“Righto,” I give Benji a sly grin. “You do that. Tell me what your own ass tastes like after she’s kicked it so hard that you end up using it to swallow.”
The brothers gathered around us burst into laughter. Anyone with two functioning brain cells and a pulse knows I’m right. Benji’s just setting himself up for grief, prodding at Lainey when she’s this adamant about something is basically a fucking invitation for her to take her stress out on you. He shakes his head at me, before saluting. “And on that note, I’m out.”
Grabbing Lacey’s hand, he heads for the exit. Stopping to fist bump Joel, he makes his way to the racks that hold everyone’s helmets and leather jackets. Picking up his jacket, he starts chuckling when he sees what’s been stitched into the back of it, just above his top rocker.
“All right, which one of you fuckers did this?” he asks with laughter in his voice. Holding up the jacket, the glittery, pink letters that spell out “HOLLYWOOD” sparkle in the fluorescent lights of the bar. “Whoever it was is gonna feel my boot up their ass when I get back.”
Since I was the one who organised for Mama C to stitch the name on his jacket, I hang back when the rest of the crowd surge forward to have a good look at it. Guffaws and hollering echo around the bar as they all see the humour in it. After a moment, I stick two fingers in my mouth and whistle to get their attention. “Time to let our star attraction leave. We have church to get through.”
Mumbled goodbyes follow Benji out the door, then the assembled Shamrocks make their way into our chapel and take their usual seats. I pass Timber on my way. He’s still slumped against the wall and eyes me with censure when I kick his closest leg on my way past. “When you’re ready, you have a patch to hand over.”
With one big hand, he pushes against the floor and gets to his feet. Straightening to his full height, Timber leans in close to me, speaking in a tone that holds violent promise. “You just crossed the fucking line back there. When the time’s right, I’m gonna bring hell down on your stubborn fucking head. Payback’s a bitch, and lucky for me, I learnt from the best.”
I step into his space, hands on my hips, hate in my eyes. “Bring it. I’ve already been to hell. Fuck, I went toe to toe with Satan himself and I’m still standing. There’s not a fucking thing you can do to me that I haven’t already survived.”
The anger in his expression dims and he lets out a loud sigh. “Fuck me, Mad Dog. This isn’t how things need to be. I’ve apologised, but I can’t fix nothing until you tell me what the fuck happened when you were behind bars. We can all see it’s changed you.”
Phantom throbbing starts in my back; reminding me that he’s right. I have changed and it was jail that did it. Not that any of the Shamrocks are gonna find out what happened. I won’t tell Lainey—and she’s my world—so I’m never telling any of them. Without another word, I turn my back on Timber and head for the President’s seat at the head of the table. He follows me, sitting in the VP’s chair next to mine. Picking up the gavel, I slam it down on the base plate. “I call this full meeting of the Black Shamrocks Motorcycle Club to order. We are now in session.”
Without waiting, I swing my chair in Timber’s direction. “First order of business. Reinstating your sorry ass to your actual position.”
I hold my hand out for the patch that sits on his left lapel, watching with one eyebrow raised when he pulls out his hunting blade and slices it off his cut. Butch steps forward and hands Timber the Vice President’s patch and a sewing kit. With bated breath, I wait for him to hand me my legacy. He doesn’t. Instead, the petulant prick slides it across the oak surface of the table, stopping just outside my reach. I lean forward and pick it up.
“Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” I deadpan. Lips twitching with a threatening grin, I snatch the sewing kit away from him. “Thanks.”
The big asshole mumbles something under his breath then slumps back in his seat and glares at me while I sew my patch on first. Once I’m done, I pack everything away, closing the lid tight and shrugging my cut back on. Timber grunts when I don’t push it in his direction. My ire rises at his behaviour, but I force it back down. He really needs to stop acting like I’m the one who’s done wrong. That mantle sits squarely on his shoulders, and his shoulders only. Fuck me dead, the asshole should be counting his lucky stars. If I thought I had the votes, I’d have him removed as my VP.
“Now, that’s out of the way.” I address the room, deliberately distracting myself from thoughts of Timber’s deceit before I lose my shit in front of everyone. The last thing I want is for them to find out that I know they’ve been laughing at me behind my back for years. That knowledge is best kept to myself until I need it for leverage. “Decisions needs to be made.”
The brothers whose attention had wandered during our impromptu arts and crafts session turn back to me. “We have three things left to finalize.”
I count them off on my fingers as I say them. “One. Beast’s time has come to a fucking end. I want the go-ahead to finish him right away.”
Rumbles of agreements fill the room. “Two. We need to find Wendy’s kid for her. Not only is she gonna need something to distract her from what happens to Beast but we need leverage to hold over Thomas Taylor’s head so he can’t come after any of us.” I pause, determined to relish the way the next words roll off my tongue. “Once that’s stitched up, we move forward with our plans to get rid of that fucker as well.”
Whoops and hollers bounce of the walls, echoing in the small space. It sounds like a fucking party, which is the opposite of what it actually is—the signing of the death warrant of our biggest enemy. I let them enjoy it for a few minutes before I bang the gavel to get their attention.
“Our third order of business.” I hesitate, still in two minds. Swallowing, I search the room for my dad. He’s the only person I’ve shared everything with—and he’s one-hundred percent on board. Even if it means death to members of the Shamrocks while we wage the battle. His blue-eyed stare cajoles me from across the room to get on with it. I shake my head at him. He nods his head in return, looking to his left at Conan, Butch, and Lenny. The four of them—the last of the old guard—all stare back at me, willing me to do what needs to be done. Clearing my throat, I sit up straight in my chair. “Third of order of business. Declaring war against the Mavericks of Mayhem.” I wait for an uproar to break out. Nothing happens. Silence takes hold of the chapel until first one voice then another and another speaks up. Soon, it feels as if they’re all talking at once.
“About fucking time.” Smoke declares.
“We wipe them from the face of the earth then spit on their graves.” One of our enforcers remarks.
“It’s what needs to be done,” Timber’s gruff voice joins the ruckus. “The Shamrocks deserve revenge. They need to learn that a new order is in charge and we don’t take any fucking shit—especially from a two-bob, B-Grade, fucking gang that likes to masquerade as a motorcycle club. They took my woman. Your woman. Helped get Murray killed and then made a deal with the devil to escape our wrath. The fuckers need to go down, no matter the fucking cost.”
For the first time since I was released, I look at him properly. He looks like shit, a decade older than he did before I was put away, and I don’t think all of it can be blamed on being a new dad. My pride screams its objections in my ear, telling me not to let go of my anger toward him, yelling that he can’t be trusted, even as I lean across and hold my hand out. “Fucking oath, brother.”
He doesn’t hesitate. Gripping my hand in his, he squeezes and shakes. Meeting my gaze with an earnest one of his own, he dips his head once. “I have your back. Always have. Always fucking will.”
Snorting, I shake my head. “I’ll take your word for it.”
Timber answers my doubt with a head shake of his own. “You’ll see. Fucking stubborn fucker.”
“Okay, enough chit chat.” I yell over the masses, cutting off Timber’s insult. “Time to vote.”
I pick up the gavel and
look around the room, meeting the eyes of each brother as I go. Out of everything we need to decide on; this is the most important to me. The mere thought of looking Beast in the eyes as I pull the trigger is enough to send a potent surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins. My hand can feel the weight of my favourite pistol already, my thumb itching to cock the hammer. “First order. Beast. Yay or Nay?”
Going around the room, I'm met with a chorus of “yay” until I get to my father. I’ve tried not to acknowledge how much he’s deteriorated during my incarceration, although, I can’t escape it now. He’s got fuck all hair left on his head, his bones look like they’re going to poke through his skin at any second, and the despair in his expression screams that he’s almost ready to give up.
“Nay,” my father says in a weak voice.
“You’ve gotta be shitting me, Dad?”
“Mik, I refuse to live with the knowledge that my son put a bullet in my best friend’s head. He’s your godfather.”
A sharp pain stabs me in the forehead. I press my fingers into it, closing my eyes and praying that the migraine that’s trying to set in will fuck off. When the pain has receded a little, I open my eyes and glare at him. “Being my godfather didn’t seem to worry him when he was plotting to send me down for murder.”
“I’m not saying never. I’m just asking that it doesn’t happen while I’m alive.” Dad retorts. He wheezes, reaching for the oxygen mask that’s hanging on the cylinder that seems to be his constant companion nowadays and pulling it over his face. He takes a deep breath, then pulls the mask away from his mouth so he can speak again. “When I’m dead, you’ll have your unanimous vote so all it’s gonna cost you is some bloody patience.”
“Jesus Christ. Do you have to be so fucking blunt about it?” Timber’s father speaks up.
“There’s no escaping cold, hard facts, Conan.” My dad is unapologetic. He turns back to me. “What say you? Are you man enough to let me have my dying wish?”
My pulse starts to race when it dawns on me that any urgency on my part to end Beast means that I’m wishing away my father’s life. Dismay cools the need for revenge that’s been boiling my blood for months. Everything goes from complicated to fucking convoluted. How can I say no when he calls it his dying wish?
“Next order. Finding Wendy’s kid then ending Thomas Taylor?” Without answering Dad out aloud, I give him his answer by moving the meeting along. This time, I’m met with a unanimous verdict when I circle the room. Smacking the gavel on the base plate, I try to work out how I’m feeling. Ridding the earth of Thomas Taylor just doesn’t bring the same satisfaction as killing Beast. It should because Thomas is the driving force behind everything. I decide it’s because his actions were to be expected while Beast’s betrayal was the last thing I ever saw coming.
“The motion passes. Kid.” I point the end of the gavel at Benji’s best friend. “I want you to get on to it ASAP. They’ll be trying to erase every trace of the kid so you’ll need to dig quick and deep to get us what we need.”
The red-haired little shit shrugs at my warning. “It’s impossible to completely hide anything. Especially, from me.” Rolling my eyes, I bite back my grin. Knowing his hacking skills, he’s probably right.
“All right. Third and final vote. I want to declare war on the Mavericks of Mayhem. Actually, fucking scratch that. I want to annihilate the Mavericks. I want them wiped out for generations to come. I want the mere mention of the Black Shamrocks to have their goddamned children’s children shaking in their shoes.” I’ve barely finished my tirade when a resounding round of “yay” erupts. The sound of the gavel is drowned out by the stomping of feet and loud pronouncements of their desire for long-awaited retribution. Glancing at Timber, I grin. “I’d say this motion passes.”
He throws his head back and laughs. I can’t help joining him when he looks back at me, still chuckling, and quips, “I’d say you’re right.”
CHAPTER SIX
MADDI
It’s with uncustomary meekness that I make my way into the Shamrocks bar after a long day at work. All day long, I’ve done nothing but think about mine and Mik’s argument this morning. I want so desperately be okay with his plans for my father—to pull my head out of my ass like Benji so eloquently put it when he stopped into my office on the way to rehab—but I can’t. In spite of what he’s done, even after the pain and suffering he’s caused every single one of us; he’s still my dad. And, rightly or wrongly, I still love him.
The bar is in full swing, a party of some type taking place. I search the area for Mik. Disappointment grips me, killing any hope I had that we could work our issues out, when I spy him sitting at the far end of the bar entertaining three of the Club whores. My disenchantment turns to red-hot anger when one of them runs her hands under his T-shirt and over the abs that I wanted to touch last night but wasn’t allowed to. My feet have a mind of their own and I’m halfway to the group before I see Mik grab her wrist and push her away from him.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” he snarls. Pointing at the trio, he continues. “All of you can fuck off. Ain’t interested in anything you have to offer.”
My heart lightens at his words. Maybe there’s hope for us, after all. I close the distance between us, tossing my handbag to the Prospect behind the bar for safe keeping and sliding onto the now vacant stool next to Mik. My pride is strong; however, my love for the man silently staring at me is stronger. I ignore the voice in my head that’s telling me that I should wait for Mik to speak first because I’m not the one in the wrong.
“Hey,” I say with a tentative smile on my face. He continues to stare at me blankly so I try again. “What’s the party for?”
The moment the question is out of my mouth; I realize my stupid mistake. The party is to celebrate their decision to end my father. My nose starts to tingle as tears threaten. I sniff, then try to think of a less inflammatory topic. Mik reaches out and grabs my hand. Massaging my knuckles, he finally speaks. “Celebrating your victory.”
I don’t understand the meaning behind his cryptic statement but before I can tell him that, he lets go of my hand, and runs his fingers down my skirt until he reaches the hem. Trailing his hand under material, I spread my legs unconsciously as far as my pencil skirt will allow, to give him the access he seeks. One finger is run up the front of my panties, the heat from that single digit enough to make me gasp. I brace myself, ready for him to make contact with my clit, only to be left hanging when he takes hold of the barstool between my parted thighs and drags me to him. My mind is spinning from his abrupt change of direction, only to be sent tumbling further, when Mik places one hand on either side of my face and pulls me so I’m facing him with barely five inches between us.
“Did you hear what I said?” I get a face full of beer breath with his words. His hazel eyes are bloodshot, the pupil’s the size of pinpricks, and he has that glassy look he only gets when he’s drunk … and stoned. His vagueness makes sense now that I know he’s off his head. It’s not deliberate—he wouldn’t know up from down at the moment. Wrenching my face out of his grip, I put some space between us. I swing my stool until I’m facing the bar and not Mik, motioning for the prospect to come serve me.
“Hey, Dane.” I smile when he stops in front of me with one eyebrow cocked. He looks tired, and he would be, having to run after all the drunk morons in the bar all by himself now that Benji’s gone. Being the only prospect in the club at the moment would suck. “Can I have a vodka and pineapple? Please.”
“Sure thing, Mads.” Dane tips his head to me and takes off to make my drink.
“Is Her Majesty ignoring me?” Mik swings my stool to him. I let out a sigh. It doesn’t help dissipate my annoyance with him so I try another tactic. My lips move as I count backward from ten silently. The drunken idiot who’s trying my patience growls at me. “Are you pulling your bullshit counting with me?”
Reaching one, I close my eyes and pray to the Lord above, my mother, Buddha, and then add
an extra prayer to Athena, Goddess of wisdom and intelligence for the ability to withstand Mik’s efforts to pick a fight. “Yes, I am. Because I don’t want to fight with you tonight.”
Mik stands, swaying on his feet, then leers down at me. He grabs my head again, this time planting a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss on my mouth. “Who said anything about fighting? I’m all about making love, baby.”
Wiping my lips with the back of my hand, I roll my eyes at him. “Since you can barely stand at the moment, I think I’ll take a pass on the lovemaking.”
Dane returns with my drink and another beer for Mik. He places my vodka in front of me on a coaster and slides Mik’s beer toward him. “Need anything else, Maddi?”
“Nah, we’re good for a while.” I wave him away. Snatching Mik’s beer out of his hand before he can open it, I stand on the footstep of my barstool and lean over the bar so I can put his beer into one of the sinks filled with ice.
“Goddamn it,” I squeal when Mik slaps my ass. “That freaking hurt.”
Chortling like a dying hyena, he slaps me again; harder this time. It hurts, and it’s not funny to me. Waving away Joel and Timber when they start heading our way to intervene, I jump off my stool and try to get out of his reach. My evasive manoeuvres fail. Epically. Mik stumbles after me, then boxes me between the bar and his big body. He puts an arm on either side of me, squeezing my arms against my upper body. Resting his forehead on mine, he stops laughing. He appears to sober a little as he questions me. “Don’t you want to know what happened today?”
I shrug. “I do, but not while you’re drunk and stoned. We’re just going to end up fighting and I don’t want to. We both said some crazy stuff this morning; let’s leave it at that for now.”
“Don’t wanna. Need to tell you how we voted. Need to set this shit straight.” His words are a little slurred, but I get his gist. Bracing myself mentally, I nod. With a fake smile on my face, I give in. “All right. Tell me.”
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