I don’t think any of us will ever be the same again after our VP’s betrayal. The day the club lawyer told us that Truck had turned state’s witness and was most likely in witness protection with his entire family was worse than the day Gunner died.
“I might get lucky with bail, but I don’t think the trial will end well. You need to be ready to step up in the club.”
“What about Claw?” I ask, not eager to have this mess dropped in my lap.
“I was just getting to that. We need your house as collateral for his bail.”
*
I should really stop torturing myself mentally over this.
Why didn’t Truck just leave the club if he was unhappy instead of doing this to us?
I will probably never understand how he could betray us, his brothers, like this.
The bigger issue going forward is, how come none of us noticed what was going on under our very own noses?
I need to focus on something, something positive.
My son’s birthday party.
I need this. The Wolves need this. Sly will be out on bail in a few days, and we’ll all get together, minus that fucking traitor, and we’ll drink and celebrate, and we’ll forget our troubles, for a moment at least.
Rebel once showed me a bunch of brochures with pictures of parties that the party-planning people organized. I remember that much.
I rummage through various piles of papers at home to find them, but to no avail.
Where are those fucking things?!
In a last-ditch effort, I open Rebel’s closet and pull out the box of papers she keeps there. I shuffle through them, locating only identifying keywords on each piece of paper - payment, certificate, receipt, total, bill, bank, until I see the words injection procedure, intramuscular.
I frown and take a closer look.
Medroxyprogesterone acetate.
(Depo-Provera).
Hormonal.
Contraceptive.
Injection.
Consent form.
My hands start shaking. The date on this fucking thing is March this year.
Hours later, when my wife gets home from wherever her lying ass has been all day, she finds me sitting at the kitchen table, lost in thought.
“Shit!” she exclaims when she turns on the light. “You scared me.”
“What is Depo-Provera?” I ask her, my voice hoarse from disuse.
“What?” She tries pretending that she’s confused, but her eyes nervously dart around the room like they’re going to land on an answer.
“What. Is. Depo. Provera.” I grit through my teeth, the betrayal and agony I’ve been processing for the last few hours threatening to undo me.
“It’s a birth control shot,” she finally admits as she absentmindedly scratches her forearm.
