currently, I’m waiting on a sandwich. Flint doesn’t need me, so…” I shrugged. “Do you have something you need me to do?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. You and I are driving down to Portland.” She frowned, took a deep breath, and then shook herself. “I mean, please will you accompany me to Portland?”

  Naomi was used to giving orders, so I never took that shit personally. Besides, it was clear to see that something had her riled up. “Sure. When? What’s going on?”

  “Now? Eagle has to work, and Dad and Margo are watching Maya for me. I need to be back before they run out of pumped milk for her. Look, I know this is last minute and everything, but Monica needs us.”

  Her mention of the sexy knock-out who’d rocked my world drew my full attention. “Monica’s in Portland?” The prospect of seeing the self-professed queen again piqued my interest, until everything else Naomi said sunk in. “She needs us? Is she okay?”

  “No.” Naomi leveled a stare at me. “If she was okay, I wouldn’t be here thinking about dragging your ass off this stool so we can get in my car and go to her.” She let out a shaky breath. “Sorry. I’m just… worried. I got a call from her parents and… I’m going to beat the shit out of her. After I make sure she’s okay. Then we’re bringing her here, kicking and screaming if need be, so she can get help, which is why I need you.”

  Nothing Naomi said made sense. She didn’t usually talk in circles like this, but I’d never seen her this rattled. “You think I can help her?”

  Her gaze dropped to my prosthesis, hidden beneath my jeans and sneakers. “Yes. And I don’t fight fair. Monica and I have always had this agreement, a show-no-weaknesses understanding that we held one another to. We could be real with each other, but in front of the rest of the world… emotions make women look moody or unstable. Especially in the military. I saw the way she looked at you at my party, a
nd I know you two hooked up afterwards. I’ll get her to open up, and then you’ll swoop in and remind her she needs to be a badass.”

  The Monica I’d met—the Monica who’d told me she had plans to sit on my face within minutes of meeting me—would never need anyone to remind her of who she was. Her confidence had oozed out of her pores, drawing me in like pheromones. I couldn’t imagine a scenario where she’d need an ego boost. “What happened to her?”

  Flint chose that moment to appear with my food.

  Naomi gave him an impatient smile. “Hey Flint. Can Stocks get that to go? Please?” To me, she added, “I’ll explain on the way.”

  Confused, Flint looked to me. I shrugged. “Apparently I have to go remind a beautiful woman she can still kick my ass.”

  Flint chuckled. “Lucky,” he said as he turned back toward the kitchen.

  Monica

  “GIRLS DON’T FLY for the Air Force.” Uncle Taj was in my face, trying to shove his doubt down my throat but I refused to eat that bullshit. My mom’s little brother had a way of turning even the most relaxed family dinner into an argument, and he didn’t give a single care that he was a grown adult and I was barely thirteen. Hell, that’s probably why he always poked at me. Bullies always went for people they viewed as weaker.

  Younger, but far from fragile, I never backed down from his attacks. “You’re wrong,” I spat back. “Jeannie Leavitt became the first female fighter pilot in 1993, and plenty of others have followed in her footsteps. You can look it up if you don’t believe me.”

  “You can look it up if you don’t believe me,” he mocked with a sneer. “Such a know-it-all. There’s only been a handful of female pilots, and they’ve all been white. Nobody’s gonna let some black girl fly.”

  He was the worst kind of doubter, stabbing at my dreams with a knife he’d fashioned out of ignorance. Knowing he was only trying to rile me up didn’t stop me from reacting. Standing, I braced to do battle for my future. “You’re wrong again. Shawna Rochelle Kimbrell got her wings two years ago and she’s a fighter pilot. Why you comin’ at me with stuff you know nothing about?”

  “Monica, watch your tone,” Mom said, interrupting. I never understood why age demanded respect. Respect should be earned, and Uncle Taj had done nothing to win mine. He was just a miserable scrub who was always hustling my mom for food and money. “Taj, please. She’s been working very hard for this. Don’t—”

  He snorted. “Then she shouldn’t be makin’ shit up. No way they let a black girl in.”

  His ignorance made me angry. “The computers at school have this neat new thing called the internet. It’s like our encyclopedia set, but up-to-date and not missing any volumes.” Not like he’d ever picked up a book in his life, but he might at least know what they were.

  He glared at me. “I know what the internet is. They’re lyin’. Or they’re just tryin’ to get your hopes up. The Air Force sure as shit didn’t put no black girl in the sky. You’re never gonna be a pilot. Odds are better that you won’t even make it through high school without getting knocked up. You should stop fillin’ your head with that bullshit and come back down to the earth with the rest of us. Next thing you know she’s gonna be spoutin’ off about bein’ an astronaut.”

  My dad, who’d been in the bathroom, chose that moment to storm back into the dining room. “Excuse me?” he asked, stopping beside my uncle’s chair. “What did you say to my daughter?”

  Uncle Taj looked to my mom, who usually kept the peace between him and Dad, but she shrugged. “You got yourself into this mess. You need to learn when to keep your opinions to yourself.”

  Uncle Taj took a drink of his beer and softened his toned before saying, “I don’t think it’s good for her to have such crazy dreams.”

  Dad’s eyes iced over. “Get the fuck out.”

  “Martin…” Mom started.

  “No. I don’t care if he is your blood, he does not get to come up in my house, eating my food and drinking my beer, and tell my daughter what she can and can’t do.” He took a step closer, towering over the still seated Uncle Taj. “You haven’t lifted a finger to raise your own kids and you sure as hell won’t tell me how to raise mine. Get the fuck out now.”

  Uncle Taj gaped at him. “I didn’t mean no offense, I just—”

  “Well that’s too damn bad, because I’m offended. We’re her parents, not you. And some lazy, jobless, responsibility shirking bastard like yourself sure as hell won’t be clipping her wings. Get out. You’re not welcome here anymore.”

  My uncle made no move to get up and comply.

  “Don’t test me, Taj. I’ll pick your ass up out of that chair, and if I lay hands on you, I won’t be able to fuckin’ stop.”

  “Taj, leave,” Mom said, her voice low and commanding.

  He must have finally realized the danger he was in, because he stood quickly, knocking back his chair.

  My eight-year-old brother, Damien, dropped his fork. It clattered against his plate and he slapped it onto the table to silence it.

  Uncle Taj opened his mouth to say something else, but Dad flexed, and my uncle thought better of it. “I don’t need this bullshit,” he muttered, stomping toward the front of the house.

  “Yeah? Well don’t come back!” Dad shouted.

  The front door slammed, rattling that entire side of our small house.

  Mom and Dad shared a look.

  “He’s family,” Mom said.

  “Family should know better than talkin’ shit like that.” Still radiating anger, Dad paced the length of our small dining room a few times before stopping to kneel in front of me. “Baby girl, people like your uncle have no drive, no goals, no dreams, no ambition. They don’t know what to make of someone like you. You’re determined and stubborn as hell, and if you want to be a pilot, nobody in this world can stop you, but you.”

  “I know, Daddy.”

  Light blinded me, pulling me from the dream. It had seemed so real, almost like I’d been given a second chance. I could still feel the hope and confidence my thirteen-year-old self felt as I’d faced down my uncle. Missing the hell out of that brave little girl, I reached for my left arm and felt… nothing. It was still gone.

  Just like my dreams.

  Just like my future.

  “It stinks in here,” Mom said, throwing open my window.

  Well, not technically “my” window since I’d sold my house back in New Mexico, and was now staying in my childhood bedroom in Portland, Oregon until I found a place of my own.

  “You know what you need? Sunshine and fresh air. When’s the last time you set foot out of this room?”

  Squeezing my eyes closed against the brightness, I replied, “I went to the bathroom a few hours ago.”

  She sniffed the air. “Well, you clearly didn’t take a shower. This room smells like my car did that one time we had to squeeze your brother and four of his teammates into our car after that football game when their bus broke down.”

  I remembered the car ride well, and was sure my nose hairs were still singed from it. “You’re being dramatic. It’s not that bad.”

  “Trust me, it is. A skunk can’t smell itself. Are you sure your arm’s not infected? Of course, you wouldn’t know if it was since you skipped another doctor’s appointment.”

  “That was today?” I asked lamely. Using ignorance as defense was garbage, but I wasn’t exactly playing with a full deck.

  “You know full well it was today, because I woke you up and reminded you before I left for work.”

  That seemed like a week ago or maybe last year. All the days were blurring together.

  “I asked if you needed a ride—”

  “I can drive, Mom.” Not a jet, but I could manage a car one-handed. I wasn’t a complete invalid.

  “That’s what you said this morning, yet here we are. You missed another appointment. Monica, you promised me you’d be okay, and you’re not.” The bed dipped as she sat next to me. “It’s been almost two months since
the accident, and you still haven’t gone in to get fitted for your prosthetic. It’s like you’ve given up, and you’re breaking my heart. Baby, you’re not okay, and it’s time to face that fact and have a conversation about what to do now.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She sighed. “You never do. You’re every bit as stubborn as my mama was, God rest her soul. I begged that woman to go to the doctor for years and by the time she finally listened to me and went, it was too late.”

  I’d heard the story dozens of times. My grandmother had died of cancer when I was a child, and I could never tell if Mom was taking credit for knowing Grandma was sick or threatening to curse me with my own bout of disease if I didn’t listen to her. “I don’t have cancer, Mom.”

  “No. Your problem’s much deeper than Mama’s. You need to talk to someone… go see a counselor so you can sort through this mess and move on with your life. Baby, we’re worried about you.”

  Unable to handle the concern in her voice, my suddenly bright room, the early spring draft coming from the now open window, and life in general, I rolled over and tugged the blanket up over my head. “I’m tired, Mom. I just need to sleep.”

  “Impossible. No way you can be tired, since you’ve been sleeping for three weeks straight. You’ve barely left that bed since we came home. You’re not eating, you smell like a week-old ham sandwich, and you haven’t contacted any of your old friends to let them know you’re home. You’re wasting away. You need to get your behind out of that bed and do something with yourself.”

  I was in a love affair with my bed and had no desire to change that relationship status. What was the point of getting up when I’d never be able to fly again? There was nothing I wanted to do now. Not a damn thing. Sleep seemed like my best option. At least in my dreams, I still had both arms and the memory of doing what I loved. Waking up sucked ass. “Just a little longer. I’ll get up in a few hours,” I lied. “Rest is important for the healing process.”

  “You know what else is important for the healing process? Going to your doctor’s appointments. You promised me you’d make this one. You lied, Monica Rene.”