A grin cracks onto his face as he leans back in the chair. “Set what straight? You mean like how you’ve been gunning for my position for years? From the moment I took the lead over you? You never did like it that I was the one who rose up higher than you, did you, Jack? You always resented me for it.”
“No, Tom,” I say, stepping forward. “Actually, I was proud of you.”
My admission catches him off guard for only a second. The surprise flickers in his cold blue eyes before it vanishes again, replaced by his contemptuous humor. But I go on anyway, saying what needs to be said.
“That’s right,” I continue. “I was proud to call you my best friend. You were like a brother to me. I cherished that bond. But it seems like I was the only one who felt that way. Considering you’ve gone off your damn rocker for years now. It started backbefore you were locked up, and it’s gotten even worse since you came back. You look at me and you see an enemy when you should see a brother-in-arms. I’m starting to get that that’s never gonna change, is it?”
“Good question, Jack. Let’s see…”
He rises from behind his desk, coming around so he can step toward me like I’ve stepped toward him. He comes up ’til we’re only a few inches apart, and I catch a note of the whiskey on his breath. This close up, the broken blood vessels in the whites of his eyes are in full view.
Just more indicators he’s long past his prime. He drinks like a fish and smokes like a chimney and hasn’t taken care of himself in a long time.
But most of all, I see the coldness mirrored back to me. The cruel twist of his features and snarl of his lip as he glares at me as if I’m truly his enemy.
“I can’t consider you a brother,” Tom says finally, “when you’ve betrayed me.”
My brow furrows. “What the hell are you?—”
“I know it was you, Jack,” he interrupts. “No matter what you say. It was always you. You ratted me out to the Feds all those years ago.”
“You’re fucking nuts. I never?—”
“Then you thought you’d steal my club while I rotted in a cell,” he rants on, tilting his head to the side. His mocking grin returns, lighting up his face in the worst way. “So pardon me if now I’m returning the favor.”
I stare at him for a second longer, the truth of the matter finally clicking into place.
All of it. Everything that’s been happening. Details fall in line like pieces of some complicated puzzle, making up the whole picture I’ve missed.
I scrub a hand across my jaw, slowly shaking my head. “You exacerbated that conflict with the Peñas on purpose, didn’t you? You wanted us warring with them. To deflect from all the other grimy shit you were doing.”
Tom’s grin doesn’t waver. “And what would that be?”
“You’ve been keeping tabs on me and Solana,” I answer, eyes narrowing. “Following us. Interfering with what’s going on between us—the parked cars outside the house, the severed head on my doorstep, the mystery texts to Rachel, even the prospect who shot at us. You’ve had a hand in all of it.”
“Is that what you think, Jack?”
“I don’t think anymore—I know. You haven’t been doing it alone either. You’ve been working with Nate. Isn’t that right? You and Wheels—prison pals—teaming up to destroy this club.”
His silence at the latest accusation tells me I’ve cracked the code; I’ve landed on the right conclusion as he offers no rebuttal. He simply stares at me like he’s impressed I’ve finally put it all together.
“You’ve both got reasons to be angry at the Kings these days, don’t you?” I press on. “Wheels and the Road Rebels have been beefing with us for decades. And you—locked up in the same federal prison as him for years—I’m guessing you two ran into each other a lot. Must’ve traded stories about how much you both hated me. Hated the Kings.”
The standoff stretches between us, filled by patches of tense silence and sheer loathing thickening the air. We’re glaring at each other, neither willing to back down. Tom maintains that mocking grin while I stare him down like everything he stands for disgusts me.
Then he breaks the tension by laughing. His usual raspy, crackling laugh that sounds like sandpaper.
“One thing about you, Jack, that I must admit,” he says, giving a nod, “you’re a damn astute son of a bitch. The questionnow is, what are you gonna do about it? This is still my club. I’ll destroy it if I want to.”
I’m done holding back. I’ve given him more than enough leeway and time to explain himself. Now that he’s made it clear who and what he is, it’s my turn to show him who he’s messing with.
I swing on him, my fist connecting with his jaw. He goes flying backward, crashing into the desk before hitting the floor.
He doesn’t stay down for long, not that I’d expect otherwise from Tom. Even with blood dripping from his freshly split lip, he’s up and launching himself at me in a tackle.
My back slams against the wall, some breath knocked out of me, but like him, I don’t let that stop me. Years of resentment and betrayal boil over, and I let it all out.
Former best friend—brother-in-arms—or not.
