Page 9 of Property of Tacoma
Finding Panda was one of those life-changing moments. I’d been in rural Georgia on a cleanup job—a mess involving a made man and his very dead associates. In the top 5 of my list of craziest shit I’ve seen in this business, but I digress. Anyhow, on my way back to Jacksonville, I’d gotten stopped by county workers cutting down a massive oak that was threatening to fall onto the roadway. Doing as I was instructed because I’m helpful like that, I pulled off onto the shoulder and got out to watch. Sadly, the tree wasn’t the only thing that plummeted to the ground that day. A momma raccoon had been tossed from her hidey hole and was crushed beneath one of the heavy branches. And beside her was my Panda. Back then, he was just an ity-bity baby, no bigger than my hand. Baby Panda had survived the fall, but wasn’t big enough to survive out in the wild on his own.
I still don’t know what made me get out of my rig that day. In my line of work, it’s vital to go unnoticed. But that day I flipped the script and broke all my rules. And now here we are. A year later, and my psychotic little asshole is still hellbent on destroying the mini-blinds.
My butt cheek starts vibrating again, and I groan. I don’t need to pull my phone out to know who the caller is. It’s the same person who’s been calling for the last hour. The same person I keep sending to voicemail. You’d think he’d take the hint.
Pulling the rose gold iPhone out of my back pocket, I press it to my ear and use my shoulder to keep it in place. “Yes, Chief?” I answer, using my brother’s road name.
“Don’t be a shit,” he grumps.
“I’m not the one calling my sibling incessantly,” I reply, leaning back against the RV and admiring the bass-boat black sparkly color. The paint job cost a fortune, but it makes the thirty-six-foot luxury vehicle look less like a retiree’s shaggin’ wagon. I grin thinking about how pissed my brother was when he saw it for the first time.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” He points to the badass paint job. “You might as well be waving around a red flag that says ‘look at me’.”
It’s a half-million-dollar luxury RV gifted to me by an admiring client. There’s no hiding in this thing. So it might as well look badass.
“Where the hell are you?”
I roll my eyes. Mason Sosa, ever the concerned big brother. And by concerned, I mean controlling as fuck. Seriously! He’s lucky I answer his calls at all.
“Hello to you too, sunshine,” I reply, examining my matte black stiletto nails. They need a touch-up, but it’ll have to wait until I’m back in Jacksonville.
Mason growls through the line. “Quit fucking around, Cali. Where are you?”
Sheesh. Someone’s panties are in a bunch today. “I’m getting gas, grumpy, cool your jets.” He grumbles something about pain in the ass little sisters, but I ignore the dig.
“Look. You don’t have to keep calling. I should be home in about an hour if traffic cooperates.”
“Job go okay?” I knew that was coming. It’s the same question he asks every time I have to leave Jacksonville for work.
“Don’t they always?” I smirk, though he can’t see me. “Place looks like nobody ever died there. Which, officially, nobody did. Wink-wink.”
“Not funny, sis.”
I’m about to tell him that he needs to get a life when there’s a commotion in the background, followed by a raised voice, then something crashing.
My brows go up. “Uhhh……”
“For fuck’s sake, I’m retired!” I hear someone shout.
Is that Pops? What the hell?
I straighten up. “What’s going on?”
“Club business,” Mason says dismissively as my grandfather continues shouting in the background.
I narrow my eyes. I’ve heard that shit all my life. First with Daddy and Pops, and now my brother. What really pisses me off is that more times than not, I’m the one he uses as a sounding board when shit hits the fan. Funny how he doesn’t have a problem butting into my business.
“Is that my baby girl?” Pop’s voice grows louder. “Put my granddaughter on speaker, you stubborn ass.”
I can’t stop the smile that breaks out across my face. My brother might be president of the Jacksonville Saints now, but my grandfather doesn’t take shit from anyone.
“Damnit, Shade.” There’s a beep, and suddenly I can hear the noise from the clubhouse clearly in the background.
“Foxy,” my grandfather says, using the nickname he gave me when I was sixteen. I was Pop’s shadow as a kid, always following him around and trying to do what he did. He was the first person in my life to pick up on my odd quirks. Like having to line things up alphabetically or do things in a certain order. He was also the first to realize I could remember things down to the tiniest detail, even though I’d only seen or heard them once. Turned out I have an eidetic memory. Things just sorta stick and never leave. ‘Clever as a fox,’ he’d always say.
“Babygirl, tell this knucklehead to find someone else. I’ve got a date with Connie tonight. It’s her seventy-first birthday, and I’m taking her dancing. I’m gonna show her all my moves.”
I can’t help but smile. He’s a damn mess. He might be seventy-four, but he’s still a horn dog. He’s been chasing after Ms. Connie for months. It’s a little weird seeing as she’s my soon-to-be sister-in-law’s aunt.
