Right now, she's watching the room like a hawk, her fingers drumming against the table in a rhythm that suggests she's about three seconds away from violence.
"This is ridiculous," Johnson spits from across the table.
He's a bulky man with a red face and a perpetual sneer, someone who's always thought he should be sitting in Xavier's chair instead of serving under him.
"We can't just hand over control to someone who isn't even officially part of this organization."
"Excuse me?" Jackie's voice is ice, her drumming fingers going still.
"You heard me." Johnson leans forward, his meaty hands planted on the mahogany surface. "She's not First Lady. The ceremony didn't happen. Xavier got shot before he could makeit official, which means she has no claim to leadership. She's just his?—"
"Finish that sentence," Asher says quietly, finally lifting his head.
His voice is soft, almost conversational, but there's murder in his eyes.
"Please. I'm begging you to finish that sentence."
Johnson's mouth snaps shut, but George—a wiry man with gray at his temples and a smarmy smile—picks up where Johnson left off.
"He's right, though. Technically speaking, she has no official standing within the Raiders. No ceremony means no title. No title means no authority."
He spreads his hands like he's just stated a simple fact, like he's not trying to stage a fucking coup.
“Meaning the title should go to VP.”
“I don’t want the fucking title,” Asher sneers.
George shrugs. “So sergeant--"
“Zay doesn’t want it either.” Asher sneers.
“Then it goes to Jackie!” Johnson barks.
“I am too busy doing surveillance to find out who shot Xav to be running the club,” Jackie deadpans, looking at her painted black nails.
"I'm not saying this to be cruel. I'm saying it because we have protocols for a reason.” George snorts, and points at Jackie. “ Jackie back me up."
“Protocols,” Jackie repeats, her voice dripping with disdain.
She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “You want me to talk about protocols while Xavier is on an operating table fighting for his life? That’s rich, George. Real fucking rich.”
“It’s not about what I want,” George says smoothly, though his eyes flick lazily between Jackie and Asher. “It’s about what’s best for the organization. We need stability. We need someone who knows the ins and outs of our operations, someone who?—”
“Someone like you?” Asher interrupts, and the temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.
“Is that where you’re going with this, George? Because if you think for one goddamn second that Xavier would want you anywhere near his chair, you’re even dumber than you look.”
George’s face beats a bright red, but before he can respond, a voice crackles through the speakerphone sitting in the center of the table.
“Are you assholes seriously doing this right now?”
Zay’s voice is rough, exhausted, like he’s been awake for days, but it’s only been eight hours since the shooting—thirty-two since we were last asleep.
Ten since I lost my virginity to him.
As Xavier’s next of kin, he’s the only one getting updates from the hospital, the only one who knows what’s actually happeningbehind those surgical doors. The phone’s been on speaker since the meeting started, Zay on the other end handling the nightmare we can’t see while we handle the one right in front of us.
“Zay—” George starts, but Zay cuts him off.
