“Rush has already voted and I think you get what his vote was,” Tack replied.

They all got it. No way in fuck would Rush put Rosalie out there.

Then again, if it was up to him, Rush would retreat off their turf and do nothing but protect Ride, the shop, the garage, the Compound, the parking lot, and the forecourt, leaving the rest to the cops.

This was not a weak decision. A woman Rush cared about was kidnapped and stabbed and he’d watched his father suffer through it right along with the woman who would become his stepmother. All because of shit Chaos waded into.

So it was an informed decision.

Just, to High’s way of thinking, the wrong one.

“So I got Rush but if this were to come to a vote, I’d be outvoted,” Shy said.

“Seems that way, brother,” Boz replied.

“Rosalie isn’t gonna get her throat cut,” Hound put in.

“You sure about that?” Shy asked.

“Sure I’m sure,” Hound returned. “She trusts Chaos. We’re your brothers. Not sure why you don’t.”

That was what got to him. Shy again shut his mouth. Then he shot Tack an unhappy look, turned, and stalked out.

“That went exactly how I expected it,” Hop muttered.

“What it did was it went,” Tack stated. “Now it’s done.” He looked Hound and Boz’s way. “I want you with Snap, Roscoe, and Speck when that shipment goes. It’s on the route Rosalie gave us, tail it, mark the route, stay unnoticed. The next one she gets, Slim and Mitch’ll be with you and so will I.”

Hound nodded and declared, “I need beer.”

He then ambled to a tap, grabbed a random plastic cup that was sitting on the bar that could be clean—it also could be dirty—and he pulled himself a cold one.

“Pull one a’ those for me,” Boz ordered.

“I gotta go get Nash from Lanie. She’s got a meeting comin’ up,” Hop muttered. “Later.”

Then he took off.

“Carrie and me got Travis this week,” Joker said. “Goin’ home.”

He took off too.

“You’re holdin’ your shit a lot better than I expected you would,” Pete remarked, and High looked to him. “Thought you’d have Valenzuela hung up by his balls by now.”

“Finally got a life not worth fuckin’ up,” High replied.

“Had that when you got your two girls, High,” Pete noted.

“You did, too, lotta folks depended on you for a lotta things when you went off the rails when your girl passed, Pete,” High said evenly, not sounding angry, even though Pete had ticked him off with what he’d said. Just making his point.

“Fair enough,” Pete muttered, grinned, then looked away and called, “Pull me one, too, Hound,” and he peeled off.

Tack got close.

“Shy’s on their team, High. Tab won’t give a shit about Rosalie. But you know security better than anyone,” Tack said. “That dope run is happening this weekend. Know you can’t go ’cause you got your girls and they’re meetin’ Millie. Next run, though, it’d help a lot you were on it.”

High nodded.

“In the meantime, be good you keep Snap’s shit sharp. Roscoe and Speck got more experience, so they’re on the women, only got half a mind to Rosalie and she needs more. It’d help, you helped him cover Rosalie.”

High nodded again.

“Millie good?” Tack asked.

High’s mind filled with her sweater dress and the lace of her thigh-high.

He felt his lips twitch.

Tack read it.

“Good,” Tack muttered, then noted, “Women are goin’ out Saturday night.”

He knew that. Millie had shared it on the way to go pick up cats the night before.

“Just got her back, hope she survives.”

At that, he watched Tack’s lips twitch.

“Got shit to do, brother,” High told him.

Tack sighed. “We all do.”

High slapped his shoulder and Tack returned the gesture. They traded chin lifts.

Then High headed out to find Snap, get a brief, and make sure he was covering Rosalie’s shit.

*  *  *

“This?” Millie asked.

High was lounging on his side on the bed.

Before he got that way, he’d scooped up the cats and deposited them there. They were wrestling—so damned little, the match was vicious and he didn’t feel a thing—and likely fucking up her precious sheets.

She didn’t seem to care.

He definitely didn’t care.

But she didn’t because she was in a fucking tizzy.

She’d just run into the room and was holding up a pair of jeans folded over a hanger at her bottom, a sweater dangling down her front at the top.

He was helping her pick out an outfit to meet his daughters.

This was not what he thought he was going to do when she’d led him into her bedroom after they cleaned up after dinner.

That was bad.

But it got worse when he found out what she was up to.

She started this shit, he’d approved every outfit, and she’d nixed it, tossing crap aside and rushing back to her closet only to come out again with another outfit he’d approve and she’d nix.

This had happened eight times.

He was done on the first one.

“Babe, it’s fine,” he stated.

“I don’t know,” she mumbled, pulling the sweater away and looking at it. “When it’s on, this sweater is kinda tight.”