So why bother?
I say nothing.
He wants me to argue. He wants me to blame him so he has a reason to betray me, just like he did all the others.
But I don't make scenes. Never have.
And anyway, silence makes people uncomfortable. Makes them fill in the gaps with their own fears. Makes them wonder what you know, that they don't.
Six seconds pass. Ten. Fifteen.
Diesel shifts in his seat, arms crossed as his eyes dart between me and Brick. Ledger's hand inches toward his waistband. Roach picks at his teeth with a toothpick, but his eyes never leave me.
"Nothing to say for yourself?" Brick pushes. "No excuse? No defense?"
I just watch him. Let my eyes do the talking. Let him see that I know exactly what game he's playing.
The silence stretches longer. Some of the brothers look away, uncomfortable. Others lean forward, waiting for the explosion.
Brick's face hardens. "Alright then. The evidence speaks for itself." He looks around the table. "Given the pattern of failure, the club finds Demon Kane guilty of run interference, protocol violation, and operational security breach." He pronounces this like we took a vote. Like anyone besides him, had a say. "The penalty is a fine of twenty-five thousand dollars."
A low whistle from someone. They all know I don't have that kind of money.
Twenty-five thousand might as well be a million. Brick isn't imposing a fine. He's signing my death warrant. When you can't pay a club debt, you pay with blood instead.
"You have twenty-four hours," Brick says, his voice cold and final. "Funds delivered to this table by noon tomorrow or consequences will be enforced. Meeting adjourned."
The gavel comes down hard, like a headstone dropping into place.
Men rise from their seats, chairs scraping against concrete. The sound grates against my skull like a knife on bone. Twenty-five thousand dollars by tomorrow. Might as well ask for the moon on a fucking silver platter.
"You heard the president," Roach says to the room, voice pitched higher than usual. Nervous. "Meeting's over. Everyone out."
The room empties like someone pulled a drain plug. Men who stood beside me yesterday can't get away fast enough today. Some won't meet my eyes. Others stare too long, like they're memorizing my face for the last time.
Outside, movement in the doorway catches my eye. Brandy leans against the porch railing, arms crossed under her tits, lips curled in a smirk that makes my blood simmer. She's watching me like I'm already dead, like she's picking which pieces of my corpse she'll keep as souvenirs.
When our eyes meet, her smirk widens. No shame at all in what’s happenin’ here.
That's when I see it. The connection I've been missing.
Brandy isn’t some rando hangaround. She’s not some jailbait whore.
She’s one of them.
A Fed.
Jesus Christ. How deep does this go if Brick’s ‘woman’ is involved?
Was she sent here to spy on Brick? Or us? Or both?
Keep him in line?
What a fuckin’ cuck. If she’s here to keep Brick in line… I’m sorry. I’m done. How could I respect a man who will not only put our club at risk for a deal, but let himself be ‘handled’ by a chick who doesn’t even look old enough to drink?
I got nothing left for that man.
A stupid girl.
