Ride (Bayonet Scars) (21 page)

“There is a problem,” he says. “Ruby’s boy is with them.”

“Fuck,” I grit out and slam my fist down into the solid wood table. I knew about the phone call with Ma and Gloria, but not about Michael.

“Where do we stand on the boy?” Grady asks.

“Same rules apply as with Cub. Can’t touch him,” Pop says. Wyatt shakes his head and leans his elbows on the table, looking around the table for our reactions. My body vibrates with anger at this turn of events.

“We don’t know what side of the fence the boy falls on. Don’t think we can risk finding out,” Wyatt says. While I’m inclined to agree, the boy belongs to Ma. If the club votes him dead, I can’t be the one to do it. Neither can Ian. Even though they’ve never met, they’re bonded by blood. Pop sure as fuck can’t carry that burden with him. Looking around the table, I don’t know who can. Each one of these bastards loves Ma like she’s his own, and for some of them—like me—she’s the only mother they’ve ever had.

Ian’s steel-toed boots tap into the concrete floor to my right. His frame is hunched over the table, his elbows resting on the edge, his arms steepled, and his forehead resting on his fists. He can’t be the one to say it, or our brothers will give him shit about loyalty. Fuck it, I’m already on their shit lists.

“We can’t touch him,” I say. The entire table turns to look at me. Ian turns his face just slightly, giving me an appreciative glance. “Not if we don’t have to.”

“And if he hurts Princess? You willing to risk that, Trigger?” Duke asks, speaking up for the first time.

“He won’t,” I say. “She’s protected.”

“We can have a man on her 24/7, and shit can still go sideways,” Pop says, straightening in his leather chair. “I’m calling a vote—yea, we kill the boy on sight; nay, we pull back if we can.” If Ma knew Pop was here, taking this vote, she’d castrate him in his sleep and take out every last one of us who dared hurt one of her kids. Every man at the table looks to Pop, then to Ian, and finally to me. As the vote moves around the table, Wyatt, Fish, Chief, and Grady vote yea. Pop, Duke, Diesel, Bear, Ian, and I vote nay. I breathe a sigh of relief that for the moment, Ma’s boy’s execution is off the table.

Moving onto the game plan to protect Alex, Pop assigns prospects to the roads that lead into town on a rotating basis, and Fish and Diesel and Bear to supervise. We’re probably going to have to pull from a nearby charter for full coverage, though. Wyatt, Ian, Grady, and Duke will be making a run to Nevada for firepower. The rest of us will be working out the in-town logistics.

“I got Cub,” I say, while Pop is working out who’s going to be where.

“Son, I thought we talked about this,” he warns, his voice edgy. I grit my teeth and try to avoid a fight, but the thought of someone else—anyone else—being at her side through this shit makes me want to vomit. “I don’t like that idea. You’re getting fucked up over this girl.”

Tired of denying it and backed into a corner, I shake my head. “Can anyone in this room tell me they care more about Cub’s safety than I do? If any of you bastards can tell me to my fucking face that you give a bigger fuck than I do about her, then I’ll step back. This isn’t about family bullshit, or being a rat, or even protecting the club. This is about keeping Cub alive. Is that okay with you guys?” Nobody protests, and for a moment, I feel victorious. I hadn’t intended to volunteer for the position, but now that I have, I’ll fight any of my brothers who try to take it away from me. They know I’m right. I won’t let anything happen to Cub. I’ll bet my life on it, and I’m the only fucker in this room who will.

I’m not leaving her side until this shit gets squared away.

Chapter 23

My Father had a profound influence on me. He was a lunatic.

- Spike Milligan

ON MY WAY
out, I try to avoid my brothers and my father. They eye me warily as I pass, unsure how to handle the shit I just pulled. Can’t blame ‘em. I don’t really know how to handle that shit, either. If I didn’t have to be coherent tonight, I’d do a couple lines, drink a few beers, and pass the fuck out while I try to jerk myself off. But that’s not an option tonight. It is something to look forward to, though.

“Trigger,” Pop shouts across the lot. I turn and face him, in the back corner of the lot with Grady and Wyatt flanking his sides. Behind them, painted into the black vinyl slats of the chain link fence in white paint is FORSAKEN.

“Yeah?” I say. He bridges the gap between us and places his hands on his hips.

"That's stunt you pulled in there. I don't like it."

I don't say anything, but don't shy away from him either. I knew he'd have something to say about it. Not that I really give a fuck. We've been through this already.

"I see the way you're looking at her, Son."

"I don't even know what you're going on about."

"You and Alex. Can't happen."

"Why the fuck do you care? Did Ma put you up to this?"

I take a second to look around the shop, making sure nobody's listening in. Pop hasn't talked to me about girls like this since I was a kid. Last thing I need is one of these fuckers overhearing and thinking I'm having feelings and shit. Ma talks about how much the bitches at the salon gossip, but I'd be willing to bet they ain't got nothing on the guys here.

"Ruby thinks it's cute. I—I don't think it's cute. I think it's dangerous."

"Why are you so interested in where I stick my dick?" I huff. Leaning over the pull, I flip the wrench I've been holding in my grease-stained left hand.

“Your dick’s not what I’m worried about. I know that look and I—” he says, but I cut him off.

“Don’t like it, I know,” I say, pushing off the pull and tossing the wrench in its open drawer, turning, and walking away.

I cross my arms over my chest, standing with my legs shoulder-width apart, and level his glare with my own. “We got a problem here?”

“Do we?” he parrots, leaning in. His jaw is locked, his eyes wild. My blood boils, my muscles tense, and my chest strains. I lean in, meeting his stance with my own and gritting my teeth. I force myself to take one deep breath after another so I’m calm enough that I can speak. I’m fucking sick of this shit. So fucking sick of him getting in my business. Doesn’t he think—doesn’t he know—if I could force myself to not care, that I would?

He lifts his right hand to my face, pointer finger nearly touching my nose. He’s way too close for comfort. I remember this shit from when I was a kid. Less than half the size I am now, he’d crouch down, let his weight rest on the balls of his feet, and he’d clasp his hands together. He’d make sure I was sitting and then he’d lecture me. Every explanation he could come up with as to how I fucked up this time—grades, attendance, attitude, drinking, drugs, bitches, fights. Anything he could think of, he’d rail me for it. Until I was a teenager, he’d ask me if I wanted him to hit me, like I had a fucking choice. If I didn’t like pussy so much, I’d consider putting a bullet between my ears just so that I could make one decision he didn’t have a chance to disapprove of first. I thought this motherfucker owned me back when I was a kid, but I had no fucking clue what wearing the same cut as him would do.

“Whatever you got going on in your head about this bitch, shut it down,” he hisses. I fight the angry jerk of my limbs, forcing myself to stay still. If Ma could hear this shit right now, I wouldn’t have a chance to lay him out. She’d do it for me.

“Any other sage advice you got for me, Mr. President?” I ask, smirking. Because if I don’t do something, I’m going to slam his face into the pavement.

“You’re unfocused—you’re missing shit. You’re going to get yourself killed over pussy you won’t want in a week anyway. Your brothers can’t trust you if they can’t trust your woman. This family has worked too long and too hard, and sacrificed too much, to let this cunt destroy that.”

Something in me snaps. Maybe it’s the word cunt. Maybe it’s my own fucking father calling Alex a bitch one too many times. Maybe I’m just pissed off that he’s right, and I’m looking for a fight. Maybe he’s just frustrated and looking to piss me off so I can start a fight. Fuck if I know what it is, but I lose focus for a brief second before his face becomes crystal clear.

Like a missile, my right hand clenches into a fist, rears back, and slams into the side of his jaw. His right arm grabs me by the back of my neck while my left grasps at his throat. Toe to toe, nose to nose, we’re locked in place. Neither of us is going to give before we’re ready.

“Call her a cunt again,” I sneer, tightening my grip. His hand on my neck clamps down, violently pushing in on my nerves in a painful way. I welcome the pain. This needs to happen, and I need to feel it.

“This is what I’m talking about,” he rasps out, sucking in as much air as he can. “I love Alex like she was my own, but this is about the club.” Pop’s a tough mother fucker, I’ll give him that. I’ve seen men’s necks snap under less pressure than I’m giving. His words register, but they don’t faze me. For all his talk and bluster, he’s no different than I am. He’s no less immune to feeling shit he doesn’t want, no matter how fucked up he gets.

“You want to put it to a vote, put it to a fucking vote,” I scream. With one last squeeze of his throat, I shove him off, watching him stumble half a step. The brothers have gathered around us in silence. Each one takes a fighting stance, ready to throw down or break it up. I avoid meeting their eyes as I walk to my bike, strap on my helmet, and pop up her kick-stand. Walking her backward, I find they’re all focused on me. Part of me feels like I should tell them all to go fuck themselves. Since when do we give a shit where a brother sticks his dick? It’s fucking juvenile. The other part of me wants to get off my bike and throw my fist into the nearest fucking face. But I don’t, because I’ve got shit to do. Instead, I start her up and peel away once Tall opens the gate.

Making a quick stop by my place to grab a few changes of clothes and some other personal things, I debate on whether or not I should be packing the condoms. For a strange moment I find myself in an unfamiliar place, worried that I might somehow offend a chick just because I brought condoms with me. Like it fucking matters what she thinks and if she’s worried all I want to do is fuck her. There’s nothing wrong with fucking and not feeling shit afte
r. Angrily, I shoved a few rows in the bag before zipping it up and getting back on my bike.

The ride is simultaneously way too short and way too long. I need to clear my head of some of this shit, but I don’t have time for that. Every minute I waste trying to sort my shit is a minute that Alex is missing part of her security detail. As fucked as it is, I just don’t trust my brothers are going to pay enough attention that Mancuso Jr. isn’t going to get to her.

Pulling up to the dirt road that leads to the house, everything is near black. I slow the bike, remove the .38 from the waistband of my jeans, unclick the safety, and place my hand back on the handlebar. My head pounds and my mouth goes dry. The house is never this quiet. Junior and crew probably wouldn’t be here this quick unless they flew in. I don’t know how stupid they are, though. Flying commercially leaves too many records.

Suddenly, I’m basked in a blinding white light. The intensity of it kills my vision, and I’m left blinking relentlessly as I bring the bike to a stop. The hand with the gun in it itches with the need to do something, but with zero visibility, there’s nothing I can do.

The lights dulls to a warm yellow, loud popping rings out, and the only light left are the lights from the front deck and the side of the garage. My eyes take a moment to adjust, but when they do, I see Chief less than thirty feet in front of me, his homemade assault rifle pointed at my chest. Chief and I have never had a problem before, and typically lean the same way on club matters, but in this second, I’m not so sure we’re on good terms. That’s the thing about club life. No patched members say it aloud, and outsiders don’t usually bear witness to it, but violence between brothers is a very real fucking thing.

Then he lowers the gun, turns around, and walks to the house. I breathe a sigh of relief that I had forgotten about the flood lights Ma insisted Pop install before we headed out to Brooklyn. Behind him, standing on the side of the garage, is my father. Shaking away my paranoia, I rev the bike and roll up to the garage, where I park her and climb off. I pull the duffle out of one of my saddle bags and head for the front door. The shuffling of rocks and dirt sound behind me. I turn around to find Pop catching up to me.

“You planning on staying?” he asks. My muscles tense at the question.

“Junior’s on his way. Not gonna fuck around.”

The front door swings open, and Ma stands in the doorway. She looks lighter than she has in a long time. I walk up to her and give her a kiss on the cheek. Craning her neck, she smiles.

“She’s in her room, baby,” Ma says. Moving around her, I see the glare she gives Pop. Fighting off the laugh that threatens to escape, I make my way into the house and through the kitchen, down the hallway to see Cub. Stopping at her open doorway, I take a moment to see how she’s fucked up my old room.

The once-white walls are still the light beige Ma painted them right after Gloria called, worried for her niece’s life. It’s the rest of the room that she’s put her feminine stamp on. Her bedspread and throw pillows are a dusty purple, and so are the frames of the reproductions of the paintings she has hanging up. The bed frame is a solid oak and cost a fucking fortune, according to Pop. I poke my head in, seeing her in the closet, hanging up a jacket.

“You fucked up my room,” I say. She jumps in place and spins around, scowling.

“No,” she says slowly, “I fixed up my room.” I grin at her attitude and slowly enter the room, tossing my duffle down on her bed. Her eyes slide to the duffle on the bed, and she crosses her arms. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting comfortable,” I say, walking to the bed, sitting down, and kicking off my boots. I can almost hear the wheels turning in her head. Her nerves are on edge, and she doesn’t know what to do with herself, being invaded like this. Shaking her up is becoming a favorite of mine. It almost gets me off as much as getting off does.

She swings around the bed, grabs the duffle, and tosses it on the ground. Her dark brown hair is down now, falling over her shoulders. I let my eyes travel from her bare feet up to her yoga pants and the pink T-shirt she’s wearing. Just as my eyes reach her tits, her arms lifts in the air and her hand comes down hard on the side of my head. Reflexively, I stand, towering over her, and back her into the corner. Her arms reach behind her, finding purchase of the wall. Her lower lip trembles, and her eyes are wide.

“Now you did it,” I grit out, trying to control my temper. My chest vibrates with a mixture of rage and desire. I run my index finger down her neck and ghost my lips along her hairline. She stays very still as I place my hands on the wall, boxing her in. My head is swarming with a hundred things at once, but the only thing I can focus on is Cub.