“You earned this,” Smitty says, holding up the cut. “Don’t forget what it took to become part of the brotherhood.”
Brody turns, slipping it on, and tugging at the front, spinning to face us, fucking proud as punch.
“From this day on,” I tell him, “You wear our colours. You represent every man in this room, and every man in this room will ride for you, and die for you.”
Brody nods, his eyes turning glassy again as Smitty speaks up.
“Southern Sadists, we chant.”
And as one, with Brody joining us this time, we chant.
“May the road rise up to meet us.
May the wind be always at our backs.
May the sunshine be warm upon our faces.
May the rain clouds never be black.
We are the Southern Sadists MC.
Ride ‘em high.
Ride or die.”
“Yeah!” JD yells, barging through the guys to get to his little brother, sweeping him up in his arms for a brotherly hug before Brody is lifted onto the shoulders of Vender and Mex, and they start cheering as they carry him from the room.
“You and I gonna have a problem?” Smitty asks from behind me as the room clears out, and I sigh, turning to face my President.
I’ve pretty much undermined him here today, so yeah, I’m pretty sure we are gonna have a problem.
“If you want me to leave, Nate, just say the word.”
For a long moment, he just stares at me, his eyes dancing between mine like he’s trying to get a read on whether my words hold the truth.
“Who the fuck else is going to do your shitty job?” he snaps, before the tip of his fucking finger pokes my chest. “But secrets don’t fucking sit well with me. Right now, you’re on thin fucking ice. I can’t have this disloyal shit floating around my club. The men are unsettled enough.”
I hold up my hands. “Not being disloyal. But my family and their safety is my prerogative, and unless I’m using club resources to help them, then it’s none of your concern.”
His eyes narrow. “So you’re not using club resources? Outside help then.” He comes to his own conclusion. “The Marx family? Fuck, man. Don’t you fuck up the deals I have going with Griffin so we can work this fucking zone. He’s taking the heat from his psychotic old man for us.”
“It’s nothing that will blow back on the club. And no, it’s not the Marx family. End of fucking conversation.”
Brody’s voice cuts through Smitty’s disapproving grunt, and I turn towards the open doors leading to the main floor of the barn, which looks more like a fucking hoedown bar than a clubhouse.
“Ringo!” Brody calls again, still perched on my club brothers’ shoulders, and when he spots me, worry flashes across his face.
“What the fuck now?” I snap, and Brody visibly cringes.
“It’s, uh… Abbey. She’s uh…” He hesitates, but the moment I start storming towards him, the rest spills out. “She’s in the dungeon… unleashing her anger.”
“The fuck?!” I seethe, already veering off for the doors to stop my wife from killing someone… again.
14
Something that sounds a lot like celebrating drifts across the yard from the barn, and nothing about it makes me want to join in. Not even the gunshot had fully pulled me out of my misery, and I’m beginning to wonder if this is just who I am now.
Miserable. Mournful. A real downer.
