by Megan Crane
It was like his brain melted. Like he flatlined.
“Fuck you,” he heard himself say in a ragged sort of whisper that was made entirely of mayhem and frustrated vengeance.
“Watch your goddamned mouth!” Digger roared, so loud they probably heard him out on the interstate. “I won’t fucking tell you again.”
And some form of sanity reasserted itself then. Because what would happen to Merritt if Digger took him out? It wasn’t worth it. He didn’t back away from Digger, but he took his aggression down a notch. He fucking swallowed it, because he had no other choice.
“This scumbag is a direct product pipeline into the New York prisons,” Roscoe gritted out from beside Greeley, sounding furious, but resigned. “Smack, rock, pills. He’s a piece of shit, but he’s the cartel’s piece of shit. You know how this goes, brother.”
“They can get another pipeline.” Greeley didn’t sound like himself. He barely sounded human, which made sense, because he felt like a weapon about to blow and he was still aimed right at Digger. “They’re a fucking cartel. How many suits do they have in their pockets? There’s only so much product one lawyer can smuggle inside a prison.”
Digger shook his head. “They like this suit. He has a shiny, do-gooder reputation. Hector says they know he’s bent, but they usually keep him on a chain.”
Hector Quintero was a lieutenant in the cartel and the club’s point man. And this shit had his fingerprints all over it, the murderous, slippery bastard.
“Meaning they don’t care what he does to random bitches and they wouldn’t care now, either, except it ended up in Lagrange,” Greeley translated, his tone withering. “What a shock.”
Digger didn’t give an inch. “Bottom line, the cartel likes their prison distribution channel the way it is and their dirty lawyer without his face caved in.”
“If Hector can’t keep his pet suit in line, maybe he shouldn’t get to keep him,” Greeley bit out.
Digger only shook his head again, his gaze hard. Unyielding.
And that was that. Unless Greeley demanded a full table vote to overrule his president. But that was an act that would have a whole lot of repercussions, no matter what happened. A vote wouldn’t necessarily go his way, because only crazy motherfuckers wanted to throw down with the cartel, a move that would bring nothing but misery down on the club. But even if Greeley somehow got the votes, it would only put Digger on notice—more on notice than he already was, after what Greeley had said. Worse, since Greeley had nothing but a gut feeling to back up any claim that Digger was into something shady, it would be seen as an act of sheer, potentially unforgivable disrespect. It might even be seen as Greeley making a play for the top spot when he didn’t want that shit at all. But why else come at Digger over club business, making it personal?
It was personal, all right, but only for Greeley. He got that.
It meant his hands were tied.
Greeley prowled away from Digger before he made it all worse and slammed his fist into the office wall so hard a picture of the old, grizzled bastards who’d formed the mother charter jumped off its hook and clattered to the floor. Then he did it again. And again.
He couldn’t believe this was happening.
His neck had started itching something crazy when Merritt had texted him about the club’s douchebag lawyer, making an excellent fucking point he needed to look into, but had then gone silent. That wasn’t like her. He’d been out at Petit Joe’s having an overdue discussion with Okie about Bethany, the stripper who seemed a little too fucked up a little too often, and a few of the other girls who’d maybe tipped over into too much partying. Everyone loved a party girl around here, but a stripper who was never sober was well on her way to becoming a junkie. And the club allowed no junkies in Lagrange or dancing for money in Petit Joe’s. Period.
But he hadn’t been all that interested in the endless personal dramas of Okie’s girls in the first place, and he’d cared even less about stripper issues when Merritt hadn’t replied. When she didn’t respond to a text demanding she call him immediately, he’d called Pony, who he’d had tailing Merritt since the day he’d talked to that pansy bitch Antony on the phone.
She went into Doc’s house ten minutes ago, Pony had reported, sounding like he’d never been more personally fulfilled than he was trailing Greeley’s woman around, which was one more reason Greeley wanted him patched in sooner rather than later. I’m out in the street.
I need eyes on her. Now.
Pony hadn’t missed a beat. Greeley had heard his car door slam shut. I’m heading to the house.
Something’s up, Greeley had bit out, already headed for his bike, while Okie put out the alarm to the rest of the club and followed behind him. I’m on my way.
I got this, Pony had promised, sounding fierce. I’ll check back when I have her.
Once Greeley had gotten his ass out to Doc’s house he’d heard, in detail that would haunt him the rest of his life, exactly what Pony had found. Merritt throwing herself out a fucking window while that piece of shit went for her, shooting his mouth off and calling her names he should pay for in blood. A lot of blood. Greeley had seen with his own eyes the way the fucker had defiled her pink, girly bed.
And he would have to live with the image of his woman crouched on the corner of a twelve-foot-high roof, teetering like she might just collapse over the side at any moment, jacked and shaken and not herself. Not his Merritt. Blood all over her face and a vacant look in her eyes, like she was lost in a darkness there was no escaping. He’d have to live with the fact he hadn’t kept her safe, the way he’d promised. That he’d let this happen.
He’d told himself that making that asshole pay in a straight up Old Testament fashion would help him come to grips with that personal failing. Or at least make him feel a little better about it.
His brothers had kept the slimy bastard on the floor until Greeley had gotten Merritt down from the roof and into the truck. Waco had been standing there with his heavy boot on the dickhead’s throat, but he’d removed it when Greeley squatted down and got in Antony’s smooth, smug face.
I warned you, Greeley had told him quietly, the other man’s painful death in his voice. I’m gonna enjoy repeating myself, asshole.
But the fucker had laughed.
Devil’s Keepers, he’d said, sounding raspy and fucked up, not a big surprise given Waco might have stamped down a little too hard on his windpipe. Oops. We have a friend in common.
Greeley hadn’t believed him. He’d gone out to the truck to check in on Merritt while his brothers had hauled Antony back to the clubhouse, and hadn’t much liked what he’d found. Uptown had given her something to clean up with, leaving her face pink and raw. Worse, she’d gone too quiet. She’d retreated off into her head, and that never ended well, not with his woman who could think herself into all kinds of bullshit. He’d brought her to the clubhouse rather than dropping her at home where she could spin herself god knew where, and had rustled up a couple of the old ladies to come patch her up and keep her company while Greeley took care of the asshole who’d done this to her.
But Roscoe and Chaser had headed him off and taken him into Digger’s office before he could get into it.
Antony Damaris belonged to the cartel, Digger had announced. Body, soul, and padded bank account. He smuggled cartel drugs into New York prisons, something he’d been doing for at least the last decade without getting caught. It was in the cartel’s best interest to keep him alive so he could carry on doing his job, which meant it was in the club’s best interest to not kill him.
The fact that Greeley wanted him dead didn’t matter. Not unless the club wanted to go to war with the fucking cartel—and no one wanted to start a war with the cartel. Those sick fucks didn’t play. They killed women and children first, to teach the lesson and rub it in deep. Not to mention the Black Dogs were right there, offering an alternative to the Devil’s Keepers and only too happy to prove their devotion to cartel money any way they could.<
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Greeley knew all the players and he could see all the shitty outcomes if he went ahead and ignored the order. If this had been any other brother, he’d have been the first one in there to talk the man down. To point out there were times they all had to take one for the club, even if it stung. He’d have meant it.
Tonight was different. He had to choose his woman or his club and for the first time in his life, the answer wasn’t obvious to him.
Greeley knew it should have been a no-brainer.
But this was Merritt.
He muttered another curse and hit the wall again. Harder this time, so he could feel the skin on his knuckles split and the metal of his heavy rings pinch at him.
Greeley had fought wars before. Actual fucking wars in foreign countries. When he’d left the service, he’d promised himself he was done with that shit. He had good Army friends who’d gone into mercenary work because they already had the skills and they weren’t opposed to kicking ass, but he’d been done. He found the club. He found Lagrange, the only peaceful place he’d ever lived in his life. He loved living free, doing what the fuck he wanted when he wanted to do it.
Part of keeping his life and his town the way he liked it was not deliberately pissing on the cartel. There were consequences to living the way he pleased, and the cartel and its endless bullshit were maybe the biggest ones.
That was why no man became a brother overnight. Hangarounds and hopefuls had to prove themselves loyal enough to be considered prospects and prospects had to impress all the brothers enough to get a unanimous vote, but all that time with the club meant that any prospect had a real good idea what he was getting himself into.
Meaning Greeley had no one to blame for this but himself. This was the deal. This was the life he’d chosen. The fact that he wanted to blow it all up for a woman was his problem.
And it didn’t mean he could do it. That sat in him like a goddamned fire poker. Maybe it always would.
“I have conditions,” he gritted out, clenching his fist to see how badly he’d fucked up his knuckles. Not badly enough, he thought grimly.
Not anywhere near enough.
He saw Roscoe and Digger exchange a look. Chaser looked even more grim than usual, still in his place at the door. After a moment—a long moment—Digger nodded.
“He forgets she exists.” Greeley’s voice was low and vicious. “He stays in New York and she never hears from him again. He so much as texts her a goddamned smiley face and he’s mine.”
Digger didn’t think it over. He nodded like that was perfectly reasonable, which it fucking was. All things considered, it was merciful and everyone in the room knew it.
Greeley had never been a merciful man. He found he didn’t much care for the taste of it now.
“He never, ever sets foot in Louisiana again,” Greeley continued in the same blistering way, that hot fury in his gut blazing at him. “I ever see his face again? Or even think I fucking see him? I’ll rip him into pieces and deliver them to the goddamned cartel myself.”
“That’s fair.” Digger kept his gaze on Greeley, hard and heavy. “Anything else?”
It was ripping at him. It was killing him. But Greeley shook his head, because the truth was, protecting the club tonight meant protecting Merritt, too. If he blew off the cartel’s demands on this, he knew exactly where they’d start exacting revenge. And he’d die before he’d let those fucked-up bastards near his woman.
“No,” he said, heavy and pissed, but trying to get resigned to it. Trying to take the weight of it without feeling crushed to the ground. “That’s it.”
Digger pushed away from his desk then, filling the room, reminding them all that he might be old, but he was still a big, bad motherfucker. And the president of the club, no matter what bullshit might be going down.
“You need to handle your shit, Greeley,” the president said, low and hard. His dark eyes gleamed bright, like he was holding himself back from laying down some serious mayhem. Possibly on Greeley’s face. “You need to get right in the head, and fast. Bad enough you let that bitch lead you around by your dick. Now she makes you into such a fucking nutcase that you come at your own president?”
Greeley didn’t know how he kept from tearing out the bastard’s throat for that creative interpretation of what had happened here. Or how he managed to keep his own fucking mouth shut now, given how he’d run it already.
Digger’s nostrils flared when Greeley only stared back at him. “You ever question my loyalty to this club again, asshole, and I’ll beat you down myself. Maybe it’s your loyalty we should be worried about.”
“I’m loyal to this club,” Greeley said from between his teeth. “Something you know because that piece of shit stalker asshole is still breathing.”
But everyone in the room was fully aware that Greeley hadn’t said he was loyal to Digger, which in normal circumstances should have been his next sentence. He didn’t say it. He didn’t want a war with Digger, either—brother on brother led nowhere good, and a divided club was a weak club—but he wasn’t going to pretend things were cool, either.
There was only so much shit a man could take.
The old Digger would have gotten right up in Greeley’s face and demanded a show of respect on the spot. He would have stood there until Greeley made it clear he knew who was at the head of the table and the club. He would never, ever bail before he’d sorted out Greeley’s attitude and laid down the law, making sure everyone was crystal fucking clear about his intentions and his will and his orders, whether they liked it or not.
But this Digger only scowled at Greeley, then slammed his way out, leaving Greeley prowling around the office with only his bad fucking mood, Chaser, and Roscoe.
“Really?” Roscoe shook his head at Greeley, his face hard. “You figured tonight was a good time to throw down? If he is bent, asshole, you just announced that you’re watching him.”
Greeley flexed his hand, eyeing his bloody knuckles. “I don’t give a fuck.”
“This shit’s not right,” Chaser muttered from over near the door. “And where the fuck is Whale? The little shit. I notice that didn’t get answered.”
Greeley shrugged, still looking at his hand. “I don’t care. Fuck Whale. Fuck Digger. Fuck this. Guess what? I’m done.”
“Done?” Roscoe asked, a tense note in his voice. “You mean with your pushing into shit that can only blow up in your face? Or do you mean the club?”
Greeley glared at him. “I’d never walk away from this club. But now I have to tell my woman that the piece of shit I told her I’d handle is getting an escort back to his cushy life in New York.” He shook his head, the taste of this crap bitter in his mouth. He didn’t see that going away any time soon. “Someone else can deal with club drama for a little while. Whale gets caught doing some stupid shit again, don’t fucking call me. I’ll crush that little bitch and like it.”
He started for the door, his need to personally make sure Merritt was okay after the night’s ordeal weighing on him a lot more than the same old club bullshit he couldn’t solve anyway.
“You gonna handle yourself?” Roscoe asked from behind him, and Greeley would have swung at anyone else who suggested he couldn’t or wouldn’t follow his president’s direct orders. But he didn’t make a move toward his VP. “Or do I have to handle you?”
“When is that bastard out of here?” he asked instead of answering.
“Not sure you need that information.” Roscoe lifted his hands in the air when Greeley glared at him, a completely false surrender, but it calmed Greeley down a little bit anyway. “Listen, brother, I don’t blame you. I want to skin that jackass with my own two hands and Merritt’s not even my woman. But maybe you don’t need to know the details about what’s going down with him, so there’s no temptation to sneak back in and work him over while he’s still here.”
Greeley wanted nothing more than to rip that asshole’s dick off and feed it to him. But he wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it.
<
br /> “Let me know when he’s out of the parish,” Greeley growled at Roscoe. He jerked his chin at Chaser.
And then he slammed his way out of the office to go and find the woman he hadn’t protected and, despite himself and all that fury roaring inside of him and making him feel crazy with it, couldn’t avenge.
—
Greeley knew before he opened his eyes in the dark of his bedroom that something was jacked.
Just like that he was wide awake and reaching for his piece—but in the next breath he stopped.
No one was coming at him. The moon was up and throwing light through his windows, but even if it had been pitch black he’d have known it was Merritt moving around, making rustling sounds in corner of the bedroom. He could smell that lotion she used. She’d told him the scent was lilacs, not that he gave a shit which girly flower it was. It smelled like her. Even from across the room, like she’d just put more of that shit on.
He swiped up his phone from beside the bed and scowled at it. 3:17 a.m.
And she was packing up her shit, her back to him, stiff and jerky, like she was pissed.
Greeley didn’t need her to share with him that she was running. He could see it with his own two eyes, written in every line of her body in the moonlight.
His own temper roared through him then, wilder and hotter than it had been in Digger’s office. That wasn’t helpful, so he did nothing for a minute. He made himself lie there, motionless, trying to wrestle himself back under control before he lit into her—which he didn’t have to overthink to know would not be cool.
This was all such bullshit. He should have known this was coming. Maybe he had. Just maybe not in the middle of the goddamned night.
She’d been way too quiet on the drive home, in that way that told him trouble was brewing in that head of hers. Because when wasn’t it? Especially when she got to gnawing on what was left of her fingernails. Something he normally stopped by taking her hand in his, but he hadn’t tonight. He’d let her have what comfort she got out of chewing on herself. That was how fucking guilty he’d felt about the whole situation.