“We are—”
“You’re not.” Thankfully, my VP cuts me off before I completely fuck up by challenging the President. “I’ve seen it myself, and so has the rest of the leadership. You are turning in on yourself. Minimising yourself in a way that shows us that you do not believe that you have a position in this Club.”
Confusion weaves a web over my brain. It slows down my synapses and makes my thoughts too sticky to separate into a coherent response.
“We need our first generation of sons to be all-in. They need to believe in our brotherhood—in each other. When one of you holds themselves aloof like you’ve been, it damages the message we want to send our soldiers and it dilutes the strength others see in our Club—especially our enemies.”
“I’m—”
“You do not have permission to speak,” my Prez snarls.
Sitting back in my seat, I try my hardest to concentrate on my VP’s words when he starts addressing me again. “Viking, we understand the strain you must be under. It’s a rock and a hard place, this no-man’s land where you find yourself. Your mother hates us. She takes every dollar we offer, yet she refuses to lift an iota of the blame she dangles over our head for your father’s mistakes. And, then there’s your father. He flouts our rules with a contempt that we cannot tolerate for much longer.”
Shit. I’m about to be stripped of my patches because my parents are fuck-ups. Beads of sweat break out over my brow and my heart falls into my stomach. Panicky apprehension tangles my tongue.
Throughout it all, I’m assailed by one realisation—I can’t lose the Black Shamrocks MC.
I know I’m not allowed to defend myself. The edict to keep my mouth shut is clear, however the need to plead with them not to force me to leave the club is almost overwhelming. My self-control is hanging by a thread. I don’t know if I’ll be able to bite my tongue long enough to take the opportunity to plead my case.
“We do not see you as one of the rabble—a soldier or, at best, an enforcer,” Prez states. My VP inclines his head with apparent agreement. “We wish to see you embrace the Black Shamrocks with your whole head and heart, and while we understand that this may make you feel disloyal to your parents, we cannot groom you as a future chapter President or VP without demanding your complete fidelity to our vision. Do you believe in our ethos? Do you believe that you can become what we see in you?”
Swallowing again, I meet their eyes with nothing but cast-iron, unadulterated truth flowing through my veins. “I believe that with everything I have. The Black Shamrocks MC is my family. This Club is my chance to be everything I can be—to become more than the hollow husks my parents seem content to remain.”
Prez stands. He motions me to rise as well. I do as I’m asked, watching with fascination as he punches himself in the heart twice and hollers, “Go deo deartháireacha I arm. Forever Brothers in Arms.”
I repeat the words to our vow of allegiance with feeling, mimicking his actions alongside Brian’s dad. Every atom in my body is vibrating with resolution. I can do this. I can become a leader of the Black Shamrocks MC. I can have the dream that’s lived in my head since I was old enough to understand what being a member of this Club meant.
As much as I want to celebrate, there is a spectre dampening my enthusiasm. The pride is intertwined with sorrow as it dawns that I’ve just forsaken my parents for the MC. My Prez is right. I have been keeping one foot in my mother’s world and one in the Club. Her constant disapproval infects me every evening when I return home and I go to sleep each night with ambivalence toward the Shamrocks and my role in the Club’s future dancing against my resolve to be better than environment I was raised within. And, while I woke each morning and slipped my cut back on without a second thought, the infectious doubt was still there—plaguing me with promises of failure. I was letting my mum feed my own doubts about choosing a family that was a better fit for the future I wanted.
Now that the choice has been made, it feels like a weight has been lifted. For the first time, I feel like anything is possible.
“Before you head to the Wild Daisy, we want you to finish cleaning up my boy’s mess, then head home. Pack you stuff and bring it back here,” the Prez says.
His orders make little sense. I discover that I’ve zoned out, lost in thoughts about pride and failure, and parents and choosing your family. My gaze has dropped to the floor and I’ve lost track of the conversation.
“I’m sorry, can you say that again?”
Both men shake their heads at my request, but my VP also smiles a little when he repeats what Prez had said earlier. “You’re going to collect our protection payment from the Wild Daisy tonight. You’ll be lead, and Quinn will take point until you’ve got the ins and outs down pat. One that’s happened, you’ll be taking over the protection side of our business to free up our SAA and his enforcers to deal with the issues arising with our expansion plans.”
My gut churns. The honour they’re giving me is huge, however the potential to fuck it up is even bigger. And, these expansion plans they’re speaking of with unfeigned nonchalance is news to me. Is the Black Shamrocks MC heading further into the drug trade? I was under the impression we’d decided to stay mainly legit with the mechanic workshops and keep the protection racket for businesses on our turf as a lucrative sideline.
“I’m sure we don’t need to remind you to keep your mouth shut until there’s an official decree made.”
Seems like my initial understanding was correct. This expansion isn’t approved yet.
“Of course,” I answer evenly. Deep down I know this isn’t kosher, but I keep faith that I’m joining the right side. If the President and Vice President are in agreement, it’s just a matter of formality—a slight delay—until it’s voted into action.
“Right,” my Prez says. He meets me head-on with a challenging look, like he’s ready for me to argue his next point. “Now head home and grab your shit. You live here now.”
If I’m reading his expression correctly, my dad is about to meet his maker and my mum’s “divorce pension” is about to run out. D-day is upon me—and I already made my choice without bothering to ask for all the details.
“My dog?” I ask. Angus is my little mate, a Maltese-cross that I rescued from the streets. While I can turn my back on my parents without much thought, my dog is a not-negotiable part of my life. “I won’t give him up.”
They chuckle, and then my Prez replies in an easy tone. “He comes here. The little mutt will keep the riff-raff in check.”
Now, it’s my turn to laugh. Angus couldn’t give two shits about keeping anyone in check. He’s unashamedly selfish—content to take my attention and food offerings, but happy to be left to his own devices the rest of the time. The fact that I can touch him is something of a miracle. He hates everyone else in the world, women in particular, and has always given me a good excuse to get chicks to leave after I’ve banged them. Apparently, gritted teeth, low growling, and high-pitched yapping is a bit of a mood-killer. When Angus is inside the house, ain’t no woman trying to talk me into snuggling post-coitus.
“Off you go,” Brian’s dad commands. “I’ve have Ava prepare the room at the top of the hall for you before she left with the girls to go shopping. It’s got an ensuite and the best TV reception. Should suit you until you find your own place—not that there’s any rush for that.”
They’ve thought of everything. After spending the past nineteen years fending for myself while my parents lurched from one inane crisis to the other, it’s hard to accept their generosity without examining it for strings. I push down my natural suspicions, and simply incline my head.
“Thanks,” I say. “I won’t let you down.”
“We know,” Prez replies. “You’re a good man, Victor Kennedy. That’s why we’re taking you under our wing.”
TEN
Bonnie
“Mum,” I shriek, pointing at my little sister. “Make her stop!”
“Carrie, that’s enough,�
�� mum chides my sister with a smile in her voice.
My sister lifts the snail she was tormenting me with and sucks the meat from out of the shell noisily. Once she’s finished chewing, she grins at me. “You’ll have to get used to eating snails, Bon Bon. That’s all the French have a dinner time.”
Mum and dad laugh. I roll my eyes at her, then go back to dicing my well-done porterhouse into small pieces. Once I have a small mound about the size of my palm, I lift the remainder of the meat with my knife and for and place it on my dad’s plate. He grins, and tucks in straightaway.
“Thanks, Bon,” dad says around mouthfuls.
“Anytime,” I reply. My family is used to my weird eating habits. Keeping my figure slim and toned is almost a full-time job on top of dance practice and rehearsals. Protein is a necessary part of my diet, but that doesn’t mean that it’s something I can eat in large amounts. Balance is key to maximising my energy while maintaining my weight at a level that is easy for my dance partners to lift.
Thinking about lifting makes me push my thighs together and squirm on my seat. I haven’t seen Vic for a few days, and the last time I did, he acquainted me with the delights of wall-banging. My body is ready for a repeat, although I’m not sure when we’ll be getting together next. He’s busy with the Shamrocks and I have a tonne of practice scheduled over the coming week, so it’s unlikely our paths will cross. Our meetings rely on either one of us tagging along when Shari or Colleen meet their boyfriends. Considering Colleen lives with hers and Shari is unlikely to speak to me anytime soon after what I said this afternoon, I’m guessing that I’ll be satisfying my own urges for the next week.
I mean, it’s not like he can call on me at home or phone like a normal boyfriend. My dad would have a heart attack and my mum would send me to a convent.
“Earth to Bonnie,” my mum says with a laugh. She flips her hair over her shoulder. The dark, copper-brown hair length shines in the lights of the restaurant like a flaming veil.
“Yeah?” I reply around a mouthful of steak.
“I was just saying that Donna is worried about Shari. She asked me to see if you could get her to head to the studio with you,” Mum queries. I get the impression from the steel that’s entered her tone that it’s not a request. “Getting back into training would help her regain her confidence.”
With my fork, I push my food around my plate. I don’t know how to approach this without making promises I can’t keep. It doesn’t help that Shari is a soft spot between me and mum. She knows that we haven’t told the whole truth about how Shari ended up hurt, and she suspects that Colleen has something to do with it. My refusal to confide in my mother sits between us, souring our otherwise easy-going relationship with the knowledge that my loyalty to Colleen is more important to me than keeping my mum’s trust.
“I don’t think it’s appropriate for Donna to ask this of Bonnie,” my dad ventures softly. He’s well aware that this could flare into a full-blown showdown and that it’s in his best interests to smooth things over—at least, until we get home and mum can let fly in private.
“Personally, I can’t see why it’s such a big deal.” Mum sniffs, shooting a look of disdain in my direction. “Shari is your best friend, isn’t she?’
That’s a loaded question which confirms my suspicions that mum is happy to turn this into a scene if I don’t agree.
“You know that—”
Dad stops talking when a commotion breaks out near the hostess stand at the entrance. Everyone in the restaurant turns to see what’s happening and my dad braces his hands on our table and pushes to his feet. His chair flops onto the floor behind him. My mum lays a gentle hand over his and whispers something to him. When dad stays standing, but doesn’t make a move toward the uproar, I figure that it can’t be too important, but I’m nosy enough to take a peek anyway.
Since I have my back to the door, I’m one of the last people to see what’s happening. Once I’ve shuffled my seat around, shock takes hold and I freeze. My two worlds have just collided—hard.
Vic has hands on the hostess desk, palms down, much like the way my dad is standing. He’s having an angry conversation with the wizened old man whom I know owns the Wild Daisy while Cole’s dad stands at his side with fury on his face.
“What do you think that’s about?” I ask my dad.
“Typical Brisbane politics,” dad replies. He tilts his head toward Quinn Blake. “He’s a Black Shamrock.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. He could tell me something I didn’t already know. “And?”
Dad gestures to the big guy in leather who’s standing behind the owner, hulking like he’s a bodyguard. “And, he’s a Maverick of Mayhem.”
Now, that is news. The Mavericks of Mayhem are the gang that Colleen’s uncle ran drugs for. Their president assaulted Colleen in an attempt to get payback and Cole killed him for touching her. I rub my suddenly-sweaty hands over the denim that covers my thighs and narrow my eyes to see if I can work out what’s happening.
“If I had to guess what’s happening, I’d say that this is Black Shamrocks turf and the Mavericks are trying to take it over. Seems like that young man is one of their thugs who they use to make their point known—violently.”
The young man my dad is sneering at is Vic. I run a worried gaze over my kinda-boyfriend and try not to let the violence on his face upset me. Vic looks like he’s ready to kill someone and Quinn is visible vibrating with rage.
The tension in the air promises violence and lots of it.
While I’m watching Vic, something changes. His expression changes, lighting up with devious delight, and his posture relaxes. He gestures to the empty table near us with his head and then directs Quinn and the other two Black Shamrocks to follow him. I hold my breath and hope like hell that he doesn’t realise I’m here.
Vic walks past my table, and at the start, he doesn’t see me. Just as I’m about to start breathing again, he does a double take and comes back to stand in front of me.
“Bonnie,” he purrs with a slow smile. He seems surprised, but happy to see me. “Fancy seeing you here.”
My parents glaring is heating the back of my head and my mouth is in gear before my brain engages. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”
Vic’s eyes narrow. Hurt flickers across his face for a second. It’s quickly replaced with benign humour and Vic lets out a sarcastic chuckle. “Oh, I see. It’s like that. My apologies, I thought you were someone I knew.”
He effects a bow and salutes my dad. I watch him walk to his table with a swagger in his stride, and the idea that I just messed up our understanding hits me hard. Disappointment—in myself, not Vic—and anger that he put me in that positions vies for dominance within me. When it looks like the disappointment is going to win, I force myself to latch onto my anger and stoke it into faux fury. It’s his fault I hurt him, I whisper to myself. Unfortunately, my mind doesn’t want to believe me.
“Who was that?” Dad asks.
“Ah, nobody,” I reply.
Both of my parents glare at me with disbelief in their expression. I’m attempting to formulate some type of reason for this stranger addressing me by my name when I’m saved by our waiter. He takes a beer off his tray and places it in front of my dad.
“From our new guests,” the waiter mutters. He looks at the table that Vic is sitting at, then offers a further explanation. “To apologise for the disruption.”
The waiter places a glass of wine in front of my mum and a jug of soft drink in the middle of the table. He then moves on to the rest of the tables in his section and repeats his statements. My dad Drinks his beer down in one go and pushes his half-eaten meal away from himself.
“I’ve lost my appetite,” he declares. “Are you ready to leave?”
My mum and sister nod. I take a sip of my drink, peeking at Vic over the rim of the glass. He subtly moves his head in the direction of the restrooms and I offer him a tiny nod in response.
Pulling my napkin from m
y lap, I throw it over my meal. “I need to go to the ladies, then I’m ready to go home. Why don’t you settle the bill and I’ll meet you outside?”
Mum and Carrie are already standing, and they make their way to the cloakroom. Dad takes hold of my upper arm when I try to move past him and tugs me to a stop.
“I hope you know what you’re doing?” he asks with worry in his voice. The lines around my dad’s eyes appear deeper when he peers into mine with concern.
“I’m just going to the loo,” I reply.
Dad turns me until we’re facing the Black Shamrocks table. “I know them, and I understand how alluring they can appear on the surface. Don’t let them suck you in with their shiny promises and the pretence that they care about you. The club will always come first, and everyone else is either an instrument to use or a liability to dispose of.”
“How do you know them?”
Dad pushes up his short sleeve and exposes the tattoo on his bicep. He points at the writing that lists his unit in the Vietnam War. “Once upon a time, they were my brothers too.”
Vic stands and heads for the restrooms. Dad watches me, and I try my hardest not to follow Vic with my gaze. I lose the battle, my eyes searching out Vic like heat-seeking missile, and my father sighs. He lets me go and follows the path mum and Carrie recently took. I don’t bother to see if he stops to watch me, instead I head straight after Vic.
Rounding the corner, I take a second to allow my eyes to adjust to the dimly lit area.
“What the fuck was that?” Vic snarls at me. He seizes me by the same spot on my arm that my dad just had hold of and drags me out of the corridor and into the disabled toilet. I’ve barely found my voice before he’s slammed the door and slid the lock shut. Vic advances on me, the hurt that I saw in his expression fleetingly now give full rein, and I back up.
Viking (Black Shamrocks MC: First Generation Book 2) Page 7