“He’s supposed to watch over his brother and take down your club’s gun running.” An ache unfurls inside me as if I’ve been stabbed in the chest, a hallow feeling blossoming as I tell Godric’s secrets to a man I hate.
I stop talking, not giving him number three on the list. I can’t. I already feel like shit as it is for narcing on Godric. Maybe taking care of Damian will be him killing the bastard and doing the world a favor.
“That little motherfucker,” Damian grits under his breath. “Okay, I need you to get closer to him. I wanna know when he plans on attacking us, and I’ll take care of the brother.”
“Wait, I thought I was supposed to get you information that could take him down. I gave that to you, I’m done.” My voice rises, emotion getting the better of me. I knew this was going to happen. Why did I even think for a second Damian would let me go?
A laugh so vile crackles through the phone, and my eyes shut, tears threatening to spill. It wouldn’t matter if I brought Godric to Damian myself, nothing will ever be enough.
“You’re mine until I say so, Monet. The job isn’t done. Do what I asked or I’ll find whatever shitty motel you’re in and—”
“All right!” I interrupt him, anger and sadness dancing in my voice. I don’t need to hear how easy it would be for him to kill me and make me disappear. Knowing nobody would look for me is the worst of it. Hanging up, I lay back on the bed with my arms spread out.
Men suck. I hate all of them. When and if I ever get out of this, I’m switching teams.
13
Godric
Sitting at the head of the church table in the old leather chair that’s been here since the beginning, I can’t help but feel powerful. My father sat here for many years, and now, here I am, ready to scathe the path he left and make one of my own. A road of power and respect.
I rub at my temples, waiting for my brothers to enter the room. I called a church meeting thirty minutes ago, giving them enough time to wake the fuck up and get their shit together. I don’t even know what I’m going to say about the tasks, but as much as I hate to admit it, I need help completing them.
Pegs, the VP since my father took the gavel, walks into the room first. He’s older than me, in his forties. Blonde, silvery curly hair that matches his long beard.
“Jesus, my fucking head is killing me!” Hollywood complains as he walks into the room and slumps in his chair. The club treasurer, originally from L.A., always wearing sunglasses, even at night. He rests his head in his hand inked with colorful skulls and glares at the table like it made him get drunk the night before.
“I told you to stick to the Capri Suns,” Sparky, our road captain, taunts. Walking past Hollywood, he sits across from him and kicks his feet up. Hollywood stares him down, his upper lip twitching in anger. His long, dark, wavy hair frames his face as if he didn’t have the energy to fuck with it today. At least it’s not in a bitch bun. I wait for a fight to break out, but they just stare one another down. Hollywood must really feel like shit if he’s not threatening anyone. Especially Sparky. He’s like a fucking chihuahua. Short and skinny and always trying to start shit even if he’s going to get his ass beat in the end. We used to break up the fights. Now, we just watch, sometimes place bets.
Once everyone is in the room and has settled, I clear my throat to get their attention, I don’t want to use the gavel yet. I haven’t earned the right to. My eyes lock on to it sitting just ahead of me on the table. The handle is hard and looks like a humerus bone, and the head is in a rose shape. It’s has been slammed so much, the nicks on it make it original. There’s been debate whether the bone is real and who it came from. My fingers itch to slide along it, to feel it for myself and decide.
“So,” I direct my focus back to the matter at hand. “My father hasn’t given me the gavel, as you all know. What you might not know is why it’s not quite mine.” My eyes search the table, trying to read everyone’s face. None of the men give anything away. “Well, he wants me to do a few things first. I’d love to get everyone’s take on the matter.”
“Like what?” Pegs asks, his elbows on the table. He twists his rings on his fingers out of boredom.