CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
SHORT
It’s mid-morning. Grabbing a beer from the bar, I make my way into church, dropping my phone into the basket left for that purpose outside. Knight stands guard, firstly to protect our property, and secondly to ensure no one tries to sneak a device inside. To be honest, the only time anyone tries to enter church with their cell is as a test to ensure whichever prospect on duty is doing their job properly.
Today, I just want to get the meeting started, so the thought of hazing him doesn’t cross my mind.
Saint’s already in his seat, Freak beside him, Tempest opposite. Beside him are the gaps where Stalker, our treasurer, and Piston, our secretary, normally sit. Both chairs are currently empty.
As Winchester marches in like a soldier going on parade, Tempest beckons him, and they take a moment to whisper together. Probably about their baby, the gun range they’re currently setting up. After him, Paint prances in.
Bullseye arrives last, walks to the head of the table, and sits himself down, his eyes studying the room, noticing Words andRattler are still missing. The former doesn’t keep him waiting long.
Words marches in, giving a mock salute, and apologising to the prez. “Sorry, I was just with a grieving widow. Tried to hurry it up, but she kept me talking.” His excuses are valid, and Bullseye acknowledges his words with a chin lift. We all give him leeway when he’s dealing with funeral business.
Piston and Stalker appear, waving their hands in apology.
“Where the fuck’s Rattler?” Bullseye’s voice drips with impatience.
Tempest, closest to the door, stands. “I’ll get a prospect to go find him.”
While he doesn’t stop the sergeant-at-arms, Prez lets his annoyance show. “Fuckin’ asshole will find himself cleaning the heads soon if he doesn’t show.”
Re-entering and retaking his seat, Tempest shrugs. “Heathen’s gone looking for him.”
I share Bullseye’s frustration, impatient to get this show on the road. Although I’m fairly certain no one can link my house to me, I’m still angsty that Bronwyn and Trip are there on their own and unguarded. Doc named me to Prez. It’s not beyond the stretch of the imagination that he’s got a member of the MDMC following me. That’s how I got injured. Someone had to have been watching to know where Paint, Winchester, and I would be in order to ambush us. It now seems a strange coincidence that, consequently, it’s how Bron and I had gotten close. There’s an actual phrase for it… ill winds, I think it starts.
Minutes tick by, brothers talk among themselves, until suddenly the door opens to reveal Rattler, still trying to pull his t-shirt over his head, with his jeans unzippered. His hair, shaven on both sides, is mostly tidy, but those long strands flowing from the top which he normally ties into a ponytail hang loose.
“Whose bed did you crawl out of?” Winchester drawls. “And close the garage door for fuck’s sake. No one wants to see your dick.”
Hastily zipping himself up, Rattler wins the battle with his t-shirt and glares at the man who’d spoken. “My own bed. Which was empty. I was working late at the strip club. Can’t a man get any fuckin’ sleep around here?”
“So was I.” Stalker shrugs. “Left after you, from what I can remember.”
Passing Stalker to get to his chair, Rattler clips him around the back of his head, which makes Stalker leap up, grab Rattler around the throat, and push him against the wall.
“Sit the fuck down!” Prez roars.
His tone separates them, but they take their seats with gestures toward each other that suggest they won’t waste time picking up where they left off after the meeting.
Noticing, Prez rolls his eyes. “Kill each other on your own time, not mine.”
Words groans loudly. “Got too many civilian bodies lining up. Got no time to deal with one of ours as well. Can you keep it to just maiming this time?”
A few people chuckle, but not I, Prez, nor anyone else who’d been in the earlier meeting does.
Ignoring him, Prez bangs the gavel. “Church in session.” He leans back in his chair. “This extraordinary meeting has been caused because Short wants to take an ol’ lady. I’ll let him tell you why.”
As he smirks at me, uproar breaks out around the table. A few want to know why they’ve been called away from whatever the fuck they were doing when such an issue could wait until our normal church, while the rest are rolling about laughing.
Stalker even points to the Bullseye, saying, “Good one, Prez. We all know Short will never settle down. So, what’s this meeting really about?”
Again, Prez bangs the gavel, knocking it on the wood a couple of times. As he does, Tempest stands up, places his palms on the table, and shouts, “Settle the fuck down.” He points at Stalker. “And you, don’t call your prez a liar.”
Mouths drop open, and suddenly I’m the centre of attention. For the first time in my life, I wish I wasn’t such a big fucker, and I could slide down under the table and hide. I’m not an officer. I don’t have a rank. I usually contribute only when my opinion is asked for, or when I need to provide input on something I have knowledge about. Never before have I initiated a discussion, and now I don’t know where to start. I’d hoped Prez would update the brothers, so his putting this on me takes me unprepared and surprised.
All eyes are on me, and the unusual situation has got them all piping down. Grimacing, I try to gather some words, and get off to a bad start when all that comes out of my mouth is, “Er…”
