He wanted there to be another explanation. He didn’t know if he could find it in him to let Johnnie live if they were his. Kendall loved him, which was why she was falling apart at his behavior. Little by little, he was destroying her.
Suppose she fucked herself up? A busy Kendall was one thing. A sad Kendall was another. Her children would be devastated. Roxanne.
And Megan. They were so fucking close.
Maybe leaving his handwritten note would make the motherfucker wonder when the fuck Christopher would strike. Maybe he could leave similar notes around the club and see which yellow-bellied fuckhead almost fucking fainted every time he looked at them.
Or, maybe, he’d just leave. Him and Johnnie couldn’t co-exist in the fucking club. One of them needed to bow out. Or die.
Since Christopher had a fucking conscience and couldn’t do that to Kendall and her children, Johnnie could have the fucking club.Let that motherfucker run it into the ground or blow it the fuck up.
When they threatened to vote Christopher out, he’d bowed to their wishes because it wouldn’t weaken his power and resources. They probably would’ve wanted to take him out, too, not trusting that he wouldn’t want revenge or wouldn’t try to snatch the presidency back.
In effect, Johnnie and Cash had sanctioned his death. Accidentally. Because neither of those fuckheads understood the gravity of forcing Christopher out. What about his faithful lieutenants? Val, Mortician, Digger, and Stretch would’ve gotten taken out, too. They might’ve left Cash alive because they believed he wanted peace for peace’s sake. Not because he had a fucking kid who might not even want to join the fucking club.
“Fuckin’ motherfuckin’ fuckheads.”
He removed the lid from the other file box. There it was. Like fucking magic. The photo of him, Johnnie, and Snake at Big Joe’s last birthday party. He grabbed the others in the set. A photo with Big Joe. One that included K-P, Digger, and Val, and then their individual photos, including Rack and Logan.
After studying each other photo, he set them all down, except Logan’s, Johnnie’s and Snake’s. He held them side-by-side and squinted.
Well, fuck.
“The mall,” Bianca stated as she tried to remove a Jenga block without knocking down the tower.
She and Rule had talked about anything and everything over the past few weeks, exhausting conversation topic options. He knew about the deaths of her grandmother and mother, her strained relationship with her father stemming from her stepmother’s dislike of her, the creep she had for a stepbrother, her dabbling with drugs, her suicide attempt, and so on and so forth. Likewise, she knew about his religious psychosis, the bullying Ryan had subjected him to, his animal sacrifices, and his attempt on his mother and sister’s lives. Bianca had always been an open book. As Rule began toincreasingly trust her, he realized she never judged him no matter what he told her, and that eased his mind.
At one time, Rebel hadn’t judged him either, then she’d started teasing him and calling him names, further isolating him.
“Lolly’s gumbo,” Rule said when it was his turn to remove a block.
Giggling, Bianca blew toward the tower. Despite her best efforts, it remained standing.
He grinned. “Cheat.”
Mischief lit her eyes. “No, I’m just a strategist.”
With their pasts and most essential facts about one another known to each other, Bianca suggested a simple game of Jenga. Each time they successfully removed a block, they’d reveal things they missed the most outside the mental hospital.
Rule ignored the way his stomach fluttered at the sight of her smile. They were just friends. It was a true connection, innocent on her part. How he looked at Bianca differed from his attraction to the club girls. That’d been superficial, based on a desire for their flesh. He hadn’t—didn’t—respect those women. As much progress as he made, he still thought of them as desperate whores, and he doubted that’d ever change.
But with Bianca, they shared mutual respect. Nor did it hurt that he found her so very pretty. Bianca’s honey-brown eyesand olive skin reminded him of Harley. Bianca had pinned up her black curls today, allowing thick strands to frame her face.
They sat at a table in the lounge area on their floor with a rare bit of free time. He hadn’t been called in for group, nor had his tutor arrived. Freya told him to relax because he had a day off.
He’d waited for her to say Mom was visiting again, but she hadn’t and, instead, directed him to where he was now.
His cast had been off since Friday, and he’d wanted to put on a song, and dance he’d been so relieved. The idea had startled him—it had been so long since he’d wanted to even listen to secular music.
“Where have you wandered off to?”
Bianca’s voice broke into Rule’s meanderings. He smiled at her. “Just wondering at all the free time. I thought maybe my mom was visiting.” And Rebel, although he hated to admit that. They kept in contact, but he was still so ashamed of what he’d done to her. “I guess I just lucked out.”
“Probably,” Bianca said, sighing. “Although that isn’t a bad thing. I’m going to be called away for group soon.”
Then it was a very bad thing if Bianca couldn’t keep him company.
He’d never risk his and Bianca’s friendship by confessing to his crush—something his psychiatrist and Freya helped him realize—but he couldn’t help but admire her. Maybe, if goingtheir separate ways wasn’t inevitable, he’d speak up. More than likely, she’d be released before him. Though she’d remain in LA, they both knew her father wouldn’t allow her to visit.
