Sin: How’s shit going down there? You still sober?
Me: Yeah. Things with Keira ain’t that great, but that’s to be expected. Sobriety? Meh. I’m doing okay.
Sin: Don’t fuck it up again, Storm. Your ass is too far away from the Fridge for Rex to haul it in there.
I’d wasted too many fucking nights in that goddamn hellhole.
Me: Got too much to lose if I fuck it up this time, Sin. Don’t worry.
Sin: I stay up all night worrying about you fuckers. It’s my job.
A knock at the door sounded a couple seconds later, and I rolled my eyes and called out, "Come in."
Me: GTG. Speak later, bro.
Sin: Gotcha.
Sweet Lips’ head bobbed around the door and he said, "Got a minute?"
"I do." I rocked back in my chair. "Got any news for me?"
He waggled some papers in his hand. "Sure do."
"Slayer been over them as well?"
"Yeah. We went through this together. I didn’t want to fuck up right from the start."
"I appreciate the care and attention."
I wasn’t bullshitting him either. I really fucking did. There was nothing worse than half-baked ideas that hadn’t been costed or analyzed.
Poor fucking Rex.
More often than not, my ass had been too strung up to do much more than coast. The only consolation was the fact that I wasn’t a dumbfuck so my coasting was someone else’s version of a hot shit day.
Sweet Lips made a crinkling noise as he walked toward me, and when he leaned over the desk, something fell out of the pocket in his hoodie.
"Cow Tales? Really?"
His grin was sheepish. "How do you think I earned the name?"
I grinned back, because here I was, thinking his road name was about his skills as a kisser, and it was because the fucker was addicted to candy.
He plunked the files on the table as he snatched up the treat. Hesitating for a second, he asked, "You want one?"
I arched a brow but nodded and accepted it. Shoving open one of the folders, I opened the wrapper and took a bite.
Scanning the details of the first building, I asked, "Why are the owners selling?"
As far as I could see, the diner had a nice little turnover. There appeared to be no reason to sell.
"Because they’re retirin’. Fred and Wilma—"
I snorted. "Seriously?"
He smirked. "Seriously. I think they came before the Flintstones though. They’re fucking dinosaurs, that’s for sure."
"I’ll bet."
"Like I said, they’re real old, and no one’s got the money to buy ‘em out."
"Why not?"
"Two years ago, there were three factories that served the area. Provided a lot of employment for the county. Then two went broke and dumped a lot of people on their asses. It fucked with things."
"Diner’s turnover says otherwise." There hadn’t even been a blip two years ago when he said those factories had closed down.
"They’re famous."
"What for?"
"That blond guy, the dude with the spikes, from the Food Network, rolled into town five years ago. Put them on the map for their pies." He shrugged. "One of the reasons we get a lot of tourists here."
"You shitting me?"
"Nope. There are folks who go around visitin’ all the places he ate at."
"Huh."
Turning another page, I found some numbers that I had to assume weren’t from Fred and Wilma. Shit like cost breakdowns and estimates of monthly expenditure.
Impressed, I asked, "How’d you work this out?"
"Lot of googling," he said wryly. "Slayer and I might have gone gray trying to do it as well. I tried to get the information from Fred but he can be a close-mouthed fucker when he wants to be. Their pie recipe might as well be a state secret. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s fucking epic so I can’t blame them for being cagey."
"But it’s why he wouldn’t tell you how much sugar, butter, and flour he buys, right?" I laughed a little. "Good old-fashioned industrial espionage. Been classed as many things but not a thief of pie recipes."
"I know, right? I told him, ‘Fred, do I look like I wanna undercut you, man? But I got a boss, and he wants to know if this place is profitable.’"
"What did he say?"
"Told me to go and buy a slice of pie and that’d remind me why they’re on the map."
"Sounds like a good guy."
"He’s a pain in the ass, but he’s a town institution. So’s Pies You Like It."
"I’ll bet." I eyed the asking figure, thought about what was in the bank account, and what Rex had said we could use to invest as a means of laundering our dough, and nodded. "You sure they’re busy?"
"Always. Always fucking busy. It’s why they’re retirin’."
"Wait. Pies You Like It? That a pun for ‘As You Like It?’"
SL blinked. "Huh?"
"Never heard of Shakespeare?"
"That that football player who plays for the Bengals?"
I rolled my eyes. "No. Never mind."
He tipped his chin up as he folded his arms across his chest. "You seen the small print?"
"The part about how they expect five percent of the earnings on all their pies until their demise, and thereafter, five percent goes to the charity of their choice?" I hummed. Definitely an interesting clause in the sales contract.
"Yeah. They’re weird as fuck. Never had kids. The diner became their baby."
"They’re entitled to ask for whatever they want. Don’t mean they’re gonna get it. Especially not with that asking price." Though I sounded like a prick, I didn’t think it’d be a bad idea. Not considering… "Correct me if I’m wrong, SL, but the Sinners ain’t popular around here, are they?"
"No. Not really. Butch had a way of pissing off the locals."
"What did he do?"
He grimaced. "I don’t like to speak ill of a brother, man."
"He was a traitor, not a brother," I corrected softly, but with enough bite for SL to get with the program—don’t piss me off.
SL heaved a sigh. "I know. I just find it hard to get my head around."
"Well, get around it fast. That bastard would have brought the Irish Mob to your door."
"No one wants Aidan O’Donnelly Sr. to come knocking," he admitted gruffly.
"Exactly." Not to mention the fact that the Sinners and Five Points were goddamn allies. If the O’Donnellys had learned one of our chapters was helping the fucking Famiglia, it would have destroyed the alliance. Talk about a goddamn disaster waiting to happen. "And that was on the cards. So, tell me, what did Butch do?"
"Nothing major, just a bunch of little things. Would get us all to ride through the town on 4th of July during the mayor’s speech. Mostly juvenile shit like that.
"He had a beef with the coach at the high school, so every now and then, we’d ride in the night before a game, wreck the turf." He grunted. "Not our finest hour."
"I can see why that pissed people off." My disapproval must have been clear because his shoulders hunched. "There’s a delicate balance in not pissing off your neighbors so they don’t come after you with torches and pitchforks.