Fuck.
8
Charley
My phone vibratingon the nightstand made an annoying noise that had my eyes popping open almost against my will. Sunlight streamed through the windows—Colton must have opened the blinds at some point yesterday—smacking me square in the eyes. Wincing, I turned away. I was so not ready for this day.
My head thumped and my gut churned. I hadn’t been stupid enough to drink more than one shot of Barber’s homemade booze because I’d known him too long for that, but the little I’d had wasn’t sitting well with my body. The bastard had probably given me botulism or something. I grabbed my phone and tapped to open the screen, shivering because someone had turned the air-conditioning down to somewhere near freezing.
King:Get your ass to the clubhouse. I have a job opportunity for you.
Bleary-eyed, I stared at the message. It didn’t sink in at first that I needed to move. My brain was refusing to function. My blankets were extra comfortable.Really?Yawning, I dropped my phone onto the empty spot in the bed beside me and glared at it. Where the fuck was Colton? With a grunt, I got out of bed and wandered toward the living room in my boxers, then stood in the doorway of the bedroom and huffed out a laugh under my breath.
Colton and Barber were both curled up like dogs on the hardwood floor in front of the couch, Barber cradling the horrible bottle of booze like a baby, and Colton hugging a bucket we normally used to scrub the floor.
Last night I’d tapped out of the drinking festivities after one shot and retreated to the bedroom, assuming Colton would join me soon, but he and Barber loved to mess with each other every chance they could. There had probably been challenges to manliness, shot after shot I’d thankfully missed out on. Who had bigger balls was likely dragged into it. Then who fucked better. Then… God only knew. I’d woken up near dawn to them singing a drunken version of “Radar Love” for some reason, but I was so tired I’d fallen right back to sleep.
Needless to say, I hadn’t fucked Colton, which was a real fucking drag.
Scratching at my stomach, I stared at him, and my heart went all mushy and warm. I loved the idiot so much. It didn’t matter when he got around to letting me in his ass because I knew he would eventually, mostly because he’d promised. Colton always tried to keep his word. Quietly I went over and crouched beside him. I caressed my thumb along his chin and enjoyed the rasp of his trimmed stubble on my skin. “Hey.” I tapped his face with my palm until he groaned. “Should you be at work? It’s Friday.”
“Called out.” He frowned and didn’t even open his eyes, only gagged and drew the bucket closer.
“That’s what you get for drinking anything Barber brings with him that didn’t come from a store,” I murmured. “You know better. You didn’t learn after what he did to King?”
“Fuck you, Fish.”
Laughing, I stood up. Barber’s legs kicked out as if he’d been surprised by something in his dream, and he rolled over, clunking the bottle on the floor. He whimpered and stilled. I snorted, then went to get dressed in a hurry. I’d already wasted time, and the last fucking thing I wanted to do was piss off King by making him wait. After I was dressed the same as I did nearly every day of my life, in jeans and a black T-shirt, and I had my boots and leather Kings jacket on, I brought blankets out of the bedroom and draped one over Colton and the other over Barber. Not able to stand leaving without doing it, I dropped to one knee and brushed my lips against Colton’s. He didn’t say anything but smiled as I backed off.
The ride over to the clubhouse was nice. It was a little before noon and the sunshine and wind on my face helped clear up the lingering effects of that bog-water swill Barber loved to brag about. How he hadn’t died yet, I’d never know. It was probably like poison, and he’d slowly gained immunity over the years; however, his unsuspecting victims were left near death.
When I drove through the gates of the junkyard, I was surprised because there was a shiny new white sign with black lettering hanging on the fence next to the entrance, and I chuckled to myself because Monday was still listed as closed. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had actually tried to come in here and drop off scrap metal.
As I took the rutted drive through the junk piles toward the clubhouse, my slight hangover reared its ugly head again, and my brain felt like shaken Jell-O by the time I got to the parking spots outside the sprawling, battered two-story building. There were men from a company—Builders of Merit, according to the signs on their trucks—working on putting up navy blue siding, thoughwhyI had no clue. The windows were still blacked out, so it would never look nice. There were even squares of green grass that had been brought in and planted around the house to make a real lawn. King must have gotten sick of the damage from the last shootout.
I was surprised to see several bikes—maybe King had called church for some reason? If so, I hadn’t been in on it. God knew Colton and Barber hadn’t been in any position to ride, not that Barber was anyone important.
Blowing out a long breath, I parked my bike next to one of Undertaker’s modified beauties, a godawful expensive Legendary Black Vintage, and dropped my kickstand. I took my time petting Gunner, then slowly made my way to the front door.
There wasn’t much noise going on inside, which was good. I pushed the black steel door, which had been decorated with a skull and crossbones by PD. It had replaced a wooden one someone had driven a bike through. Then I pushed again because the damned thing didn’t budge. I laughed. I’d gotten used to the doorknob being busted, so I turned it. No, it still didn’t move.
“Motherfucker,” I snarled. The fucking front door around this place drove me crazy. If only people could learn to fucking leave it alone. “Fuck.”
Someone must’ve knocked the door off its hinges again, and whoever put it back up hadn’t known what the fuck they were doing because I had to shove with all my might, and there was an ungodly screech of metal against wood as I pushed the door back. I left it open and went down the short hallway that led to the barroom, stopping before I went forward. Rock music played at a tolerable volume and there were no voices. I moved on into the barroom and surveyed the situation. The new stuff hadn’t been trashed yet. Josh wasn’t here, and no one else was around, so I went to one of the leather couches in the corner near the pool table and flopped down on it, staring at the ceiling.
I closed my eyes, then was surprised when someone smacked my foot. I drew my legs up and scooted to sit against the arm of the couch, and Oz laughed as he plopped down on the other end and stuck a cigar in his mouth. He was huge, about Scar’s size, and took up a lot of room. A deep scar ran along the right side of his face from his chin up to split his dark eyebrow, and he never worried about people staring at it, more like the opposite. The thing seemed to bring him a sense of pride, and he always held his head high. Oz danced the tip of his stogie up and down with his teeth and waggled his eyebrows in a bad impression of Groucho Marx, and it looked like he had one of King’s pricey cigars. He lit up with the kind of smirk that told me maybe he’d gotten his way on something.
“Hey.” I smiled. “What’s going on around here today?”
Oz shrugged and ran a hand over his short, spiky hair. “Something stung King’s ass. He’s taking care of business like there’s a Black Friday sale on ass kicking. I have no clue what happened, but he asked me to do a few favors for him, and I said yes. I don’t get in on club stuff much these days, but it’s nice to be needed.” He puffed his cigar, then his lips formed anOand he blew smoke rings toward the ceiling.
“What is it you do again?” I asked.
He flicked some ash on the floor and sat back. “Whatever King asks me to do.” He winked, and I groaned, refusing to laugh at the jerk. He was probably one of the more charming guys, even more so than King when he wanted to be. He wasn’t around much and only dated a certain type of man: slim, too much black makeup, dyed black hair. Leather. Not men like Undertaker, closer to Destiny, if only his wardrobe ever veered away from glitter and notice-me colors. Some people had types, and I’d never seen Oz with anyone different.
He cocked his head in my direction. “How’s life, Hughes?”
Moaning, I flopped my head back against the couch, and he laughed some more.
