“What are you saying, LoneStar?” Riptide asks through a clenched jaw.
“You know what I’m saying, Rip,” I say, lowering my voice. “I can’t be the only one thinking this.”
“He’s right. It’s crossed my mind a time or two as well,” Indiana concedes.
“You think we have a rat in our midst?” Riptide asks, turning green at the thought. “I trust every man in this room! Thesuggestion that someone is betraying us is a punishable offense, LoneStar. Your life could be forfeited with an unverified accusation like that. You better have some damn solid proof of that before bringing it to the table.”
“I don’t think it’s anybody in this room, pres,” I solemnly swear, meaning every word of it. “But somebodyisyapping their gums. I just don’t know who.”
“Jesus fuck, we do not need this on top of everything,” Riptide mumbles.
“We may not need it but that doesn’t mean it’s not happening,” Renegade points out.
“You too?” Slayer asks him.
Renegade may not be thrilled about admitting it, but eventually, he does. “Yeah. Me too.”
Slayer slaps his hands down on the table, a lethal look blanketing his face. “Then we need to find out who this motherfucker is and take him out.”
“Not without proof we won’t,” Riptide announces. “Just because we have suspicions doesn’t mean we damn someone to an eternal afterlife. There may be another way they know what we’re doing without being told.” Riptide stands up and walks over to our whiteboard, writing out,Sweep for bugs.
What he’s not thinking, and what I refuse to voice aloud, isifwe do have bugs in-house, someone had to plant them.
Once the idea of there being listening devices planted in church resonated, we all snapped out mouths shut and refused to talk. Even without it being validated, we were skeptical of continuing our meeting where we’d usually wrap things up by talking about our finances and other club related topics. Even making someone aware of what we have in the bank or our petty cash didn’t sit right with us. Rip quickly dismissed us and like roaches, we all scattered and hauled ass from the room.
None of us even speak in the common area as we spread out, taking seats at the bar and booths. It’s an uncomfortable silence as we visually scan for the potential threat. “I don’t like not feeling free to talk in my own damn house,” Riptide spits out, emptying his beer in one continual swallow.
I hum with agreement because even I feel the tension of keeping my lips sealed shut. I swivel around on my stool with my back planted to the bar so I can watch my brothers. None of them are talking shit like they usually would. They all look somber. Forlorn. Not something I’m used to seeing from any of them. As I go to point that out to Rip, the door to the clubhouse swings open and Jersey comes rushing in. Her lack of color has me jumping up and walking in her direction, Slayer at my back.
“Jersey, you okay?” I inquire, scanning her over, looking for injuries.
“I don’t know,” she answers, waving her hands through the air.
“If you can’t tell us what’s wrong, we won’t know how to help you,” Slayer states.
“It’s Britton,” she whispers to the point that I have to lean down to hear what she says.
“What about Britton?” I growl out, my heart heavily beating in my chest. “Did something happen to her, Jersey?”
“I don’t know,” she says, repeating her earlier phrase. “I don’t even know if I should be here telling you anything.”
“Why don’t you let us be the judge of that. If it’s something that shouldn’t be a big deal, we’ll act like you didn’t say anything and wave it off. But if it’s bad, Jersey, we can’t step in and help if you don’t share what’s going on,” I impart.
“You’re right, I think. But if you’re not, I’m betraying my best friend,” she whines. “I don’t know what the right thing is!”
“How about we head outside, get some fresh air, and you tell us what you know,” Slayer suggests. We glance at each other out the side of our eyes, both thinking the same thing. If there are prying ears, we don’t want them to hear what is being said.
“That’s a fantastic idea. We could all use some fresh air,” I reiterate, hoping she won’t ask any questions about why we’re being pushy about heading outdoors.
“Sure,” she says, giving us a distrustful look as we usher her along the path we want her to take.
We’re being domineering and bossy with the way we’re shuffling her out the doors. But if Britton is in true trouble, and we have spying equipment throughout the clubhouse, we need to tread with caution. Especially when it comes to a woman that may be carrying my kid.
We lead her over to where all the chairs are set up and help her down into one of the folding ones. “Talk to us, Jersey,” I implore. Not sure why, but what she has to say feels ominous, as if wedon’t act now, things are going to turn out bad—really fucking bad.
She shoots back up out of the chair and begins pacing, biting her cuticle around her thumbnail. “Some moron has been prank calling Britton. At least, that’s what she initially thought before the guy issued a threat.”
“What sort of threat?” I ask, my voice turning thunderous.
