Chapter 13
“So what you’re saying is you don’t trust us?” Smitty barks from the head of the table, and I’m about ready for this fucking meeting to be done.
“What I’m saying is, from now on, information will be limited and shared strictly on a need to know basis,” I snap, and he glares down the table at me.
“Oh sure. You used my men and my fucking stepdaughter to kidnap a pregnant teenager. Sneak her into the fucking compound. Hide her in your room, then declare her yours when she’s discovered.
She ate our food. Used our hot water. And then was the reason for the pigs sniffing around while we were out dealing with a breach at the warehouses.
” He leans forward in his chair, the old fucking thing squeaking.
“Shall I go fucking on? Because you’ve done a whole fucking lot that isn’t very fucking clubman-like, and now you want to sit here and tell us you don’t trust us? ”
“I did what you fucking wanted.” I grit my teeth. “I paid for the lie with the club beating. I married her when you demanded it. What the fuck do you want from me?!”
“Your fucking loyalty!” Smitty booms, surging to his feet, his gun already in his hand and aimed straight at me.
Chairs scrape the floor as my club brothers lurch back from the table, but I stay seated, glaring at my President.
“My loyalty?” I scoff. “What are you really pissed about here, Nate? That I finally woke up from my fucking zombie coma after Hope died and I’m no longer your puppet?
Or that I found someone who makes me happy while you’re stuck in a marriage to a woman you don’t love, while forcing Celina to kneel just so she can earn privileges the other Doxies don’t get? ”
The crack of the gun is deafening, splinters of wood exploding overhead where Smitty’s gun is now pointed.
“I should fucking kill you!” Smitty roars, and I slowly stand, seeing JD, Vender, Mex, and well… a lot of guys with their hands on their guns, ready to draw.
But not at me.
“If you wanted me dead, I would be,” I snap. “If you want me and my wife to leave, we will. Just say the fucking word and I’ll walk away right fucking now.”
Lowering his gun, Smitty breathes heavily like he’s fighting for control, but the gun gets placed on the table as he jabs a finger towards me.
“You would choose her over us?” he asks, but it’s more of an accusation.
“No,” I answer honestly. “I would choose her over you.”
Smitty’s face turns red. “Isn’t that what I just said?”
“No.” I shake my head, glancing at my club brothers packed into the small room we use as church at the back of the barn.
“I’m not choosing my wife over the club, because they would never fucking ask me to.
You are the one doing that. Last time I checked our bylaws, the role of President wasn’t a fucking dictatorship. ”
Smitty slams his fist on the table again. “You’re walking a thin fucking line!”
Suddenly, the doors burst open, and Brody flies into the room, gun raised.
“What happened? Who am I shooting?”
All eyes are now on our prospect, whose eyes are wild as they dance around, ready to fight for any one of us, and the tension that was engulfing the room slips away as Smitty grins.
“Well, fuck. It’s about time we patched in this son of a bitch.”
The room remains quiet for a moment, the only sound is Brody as he starts laughing.
“Really? Do you mean that?”
One look at Smitty, and I can tell he’s going to say no. I can tell he was only fucking with him.
Well, fuck. I’m already on the outs with Nate. I may as well go out with a fucking bang.
“Damn straight!” I slap my hand on the table. “Call the vote, Prez.”
Smitty’s jaw ticks as he glares at me, but turns back to our club brothers.
“Alright, listen up!” Smitty calls, even though everyone is fucking quiet.
“Next order of business is Brody Dean. He’s been kicking around here for a while now.
Fucking our Doxies. Eating our grub. Sending us all batshit crazy over the way he makes up his own fucking lyrics for songs.
But he’s also stepped up of late. So let me hear your thoughts. ”
“His taste in music is questionable.” Spud speaks up first. “Fucking teenybopper shit does my head in. But, fuck, he’s had our backs.”
Fists pounding over hearts fill the room in agreement, and Brody fucking beams.
“Jesus Christ. He’s gonna get such a big fucking head over this,” JD mutters, “but as Road Captain, and the ugly fucker’s brother… I couldn’t be prouder of the way he’s stepped up to protect Abbey.”
Pounding fists over hearts sound again, no one but Smitty flinching at the fact my wife’s name was brought up.
“Little shit needs to learn how to fucking bargain shop instead of getting the big brands when he goes with the Doxies to the shops,” Tups, our Secretary grumbles, “but he’s not afraid to go in guns blazing when he’s ordered to.”
Again, more fists.
“How about you?” Smitty hisses. “Sergeant-at-Arms. What do you think?”
He already knows what I think, but this isn’t about my spat with Smitty. This is about our prospect becoming a fully patched member, so I drag my gaze from my bitter President, and lock eyes with Brody.
“You’ve bled for me. For my wife. You jumped through the window of a moving fucking van for me.
For my wife. You’ve clawed at the dirt of the grave of my wife’s baby.
You’ve helped protect my ma and my sisters.
” I jab a finger in his direction. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ve been my club brother for a fucking while now. I’m stoked to make it official.”
Brody’s eyes turn glassy as his smile grows impossibly wide, and he thumps his fist over his heart, his eyes on me.
“Anyone else got anything to add or dispute?” Smitty snaps, and Vender steps forward, clearing his throat.
“Despite me and Mex trying to fucking claim Nessy for ourselves, you, a little fucking shit of a bloke, have been the voice of fucking reason.” Vender continues as Mex chuckles next to him.
“You can be selfless when you need to be, so in my eyes, you make the type of club brother I want to ride alongside.”
More fists pound, and Brody grins like a fucking idiot, puffing out his chest.
“Alright. Enough of the lovey-dovey shit,” Smitty whines. “All those in favour of patching in Brody Dean, show us your hands.”
Every fucker in the room raises their hand, and Smitty doesn’t even bother asking if anyone is against it.
“Then it’s fucking done. This ugly fucker, Brody Dean, is one of us.” He points to Brody. “Get the fuck over here.”
Cheers ring out through the room, my club brothers slapping Brody’s back as he rounds the table, walking with his head held high.
This part of the patching in is shared by the President and Sergeant-at-Arms, so I move around the table, coming to Nate’s side, even though I want to punch him, and together, we present Brody with the full cut as Spud wrestles the prospect one off his back.
“You earned this,” Smitty says, holding up the cut. “Don’t forget what it took to become part of the brotherhood.”
Brody turns, slipping it on, and tugging at the front, spinning to face us, fucking proud as punch.
“From this day on,” I tell him, “You wear our colours. You represent every man in this room, and every man in this room will ride for you, and die for you.”
Brody nods, his eyes turning glassy again as Smitty speaks up.
“Southern Sadists, we chant.”
And as one, with Brody joining us this time, we chant.
“May the road rise up to meet us.
May the wind be always at our backs.
May the sunshine be warm upon our faces.
May the rain clouds never be black.
We are the Southern Sadists MC.
Ride ‘em high.
Ride or die.”
“Yeah!” JD yells, barging through the guys to get to his little brother, sweeping him up in his arms for a brotherly hug before Brody is lifted onto the shoulders of Vender and Mex, and they start cheering as they carry him from the room.
“You and I gonna have a problem?” Smitty asks from behind me as the room clears out, and I sigh, turning to face my President.
I’ve pretty much undermined him here today, so yeah, I’m pretty sure we are gonna have a problem.
“If you want me to leave, Nate, just say the word.”
For a long moment, he just stares at me, his eyes dancing between mine like he’s trying to get a read on whether my words hold the truth.
“Who the fuck else is going to do your shitty job?” he snaps, before the tip of his fucking finger pokes my chest. “But secrets don’t fucking sit well with me. Right now, you’re on thin fucking ice. I can’t have this disloyal shit floating around my club. The men are unsettled enough.”
I hold up my hands. “Not being disloyal. But my family and their safety is my prerogative, and unless I’m using club resources to help them, then it’s none of your concern.”
His eyes narrow. “So you’re not using club resources? Outside help then.” He comes to his own conclusion. “The Marx family? Fuck, man. Don’t you fuck up the deals I have going with Griffin so we can work this fucking zone. He’s taking the heat from his psychotic old man for us.”
“It’s nothing that will blow back on the club. And no, it’s not the Marx family. End of fucking conversation.”
Brody’s voice cuts through Smitty’s disapproving grunt, and I turn towards the open doors leading to the main floor of the barn, which looks more like a fucking hoedown bar than a clubhouse.
“Ringo!” Brody calls again, still perched on my club brothers’ shoulders, and when he spots me, worry flashes across his face.
“What the fuck now?” I snap, and Brody visibly cringes.
“It’s, uh… Abbey. She’s uh…” He hesitates, but the moment I start storming towards him, the rest spills out. “She’s in the dungeon… unleashing her anger.”
“The fuck?!” I seethe, already veering off for the doors to stop my wife from killing someone… again.