Being the overprotective type, my dad tries not to involve me in that side of the business often. It’s not abnormal for club members to be kept away from it, either. We have a few upstanding, law-abiding members of the Hellions, people that don’t want to get their hands dirty, like the Lawson’s.

Harold “Roscoe” Lawson and his ol’ lady, Marguerite, along with their daughter Maggie, her husband, and her older brother, Harrison, are all patched members that don’t get involved in business. Dina and her husband, Ryder, are the same way. They all live in Charlotte, except Roscoe and Marguerite. That doesn’t make them less of a member; it just means they don’t get a cut out of that portion of the Hellion funds. We’re all still a family.

Looking over my paperwork, I update the available board. Calling the people who are late with their rent drives me insane. There’s always some excuse. Those who don’t pay, lose their stuff to auctions, which are a nightmare. These people get certified letters, yet they always call after the auction asking for their stuff. It’s gone, sweetheart. Gone. Next time, pay your bill. Business is business, nothing personal.

My dad gave me this job to keep me close and to avoid doing the paperwork himself. My dad has kept me close ever since my mother died when I was eleven from breast cancer. It was hard to watch her deteriorate and pass away. I don’t remember much else about her. My four years away at the University of North Carolina, Charlotte were the most out of sight he’s let me be. And even if I was technically out of sight, I was never out of mind; I had to check in with Dina or one of the Lawson family members. Somebody always knew where I was or what was going on with me. I’m a grown ass woman, but at the heart of it all, I’ll always be my daddy’s little girl.

Thirteen transports this week. Damn, it’s going to be busy.

Shaking my head, I laugh off the weird feeling I get at the number thirteen. I know, it’s stupid as fuck, but something about that particular number has always been unsettling. It’s almost as bad as six-six-six. Oh, hell, just thinking of it gives me a moment of dread, which seems twisted since I’m not a man that unnerves easily. I’ve got the Hellions insignia tattooed on my back. A V-twin motorcycle engine with wrenches crossing over it, a skull is centered between the motor, and flames swirling around. Needles, skulls, spiders, and snakes, don’t shake me, but stupid number superstitions cause me that moment of pause. Every man has a quirk or two.

Thankfully, the phone ringing on my desk shakes me out of my stupid thoughts.

“Crews Transports.”

“Yo, got a nine-one-oh. Take it from the South Carolina border stop, on the Georgia side. Keep it close, Tripp, and it comes to the storage lot. Off-load isn’t necessary. There’ll be three Mack trucks needed for this one, you’ll be locking and rolling in Georgia.”