“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “It’s possible that fat fuck finally stroked out.”
Bulldog was the club’s enforcer because he was tough as nails, enjoyed knocking heads together, and was ruthless and single-minded when you set him on a task. But if he kept ballooning in size, he would no longer be able to do his job. That would become an issue. Venom would have to delve into the ranks of the club for a replacement. Trouble was, though most of the Basilisks were tough and unafraid of getting a little bloody, none of them had Bulldog’s special brand of unyielding tenacity.
Shit. I gotta get that asshole to lose some weight.
He glanced down at the big table, then let his eyes travel around the empty clubhouse and marveled at how quiet it could be. When Devon Price, the leader of the Black Apostles, told him that one of Devon’s new homeboys, some skinny fuck named Marcel Monroe, seemed mighty interested in the who and the what and the how of the weapons the Black Apostles were using, Venom had called an emergency session of Church, and the clubhouse had been packed. In the front room, club members had lounged around with their old ladies or their current hardbelly of the month. But in the back room, Venom had gathered his executives.
“We might have ourselves a bit of a problem, boys,” he’d told them as the sound of crashing pool balls and blaring classic rock slid under the locked door. Cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air, as did the smells of warm beer and pussy.
After he’d outlined the problem, it hadn’t taken long for the committee to agree that Marcel Monroe needed some watching. And perhaps some killing if the reason the gang member was asking questions about the guns turned out to be more than just personal curiosity. The plan had been set. Bulldog had been ordered to stick like glue to the gangbanger’s heels and see what was what.
For a while, Bulldog had turned up a whole lot of jack shit. Then, this morning, the Basilisk’s enforcer had called to say he was sitting in a parking lot across from a coffee shop where Marcel Monroe was meeting with Samantha Tate.
Initially, Venom had drawn a blank. Then when Bulldog said, “You know, she’s that hotshot reporter who blew the lid off the City Hall scandal last year,” it’d all come back Venom. The story in the Tribune. The quarter-page photo of the pretty little journalist with that sweet gap-toothed smile.
Venom had held on to that paper for a week, jacking off to that photo as he imagined the reporter on her knees in front of him, those sexy teeth of hers raking not-so-gently against his hard cock as she hoovered him dry.
His decision had been instantaneous and his instructions to Bulldog succinct. “Kill the banger. Bring me the woman.”
His first duty was always to his club. But nothing said he couldn’t have a little fun along the way. And silencing a sexy bitch who dared stick her nose into his business was beyond fun.
“What’s the plan once she’s here?” Crutch asked now, reaching inside his jacket pocket and snagging a pack of Marlboro Reds. He shook out a smoke. With a flip and a snick from his Zippo lighter, the end of the cancer stick glowed bright orange.
“Find out what she knows, what that Marcel prick told her. Then…” Venom shrugged, spreading his hands wide. He could no more stop the smile that split his face than he could have stopped the tide from rolling in.
“Your old lady isn’t going to like you plugging some young reporter,” Crutch said conversationally. “We’re not out on the road. You’re breaking a cardinal rule.”
In MC culture, a biker out on a ride was afforded the freedom to get himself a little strange, no questions asked once he got home. The caveat being that once he was home again, the only Twinkie he could cream was his old lady’s. So yeah, Venom was breaking a cardinal rule by asking Bulldog to bring the pretty reporter here with the intention of screwing her brains out after he’d learned all she could tell him about her meeting with Marcel. But so what?
“Rules are made to be broken.”
* * *
Black Knights Inc. Headquarters, Goose Island
“Beware. The coven has hopped aboard their broomsticks.”
Ozzie closed the door to the third-floor room where Samantha was changing out of her wet clothes. They’d stopped by her apartment, Ozzie waiting out in the hall while she packed an overnight bag, before making their way to the shop. Now, the delightful thought of her behind that metal door—no more than five feet away while she stood in nothing but her hot-pink bra and panties—was replaced by the imagery Christian’s words evoked.
Coven? Broomsticks? The Brit really did not like having the shop overrun by women. “They blame me as much as you for this brainiac scheme,” Christian continued in a conspiratorial whisper. “And, mate, in the future, if you plan to shag me from behind, at least do me the courtesy of holding my hair out of the way.”
“Mental image be gone!” Ozzie hissed.
Tiptoeing down the hall, they passed doors that concealed the many loft-style bedrooms that had once been the personal lairs of BKI’s bachelors. Now, those rooms stood mostly empty since so many of Ozzie’s teammates had wives and children who required homes that didn’t pull double duty as a motorcycle shop and defense firm. Under normal circumstances, the rooms were empty. Right now, some of the aforementioned wives and children were in residence, and Ozzie was careful not to wake up the latter even as a deep, aching longing for things he might never have filled his chest.
“My point is, if bodyguard duty is your way of auditioning for the douchebag Olympics,” Christian continued as they quietly descended the metal staircase, “then, Ozzie ol’ boy, I should think you’re a shoo-in.”
Ozzie didn’t dignify that with a response other than a clear and concise hand gesture.
His thigh ached from the night’s activities, a constant reminder of the precariousness of his future. The hot, dark despair that had been threatening to consume him for months felt particularly oppressive in the moment, but he did his best to ignore it as he stepped off the last tread and was met by a sight that warmed his soul and beat back some of the blackness. Namely, two of the eight gorgeous gals who loved his brothers-in-arms with all their fierce, loyal hearts. Two gorgeous gals he’d come to adore. Two gorgeous gals who turned to him with so much fire in their eyes that he instinctively stumbled back.
Christian had used the word coven to describe them. Ozzie was beginning to see the accuracy of the term. He got the distinct impression he was one bubble, bubble, toil and trouble away from being turned into a toad.
He opened his mouth, but Becky lifted her hand. “Can’t you see we’re having an event here?” She was wearing a bright-green mud mask that had images of flying monkeys whirling inside his head.
“What event?” he asked.
“Your funeral.”
