Gross.
“I’ll give you one guess who took over as Prez once Vikings heart went pop!” He taps his now empty glass on the bar, signaling for a refill.
Oh my God. Alec?
“Your face says it all.” He winks at me.
A shiver snakes up my spine as the floor beneath me tilts, my legs feeling numb.
“He’s not the same guy who used to want to cuddle with the awkward girl. You leaving did something to him. Trans-fucking-formed him. It’s been the evolution of Alec Walker.” He points to a scar across the bridge of his nose. “He gave me this.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
Shrugging, he says, “Just catching up. I thought you’d want to know.”
“I don’t. He killed my dad, I couldn’t give two fucks about him.”
“Did he?” he says sarcastically.
The air squeezes from my lungs in a slow torture. “What does that mean?” I choke out.
“Nothing. Everything.” He stands, pulling a money clip from his pocket. Peeling out two twenties, he drops them on the bar.
“I need to take a piss. Then we can go home.”
It’s a ruse. He’s trying to confuse me. Wants me to question everything so I go back with him. My head spins. Grabbing the keys from beneath the bar, I rush to the bathroom, lock it from the outside, then sneak out the back. My entire pitiful life stays packed in the trunk of my little car. I jump in, bring the engine to life, and stomp the gas, getting onto the highway in under five minutes. Pulling off the first turn, I drive back roads out of town and send Willa a sorry text.
Fifteen
Animal
Twenty-eight years old
One year later…
We move a shit ton of product through this town. Keeping out the shit that sends more people to the morgue than their happy place became important to me when I took over as president. My old man’s lifeless body pinning Jackie to his bed will forever be etched in my brain. He was a respected Prez and liked by many, but he thought like a lawless asshole, more about making money over allies and building trust.
We may be bikers who get the law to bend to our whims, but that doesn’t mean we have to fuck over our customers. Dealing good product is good business. People travel from all over to buy our shit because I have zero tolerance for bad merchandise. So, when some kid ODs in my territory from bad fucking ecstasy, it pisses me the hell off.
My brothers pile in for church, taking their seats while making jabs at each other like teenagers. I lift my chin to Hog’s empty chair. “Where the fuck is he?” I grind out. Placing both hands on the table, I lean in, my mood apparent. Everyone stops fucking around and pulls their chairs in.
I don’t have time for this shit. “I fucking told that little prick to be here,” Halo growls. He’s our secretary, in charge of letting brothers know when they have to attend church or meetings.
“I’ll go get him, Prez,” Glen pipes up.
“Kiss ass,” someone hollers, causing a round of chuckles.
“When you assholes are finished, we have shit to discuss. First order of business: money was light this month from half our club dealers.” Mason, our treasurer, fucks around with his laptop. Despite his old man being a purebred, old-school biker, Mason didn’t get the same rough biker genes. His dad beat that out of him, instilling fear and anxiety instead. He’s clever, though—good with numbers. He keeps our books in order, deals with money and payout, and loves this club and the brothers within it. His old man still wears his patch, but lives mostly from a bottle these days.
“There’s someone pushing new product. We’re aware of it and narrowing down on where it’s coming from,” Jameson tells them.
“Someone selling product in our territory is unacceptable. Once one gets big enough balls, others will follow. Kai, Rage, put an end to this—send a message.”
“On it, Prez.” Kai grins. That fucker lived for these orders.
“Anyone have anything they want to discuss?”
“I just want to remind everyone about the cookout next weekend. Keep the ol’ ladies at home. It’s not a family affair.” Halo grins, and is rewarded with a round or cheers as Glen pushes through the door with Hog. Hog stumbles, eyes unfocused, limbs look too heavy for his fucking body. He’s high. Glen throws a baggy on the table, shaking his head.
“That ours?” I ask, picking it up and examining it.
“Yeah, Prez.”
“I only use it when I need it,” Hog slurs. There’s no way he’s this buzzed from snow. He’s sweating like a pig, swaying in his seat about to pass out.
“What the fuck else you taking?” I bark, and he slumps in the chair. Glen gestures to his arm, picking it up and showing the track marks. Hog pushes him away. “Don’t fucking touch me. I’m fine, Prez. Honest.”