No, that wasn’t quite it. I wasn’t really happy that we, as a club, had to get involved with violence in the first place. What the hell was it all for?
Was this level of violence really that necessary? We could get along just fine at Brewskis, and yet… if we went out into the streets, it would seem like the kind of thing Axle or Patriot would have seen in Iraq. What all were we trying to fight for, anyway? At least when the U.S. fought overseas, it fought for freedom and justice. But for us?
The more I thought about it, the more I began to wonder what the hell was the entire point of the club. My father had established it as a brotherhood, but right now, even though I was literally a son of the club, I felt more like the adopted outsider. Axle, Butch, Father Marcellus, Red Raven, Patriot, prospects, members—they all had a real brotherhood with each other.
Me? I had Patriot, and that was pretty much it. It was a path I had given myself with my actions, sure, but...
Admittedly, Axle and the rest of the crew had been much more attentive to my wounds and to my needs when the battle had ended. It seemed apparent that they appreciated I had taken a more active role. I knew I would need to be more involved if that were to remain the case, though. I couldn’t expect them to just like me or respect me because of the patch on my cut.
But damnit, finding that balance was going to be hard. There was no glory in murder and violence and shootouts. This wasn’t Hollywood, no matter how close geographically we might have been. This was real life, and real life saw my father and my eventual wife murdered.
By Cole.
But was it really Cole? You’ve always wanted a scapegoat, and...
A man who I knew was a Fallen Saint walked in. He was alone, seemingly a man who had come here after a long shift at work—he had on his cut, but he also had on jeans that suggested he had done some serious work at his shop. He gave me a glare, and I gave him a glare as well. He appeared to move to me, and I reached for my gun, preparing for the worst.
Brewskis had never seen violence—that was a huge testament to the work of the bartending staff and bar ownership. But it felt like someday, at some point, someone was going to crack. The only question was who would do so, and it seemed equally likely that one of us would.
The man, though, settled on the far end of the bar. He mumbled something under his breath, but I no longer felt the need to have my gun cradled in my hand. I let my hand come back up to the bar and waited for Jess to finish talking to the Fallen Saint.
Then the door opened a second time.
“Motherfucker,” I mumbled.
One of our rules, especially at night, was to never come alone to this bar. We always went in pairs as a means of preventing us from getting ganged up on. Hell, it was as simple as making sure someone didn’t follow you into the bathroom.
And now I was going to—
Not pay the price?
Because that Deputy DA who had bugged the hell out of us had walked in?
Yep. That’s her.
Angela stepped inside, nervously glancing around. Her eyes looked haggard, her walk was not a confident one, and her face hung low. There weren’t a lot of options for drinking on a weekday, but I was still surprised to see that she had come here.She doesn’t know what it is yet. She’ll run like hell if anything happens.
And if anything does happen, that’ll give Beth all the reason to stop looking the other way.
I couldn’t believe I was thinking it, but I knew I had to make nice with Angela. I daresay I even had to be friendly and warm to her, if for no other reason than to make it clear to the Fallen Saint that she was not someone to be fucked with.
She made eye contact with me and gulped. I smiled and motioned with my hand to sit by me. She hesitated for a second, looked back at the door, glanced at me, and then walked away.
“Ah, hell,” I said.
I was pretty close to just letting her leave and forgetting about the fact that she’d even come by. When I thought about the benefits of getting to know her better, though—most notably getting her off our asses—I realized there might yet be a utilitarian benefit to engaging her. Telling Jess I’d be right back, I hurried out the door and saw her returning to her car.
“Am I that bad on the eyes?” I said.
Angela turned around, a bit startled that I had called out to her.
“What do you want, Lane?” she said, the annoyance and anger in her voice palpable.
“Someone to talk to,” I said. “I’ve had a rough day, and you look like you have too. Seems like we got started off on the wrong foot before. Why not try again?”
It was obvious this wasn’t an easy decision for Angela. And who could blame her? She probably thought I had killed Shannon, a thought that was enough to make my neck tense. Still, I did well enough not showing it that she didn’t just run off in fear.
“If you think I’m going to talk to you and get off your ass... ”
