Andy was one of her closest friends at secondary school, but he was always on the sidelines waiting for me to mess up so he could slide his way in. When he left for London, I was secretly relieved because it meant I didn’t need to watch my back anymore.
So, when I heard her speaking to him, I saw red. There was no way I was going to sit back and let him take what’s mine.
The urge to grab a whiskey to numb the anger and stress is strong, but as quickly as that thought crosses my mind, it vanishes again.I can’t. I need to show Hell that I’m willing to do whatever it takes, and if that means being sober for the rest of my life, so be it.
Clay approaches me. “Pres, we need to figure out what we’re doing with our ‘visitor’. We can’t keep him much longer. It’s getting risky.”
He’s right. The longer we keep him here, the more likely we are to be discovered.
Clay looks at me and I can tell he wants to say something else that’s playing on his mind.
“Spit the fucker out, Clay,” I snap.
He runs his hand round the back of his neck. “Well, this shit’s not healthy. I know he fucked the club over, but he’s been here weeks now. It’s not like you. You’re using him as a punchbag.”
I sigh. This fucker was right again, seeing right through me. It’s why he’s my VP.
“I’ll sort it,” I say firmly.
“You can’t deal the blows to him because you fucked up,” he adds, arching a judgemental brow.
“Fuck, Clay, I said I’d sort it,” I growl. “Don’t fucking push it.”
He laughs. “Pres, sometimes you need telling, and right in this moment, you need to hear it. There’re whispers that you’re losing it, so you need to fucking get your shit together.”
My priority right now is getting Hell back, but he’s right. I need to pull myself together so she can see I’m still the man she fell in love with.
I head for the basement. It’s time to end this fucker.
He lifts his head, watching me descend the stairs. His body is bruised and battered. His left eye is swollen and closed, but he still manages a smirk as I approach.
“Missed me?” he croaks, his voice hoarse from lack of water.
For the first time in months, I feel like I’m thinking clearly.
“I have to say,” I circle his chair as he tries to follow my movement, “I’m getting a little bored of you now.”
“Aww, did the bitch take you back?” he asks, laughing.
My fist crashes against his jaw, the sound echoing through the room. He spits blood on the floor, and it appears brighter against the dried-up claret on the concrete.
“Did I hit a nerve?” he asks, grinning.
“Not at all,” I reply calmly. “Tell me, what was the plan? You’ve been sniffing around my patch for months, sending kids to do your fucking dirty work.”
“You’ll have to kill me, motherfucker.”
“Yep, that is the plan.” I pull a knife out my kutte, the metal glinting under the single light. “But I thought we could have a little fun first.” I dig the knife into his thigh, the corrugated edges pulling against his muscle as I twist it. He screams out in pain, pulling against his restraints.
“So, again, I’ll ask . . . what,” I turn the knife again, and he lets out a squeal, “was,” I pull the knife out, “your,” I dig the knife into his opposite thigh, “intentions?”
“Fuck you,” he spits through gritted teeth, his breathing rapid.
I drag the knife up the length of his thigh, tearing flesh as I force it all the way to his groin.
“Not the answer I wanted,” I whisper in his ear as his head lolls forward. The man has a high pain threshold, I’ll give him that.
I grab a handful of his hair and pull his head back. His eyes roll from the pain.
