Page 79 of Unhinged

"Who do you get your supply from?"

"It gets shipped in. Out of state. I use a broker. Franko."

"Fuck!" Gears swears, running a hand through his hair. "He's a fucking asshole. Won't help us."

"We could try," Acid says, calmly.

Arrow smirks. "Last time we dealt with Franko, he held a gun to Gears' head."

"Fucking asshole," Gears mutters again.

My wheels are already turning. But I keep my face blank. I don’t want to show my hand. Not yet. These alphas of mine? They still have no idea who I really am. I'm not some lost little omega. I'm the damn Alpha Slayer. It's time I reminded them.

I lean in close to Nikola. "Nikola. If I take this knife away, you gonna be a good boy?"

"Yes."

"Good. You and the Renegade have deals to finalize. I'm gonna go have a drink. If I have to come back and clean up your mess, I'm gonna be pissed."

I pull the blade back and shift a step away, sliding it into its hiding spot. Nikola turns toward me, eyes raking over every inch.

"You're a crazy, sexy little thing. Are you sure you wanna be with these bikers? I could give you a life you'd only dream of."

The growls beside me are low, threatening. Acid. Arrow. Gears. My alphas. Even when they annoy the shit out of me. And I’m in denial.

I just smile and pat Nikola’s cheek. "Thanks, but no thanks. They're growing on me."

I hold out my hand. "Friends?"

He stares at me for a beat, then takes it. "Friends."

"Good. Come on, boys. I'll buy you a drink," I call out to Nikola’s men, jerking my chin toward the warehouse.

"Alessio, you stay with me," Nikola orders. "You’re my second. We’ll seal this deal together."

The big guy Gears had been fighting—Alessio, apparently—dusts himself off and gives a tight nod. The rest fall in line behind me without a word.

We all head into the warehouse. The alphas and Nikola peel off to the right, stepping into a side room and shutting the door behind them. Good. Let them make the deal I bartered, sealed, and made a go. I earned a damn drink.

The bar area is rough around the edges—industrial lighting, half-stocked shelves, but it'll do. I order a round. Nothing fancy. Whiskey. Beer. A shot or two. The kind of drinks that burn going down and hit fast.

We drink in silence, watching the next fight take shape in the cage.

I pull out my phone and scroll through old contacts until I find the number. My finger hovers for just a moment, but I don't let hesitation take over. I presscall.

It rings twice.

"Brydgie. Long time no talk," Franko answers. "How you been?"

"Good. I need a favor."

"It’ll cost you."

I don’t want anyone overhearing this, so I step back into the hallway, my shoes tapping lightly on the worn floor. Passing through The Rusty Nail’s dimly lit interior, I slip past the bar and push through the front door. The cool night air hits me, and I step out onto the sidewalk, the same one where this whole mess started.

"Just listen. You might like it. I know how you love a good show. Plus, I hear you and the Renegade MC in Virginia have some unfinished business."

He laughs. "We go way back. Ol’ Gears and me."