“Jesus Christ,” Gauge muttered. “I’m gonna need a minute here, brother.” His gaze was on the stage and I turned in my seat to look.
“What the fuck?” I muttered, scanning the crowd for Casa and finding him watching the show with a huge shit-eating grin on his face. “If the cops walk in—” I started to say.
“Yeah, yeah, after it’s over I’ll sort it out. Now give me a fucking minute.” Gauge’s eyes were glued to the stage where the “puppy” was now mounting her owner wearing a large strap-on dildo.
I stood up and walked away, leaving Gauge and his cock to the show. It was hot, no denying it was hot, and going by the hushed club and all eyes fixed on the stage, every man in the Pit thought the same thing. But I wasn’t interested.
It was fake.
The moans, the squeals of pleasure, the cries of pain, the sighs.
It was all fucking fake.
I’d tasted the real stuff and it was sweeter than the sweetest nectar ever made.
I’d tasted the fearandthe pleasure, I’d lapped at the fountain of youth and died inside of it.
This shit was nothing to me.
I passed Casa and Jesse, both of those horny motherfuckers smiling and staring at the two women as they fucked live on stage, oblivious to the implications that we’d be shut down if a cop walked in.
Pushing out the door, the light buzz of alcohol in my system hit me as the early evening air found its way into my lungs. Shit felt good until it didn’t. Until I saw her face when I closed my eyes and the air was sucked straight from me. Felt like I was drowning, suffocating in guilt and remorse. Shame burning in my face.
Shit was going to hit the fan soon, and there was no way to get out of the way before it hit me and the club. We were fucked. I was fucked. Hardy and Benite would both make sure of it.
Whoever found me first would put me in the ground, but I was too proud to run.
It was my fuckup. My mistake. And I’d wait and see it through.
I was a dead man walking, but maybe I could fix shit for Battle so he could come back before I went down.
I owed him that much at least.
He was my brother through and through, and out of the two of us, he at least deserved his happily ever after.
~ 19 ~
Fighter
The meeting between Lincoln and Hardy had almost been a private one until Rider and Gauge had insisted. Bringing in more of our brothers meant the Burnings Eights brought in more of theirs. Cap and Devil had turned up to sit by Lincoln, making it seven of us in the room. Seven men, two different clubs, and a whole world of hate between us.
The odds of blood being spilled were high.
Just not quite high enough for my liking.
I stared across at Lincoln, taking in every detail of his face. He looked different from the night I’d seen him outside their clubhouse where, Battle had beaten Ripped to death with his bare hands. He looked older, wiser, tired of the bullshit already. Most of us were.
Clubs like ours were started because of our love of bikes and a need for family and a home—a place to belong. But somewhere along the way shit had gotten twisted and turned into a fight to the death between us all. A fight for business, for loyalty, and for respect. A thing that should have come naturally for any man who loved to ride.
Lincoln shook hands with Hardy and we all sat down.
Cap was watching me, his eyes never leaving my face, while Devil was keeping a hard eye on Gauge.
“Let’s get straight to it,” Hardy began, no beating around the bullshit for a change. “We know the mole in our club was yours. As you know, he’s been dealt with accordingly. There don’t need to be any comeback on the Burning Eights since it was Ripped’s doing and your club’s under new management now. We can put this shit to bed right here, right now.”
Lincoln side-eyed Cap, who briefly let his gaze leave mine to look at his president. “I don’t know who you dealt with, but that body you dropped at our front door didn’t belong to us. Ain’t got shit to do with us, and we don’t like the implication that it does.”
“We got proof he was working with Ripped,” Rider said, his hand rubbing over his short white beard.
