Page 3 of Ruthless Obsession

“We won’t let you down, Mavis,” Sharlenne adds.

“Good to know. Talk to you ladies soon.”

Before I left the bar, I order another jack this time neat.

I shoot off a text to Matthew “Webbs” Clark. He’s been patched for five years now. Originally from Cali, solid mechanic, and always down for a little chaos.

I met him in a bar in L.A. one wild night. Got jumped by a crew of assholes, and Webbs didn’t hesitate to throw fists beside me. After that, I told him if he ever made it to Chicago, to look me up.

You can never have too many loyal men ready to ride.

Back in L.A., he was stuck doing shit mechanic jobs that barely paid enough to survive. Some guys just need a reset. A chance to prove they’re worth more.

Webbs was one of them. And he earned his patch the hard way.

Me: Webbs, Toby’s at the South Side club handling a problem. Take Flock with you. Wear button downs and jeans. Drive one of the cars at the clubhouse. Check out the scene. Once you have eyes on Toby text me.

Webbs: Got it, brother.

Victor “Flock” James is twenty-three, and another one of our prospects. He’s been hanging out at the clubhouse for a while now. Prez once asked him why he was always hanging around. Flock just said, “Because this feels like home.”

His parents got addicted to meth. He was an only child and had to raise himself.

He’s taken a few solo runs to prove his loyalty—and pulled them off clean.

He’s our youngest prospect. And he’s earning his place.

Won’t be long before he’s patched in. He won’t ever have to worry about being alone again.

I move through the club, taking my time, getting a feel for the layout. At the end of a long hallway, I notice two elevators. Both require badge access or a code to reach the lower level.That’s where the secrets are. I want to know what the hell’s down there.

From the upstairs VIP section, I settle into a shadowed corner and scan the floor below. Faces, body language, routines—I’m looking for the one who takes charge when Toby’s not around.

Twenty minutes pass. My phone vibrates in my pocket.

I retrieve it and peer at the screen.

Webbs: We got eyes on him.

Me: Good. Follow and keep me updated.

Webbs: Will do, brother.

My jaw tightens as I pocket the phone.

Time to bring that asshole to his knees.

∞

I’ve been parked halfway between the neighbors house and my targets, sitting in the dark on a quiet street in the Evanston suburb.

It’s a scorching summer night. The kind that sticks to your skin. Not a single dog walker or jogger in sight. Just the hum of crickets and the occasional flicker from the weak streetlamps casting dim light across the pavement.

Through my binoculars, I zero in on the gray house.

Inside, a Ken doll-dressed in casual attire with perfectly combed short brown hair looms over a woman.

“Who takes this guy serious?” I mutter.