“Meggie’s fine,” he said quietly, deciding this was the right fucking thing to say to escape the wrath of the crazy motherfucker in front of him.
Big Joe cocked his head to the side. “Who’s Meggie?”
Fuck if he knew. He couldn’t say that, though, no matter how the idea appealed to him. “A girl you care about a lot.”
He squinted and rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. “She’s my kid?”
Scratching his scalp, Mortician cursed under his breath and rolled his eyes. How the fuck was he supposed to know that? He’d just started hearing the name four or five months ago. Leaning against the wall and folding his arms, he searched for neutrality. “As far as I fucking know you just got Snake.”
Chewing on his lip until he drew blood and swaying on his feet, Boss dug in his cut. He pulled out a wallet with a skeleton’s head on it. A moment later, he waved a photograph in front of Mort’s face.
“Is this Meggie?”
Mort reached for it and Big Joe shoved the photo behind his back, laughing like a fucking overgrown baboon. He teased Mortician with it again and laughed harder, his rancid breath polluting the air.
Mortician glared at Boss, pitying him and scorning him all at once. Mort knew the man’s initial addiction wasn’t his fault. That blame lay on Lowman’s shoulders. Not that the old lunatic gave much of a fuck. Then, Outlaw had decided to confront Boss himself. Boss had heeded the warning for a while. He’d talked Mortician out of demanding a DNA to prove he was the father of Char’s baby. He’d grown the membership of the club. He’d accepted some money from Mortician to completely redo the compound. For four or five years, he’d been fine. Until…until what? No one knew.
His addiction was fucking worse now than ever before.
They were all doing what they could to protect him, but enough was enough. John Boy had already jetted. He’d blamed his changed status from full-time member to nomad on some bitch he’d “fallen for”. If that’s the story he wanted told, so fucking what?
Mort knew it was because of Boss and his madness. Club whores were no longer safe, so they’d began to party at other clubs. And, yet…yet…Snake and Rack still found girls for him to destroy, unsuspecting females new to town.
That’s why Mort had come tearing back to the club tonight. Snake had told him Big Joe was with a girl and he’d left the barbeque to save her.
But he was too late, as always. His gut clenched.
Big Joe scratched the photo against Mort’s nose and snickered.
“Take it.”
Blowing out a breath and still believing he was about to be made an ass of again, Mort followed Boss’s directions. This time, he got the picture. A blonde girl about fifteen or sixteen smiled for the camera, her blue eyes the exact same shade as Boss and Snake’s. He turned it over, finding the name Megan written in blue ink.
He held the photo out. “That’s her,” he confirmed. “Meggie.”
A sad smile touched his face and he ran a finger over the photo. “My girl?”
Mortician nodded, and looked away. He wanted to kick the fuck out of something. Instead, he answered simply, “Yeah, Prez, your girl.”
Big Joe hung his head, a proud man brought low, and stepped aside. “Can you get rid of the one in my bed?”
“What’d you do to her?”
He raised his hands and wiggled his fingers. He’d strangled her before carving her up and getting blood everywhere.
Walking around Boss, Mortician pulled out his phone and texted Digger. His decision was made. After tonight, he was walking the fuck away.
Chapter Eleven: Death Comes Calling
Two days later, Mortician tipped the bottle of vodka back and stared out over the water of the creek. His saddlebags were packed. Once he arrived wherever the road led him, he’d send word to Outlaw and arrange for him, Val, or John Boy to deliver the safe. Right now, he had to get the fuck away until Boss straightened the fuck out. Or overdosed.
The board meeting earlier today had been intense, a scene Mortician never expected to see. Boss had pulled a gun on Outlaw and threatened to kill him if he didn’t obey orders to bring a girl. That must’ve hurt Outlaw more than anything. His mentor and father-figure—the one man he trusted above all others—turning on him. Boss’s bad behavior only reinforced Mortician’s decision to leave.
Outlaw was aware of some of Boss’s activities, which precipitated some of Mort’s ordered deeds. Once or twice, Outlaw had mentioned how dead Mort’s eyes looked. But Mort felt dead, unmoored. He no longer remembered what compelled him to join the club. Or to stay for that fucking matter.
His phone beeped, but Mort didn’t care who was texting him. He was done. Finished. Checking the screen would only put him back in the bullshit.
Finishing the vodka, he got to his feet, his cut flapping against him. For some reason, he couldn’t bear to remove it. Maybe, wherever he arrived, he’d come to terms with his departure. Now? No. Now, he was just running to save his soul and his sanity.
He started for his bike and halted at My Axe blaring from his cut. Outlaw thought it beyond funny that Mortician had chosen an ICP song, especially that one, as his ringtone.
Without stopping to consider, Mort retrieved his phone. “What up?”
“Mort, get the fuck to the fuckin’ clubhouse.”
“Out—”
“Now!”
The line went dead.
Mortician stared at the phone for a few moments before closing his eyes. He’d see what Outlaw needed, then hit the fucking road as soon as possible.
Or, maybe, fucking not.
Mortician knew he couldn’t leave now or anytime soon, not with Outlaw…Outlaw so fucking furious and hurt and fucked in the head. And not with Joseph Foy laid out in his room, missing part of his face.
Between the time Outlaw had called and Mortician got back to the club, Outlaw had demolished the room. Broke mirrors and glasses, destroyed wooden furniture and expensive electronics. He’d gone fucking insane.
Because he’d killed…fuck.
He’d killed Big Joe. But there was also a dead girl who’d bled out on the bed. Mortician watched Outlaw from a distance, eyes wild, hair all over his head, covered in blood because he’d been handling Big Joe.
“What. The. Fuck.”
Val’s shocked words halted Outlaw’s rampage and he turned toward them, breathing hard.
“Motherfucker.” He kicked Big Joe. “Fucking fucked up drug head motherfucker. He ain’t even give me a fuckin’ choice. Me or him, Mort. Fuckin’ me or him.”
“Outlaw, what’s—”
John Boy snapped his mouth shut, staring at the scene, his nostrils flaring, and Mortician closed his eyes. They didn’t need to let John Boy loose, right now. Motherfucker would see blood and want to spill some of his own.
“Get your ass the fuck out of here,” Mortician growled, stepping further into the room, to try to reason with Outlaw.
“Come on, John Boy,” Val said quickly. “We got to get the meat shack ready. We got to get Boss out of here before Snake and Rack gets back.”
“You want him in the meat shack?” Mortician questioned in a steady voice. This had to be Outlaw’s call. As it was, Mort wasn’t sure how the man would live with himself after this. “We can bury him somewhere.”
Outlaw narrowed his eyes. “Fuck him,” he snarled. “I ain’t givin’ a fuck one way or the other.”
“You do, so get fuckin’ control of yourself. We got to get this shit cleaned up before Snake and Rack get back.” Mortician looked over his shoulder for backup, but he realized Val and Johnnie were already gone. Averting his eyes away from Boss’s body and his stomach turning, he headed to where he knew Boss kept alcohol in his closet, glad Outlaw hadn’t gotten in there yet and smashed it.
Fuck, but blood was everywhere.
He couldn’t believe how devastated he was at Big Joe’s death. But he knew what had happened, so he didn’t blame Outlaw. Joseph Foy had descended to the depths of hell and t
here’d been no turning back.
Logan left, and Mortician had told the story, but Big Joe had brushed it off.
Swallowing back bile and tears and plain, fucking grief, Mortician grabbed the tequila Joe Foy always enjoyed and brought it to Outlaw, holding it out to him.
What could he say? Nothing important, nothing meaningful, and nothing that could comfort his friend. A cold calmness was settling over Outlaw, walls that hadn’t been there before dropping into place to protect himself from accusations. Who needed to accuse him when it was obvious he hated himself for what he’d done?
Snatching the bottle from Mortician, Outlaw opened it and guzzled, then shoved it back to Mortician.
“Pull it together,” Mortician said quietly. “You got to. Otherwise, Snake is going to shoot your ass off and you would’ve killed Boss for nothing. Pull it together because you have to stand up and act like the Prez. Which you are until we get to vote for a new one. Pull it together because I’d prefer you to be the new Prez than Snake or Rack.”
They stared at each other for what seemed like forever before Outlaw nodded and stepped back.
“Call Digger,” he instructed. “We need this cleaned up.” He bowed his head. “Get that lil’ girl. I can’t…” He swallowed. “Do somethin’ with her. Get some money. Get her to the funeral home. Pay whatever you gotta…just don’t…” He yanked on his hair and growled, blinking.
“I got you, brother,” Mort swore. “I’m going to make sure she’s buried right. Okay?”
“He killed her, Mort. I couldn’t save…that motherfucker blew her head off.”
Mortician turned away, almost overwhelmed, which was fucked up considering all the shit they’d done over the years. They had a few burning thrones with big fisted dicks poking out of the seat, just waiting for them to come and kick it with Satan.
“Put her somewhere, then meet me in the meat shack, so we can finish up with Joseph fucking Foy once and for all.”
Digging in Big Joe’s pockets, Mortician found the photo that the man had been flashing before him a couple days ago. He glanced at the girl, wondering if she’d miss her father, or ever want to know his whereabouts.
What could they tell her?
Big Joe Foy was a good man, once upon a time, who turned into everything vile and evil. Or, maybe, they could let her know the man had been their mentor, too, until…Until it all fell apart and left nothing but his body in pieces. And it would end up in even worse shape once Johnnie finished.
Mortician argued that they couldn’t have any evidence of Boss left behind. Not a grave to dig out. Not appendages to toss. Nothing. John Boy, though, had plans for one part of him. Once John Boy played his mind games, the last part of Big Joe would be disposed of, too.
It still left no place for this girl to ever grieve. Nowhere for them to grieve. Eventually, one day, Outlaw would need to let the pain of today’s events out.
“Snake,” Val called, just outside the door of the meat shack.
This shit was going to be bad. Mortician wasn’t even sure he could get through it. Johnnie was a sick fuck, but none of them had a better idea.
Stuffing the girl’s photo in his back pocket, Mortician rolled Boss’s clothes up, wondering how they’d fair out in the woodchipper.
Fuck.
He wasn’t going near that shit. He’d just burn the clothes. Removing his gloves and apron, Mortician balled everything up. He’d need to get the fuck back in here before Snake started searching.
Once he saw…
Fuck.
Having no more time to waste, Mortician made his way to the clubhouse. It was fucking full. Of fucking course. Johnnie had gone nomad when Big Joe got too bad. Now, he was here in all his crazy glory. He’d either get them all fucking killed or he’d start a fucking war.
Snake was pushing up on Ellen, one of the club whores, who’d been around for a while. She and Kiera had a certain status with the guys, so it made sense to see them. Other bitches were there, too. April, May, Gurly, and other whores he’d fucked. A long list of brothers was there, as well, and Mortician could pick out on two hands those who’d be completely loyal to Outlaw.
Somehow, he made it through a beer before the fucking door finally opened and a probate stumbled in, screaming hysterically.
I feel you, brother.
Mortician glanced at Outlaw. Jaw clenched, he just stared at the probate, who’d grabbed everyone’s attention. The probate couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do shit.
Except lift Big Joe Foy’s severed head and scream all over again.
The sudden silence hit like a thunder boom, startling and unexpected. But when they found their voices, disbelief, grief, and outrage, rose up and clashed, echoing in the main hall.
Finally, all eyes centered on Outlaw, whose expression seemed frozen in horror. Snake was staring, his teary eyes turning wild, his shoulders heaving. After claiming the head and returning it to the box, John Boy stepped in front of Outlaw, but Mortician sat at an angle to see his friend sway. He hoped like fuck he didn’t faint. Although he felt like throwing his hand on his head and passing the fuck out like a girl, Outlaw couldn’t. That shit would be too fucking weak.
Outlaw locked gazes with Mortician and shook his head, backing away. Devastated at Big Joe’s death. Angry that he’d killed him. He’d lost the only man who’d been a constant in his life. The man who’d taught him to be a man.
“Who did this?” Snake snarled, yanking John Boy by the collar of his expensive shirt.
John Boy narrowed his eyes. Eyes that lacked any warmth or indication that he had a soul. Without urging, Snake removed his hands from Johnnie.
“Who did this?” he repeated, his voice cracking. He glanced around. “Where’s Outlaw? Christopher!” he yelled. “Let’s ride, Outlaw. Find the fuckers who did this. Where’d he go? Why isn’t he here?”
“Come on, son.” Rack hurried to him and pulled Snake toward the public restrooms, since John Boy stood in the pathway, not allowing anyone to pass by. “Got to pull you together.” He glared at John Boy, sending him a nasty look. “Find out when Boss left. Far as I knew, he was staying in all day today.”
Mortician got to his feet and barreled to Rack. “What the fuck that mean, son? You think real fucking careful before your bitch ass make stupid fucking allegations that might get your fucking tongue cut out.”
“Mortician, Val, see to Outlaw,” John Boy instructed. “Rack, sit the fuck down before your head joins Big Joe’s in that fucking box.”
“Where’s Outlaw?” someone called. “He our interim Prez ‘til we elect somebody. He should be out here.”
“I’m not following nothing Boss’s lap dog gotta say,” Rack sneered. “Get everybody here and get church going tonight. We electing a new president tonight.”
“Fuck you,” John Boy spat, sending Mort a satisfied smirk and ignoring Mort’s glare in return.
Mortician knew Johnnie felt vindicated about his argument to produce Big Joe’s head. Evidence of his death guaranteed the membership that there’d be no chance of Boss ever returning. That was the only way they could assure Outlaw’s position. Otherwise, if Outlaw was made interim president and there was no proof of Big Joe’s death, Snake, Rack—more than a few brothers—would make it even harder for Outlaw.
“We need to avenge Boss first.”
Rack opened his mouth to speak, but Johnnie cut him off again.
“Fine, motherfucker. Get everybody together. I’m nominating Christopher.”
“Well, I nominate Snake,” Rack countered.
“As fucking if,” Val said with a snort.
“I’m with John Boy,” Mortician added, nodding at Val and indicating the hallway. “I nominate Outlaw.”
“Can’t nominate no motherfucker ‘til all the brothers here,” Rack shouted as the door opened.
“What’s going on in here?” K-P asked, walking into the midst of the growing storm.
Silent, John Boy showed him the contents of the box and K-P w
ent white as a sheet, glancing between Johnnie and the opened box. He regained control of his emotions and listened as John Boy filled him on the details. Or the details he’d orchestrated as much as he’d coordinated the probate’s discovery. He wanted to buy time for Outlaw to get his thoughts together.
“Where is he?” K-P asked heavily.
“Here,” a voice from behind said.
Outlaw walked to the center of the room. His face was as emotionless as John Boy’s. Dressed in his leathers, he threw Rack an ugly stare.
“Boss ain’t even gone proper yet and you callin’ for elections? Kiss my fuckin’ ass. You showin’ him more fuckin’ respect than that. Election in one week. You got something to fuckin’ say to me or ‘bout me, say it the fuck now or shut the fuck up.”
Outlaw Caldwell. The man who’d loved and worshipped Big Joe Foy, stared at each of them, determined to lead the club they all loved so much.
Chapter Twelve: Short & Shallow
1 year later
Snake had fucking struck and struck big. If Mortician hadn’t been in the warehouse taking inventory when Snake and his lings had arrived, he would’ve been amongst the clubhouse dead. Whether they were hatchlings of Snake’s or just fucking snakelings was debatable, so Mort kept it fucking simple. Didn’t matter anyway, at this point. Most of them were deadlings.
Finished with most of the clean-up in the main room, Mort pulled a roll from his pocket and lit it, signaling Digger over. In silence, they passed the weed between them and Mort pulled his little brother into an arm hold by the neck.
Digger allowed it for a moment before he elbowed him. “Feeling mutual, bro, now get the fuck away from me.”
Mortician smiled just as Meggie barreled into the room, her blue gaze honing in on Rack. She marched up to him.
“What the fuck she doing, Mort?” Digger asked, scowling in her direction.
“Am I fucking there to hear? I know about as much as you fucking do, motherfucker.” Mortician watched the little blonde engage Rack and the various emotions on Rack’s face. He suspected Rack’s beady-eyed ass was the fucking traitor, but he covered his fucking tracks well. Or he had help to do it. He released the smoke through his nostrils. “Let’s get her, Digger. Take her to the shed.”
Death Dwellers Motorcycle Club:: Fifteen Bad Boy Biker Books Page 184