“Don’t think it’s up to him.” Zeke’s younger brother stopped directly in front of him. “Rough night?”
Zeke lifted his head. “Rough last eight months.”
“That’s what you get for violatin’ parole, dumbass.”
“Should be able to defend myself,” Zeke grumbled under his breath.
“Maybe you shouldn’t try to steal someone’s girl from right under their nose so that someone pulls a fuckin’ gun on you.”
“Maybe he shoulda treated his woman better.”
Zane laughed so loudly, Zeke winced. “Oh, and you think the person who’ll treat her better isyou? Get the fuck outta here.” The club’s VP jerked his chin toward him. “Who’d you bang last night?”
“Last I remember, Shimmer.” But once she started riding his dick, he didn’t remember much of anything else. By that time, he’d been thoroughly pickled.
Zane held out his hand and Zeke stared at it for a second before handing over the half-kicked joint. “We’ve been coverin’ for your ass for the last eight months. You’re fuckin’ welcome.”
“We?” He already heard it from Vi, but he wanted to confirm.
The smoke rolled out of his younger brother’s open mouth as he answered, “Me and our old man. But warnin’ you now, brother, this is the last fuckin’ time. Next time there’ll be a vote to strip you of your rank. It was damn close this time.”
Fuck.
“You need to straighten your ass out and stop bein’ a selfish asshole.”
He kept telling himself the same, but unfortunately, kept failing.
“Need to call a damn meetin’ so I can get caught up.”
“Thought Rage was keepin’ you up to date.”
Zeke and Zane grew up with the club’s current sergeant at arms. Rage, AKA Ashton Dougherty, had been the onlyone visiting him on a regular basis to give him reports on any shit going on with the club while Zeke had been inconveniently “away.”
Zeke’s old man was tight with Rage’s father, Hawk, the club’s former VP.
In Zak’s and Hawk’s case, OG meant older generation, not an “original,” since they were both third generation Dirty Angels, not the first. Of fucking course, the true originals were all long gone and some of them displayed in the gas tanks on the shelf above the private club bar.
Speaking of the bar, he needed some hair of the dog.
“Call a meetin’,” Zeke ordered his VP.
“Already done. Unlike you, I take care of fuckin’ business.”
Zeke squinted up at his blood brother.
Zane held out the keys he had picked up from where they landed in the grass. “Gonna need those.”
“Yeah.”
“Bet your bed’s much more comfortable than that damn picnic table.”
“Ain’t much different from those piece-of-shit racks inside.”
One side of Zane’s mouth pulled up. “Wouldn’t fuckin’ know.”
“Better wipe that brown shit off your nose,” Zeke muttered.
“Got a good thing here, brother, but you keep fuckin’ it up.”
