Chapter Four
Dominic (Mace)
“My head fucking hurts. Why did I drink so much?”
I don’t bother answering. Talon, my VP is beside me, his head in his hands and elbows on the table. He’d been a Kingsmen before, like me. I trust him implicitly. He’s one of the few who came to me in confidence about how Nytro was running the club.
To go out on a limb like that took guts, and in the months leading up to Nytro’s downfall, we’d confided in one another. It was a no-brainer he’d be on my council.
The rest of my council are trickling in, all looking worse for wear. They’d taken full advantage of the party at the Sussex compound last night. Not me. I never drink to excess. I like to be fully aware of both me and my surroundings.
As much as we’re now a part of the Devil’s Chaos MC, I still don’t fully trust our status.
King is a straight shooter but for a long time they’d been rivals of the Kingsmen and we aren’t a fully independent chapter of the club. We were given autonomy for the most part, but we fall under his rule, and he has final say.
A lot of the men here are Devil’s Chaos through and through. Three of them make up members of my council.
It stunts me, doesn’t fully allow me to make the choices I want. Most of the time, King agrees with me, but running everything past him pisses me off. I agreed to it. To save the men who are here now. I stand by the decision, but I will always remain vigilant, to protect my brothers.
My old club was full of liars and scum, none worse than our last President. They tried to have me killed, threatened me with horrific torture. I’d been in that club since I was sixteen years old.
Joining Devil’s Chaos was the right choice, and I hoped that given time, King would loosen the noose around my neck and not oversee us so much.
Some of my men resented it too, and I spoke to them a lot about how it isn’t that big of a deal, but Talon knows. He can see it bothers me.
Until the shit hit the fan and Nytro lost his mind, I hadn’t liked Devil’s Chaos as much as any of the other Kingsmen.
“Did you really need to call Church this early?” Whosie asks, plonking his ass into the seat by the door, at the opposite end of the table to me.
He is also a previous Kingsmen. He’s integrated with Devil’s Chaos better than most.
A lot of people misjudge Whosie because he is so unassuming and blends in. Even his road name gives that impression. Whosie got his name because people forget his face and are forever asking ‘who’s he?’
“We still have work to do,” I scowl at him.
There is a good council around me, and I trust them, but there is always the worry in the back of my mind that things can go to hell like they did for the Kingsmen. A club that had been around for three decades was wiped out in a matter of weeks.
I will never let this new club fall to ruin like that. I’m always watching out for dissent or anyone sneaking around. So far, everyone here seems loyal, but I will always be on guard.
Our clubhouse is small, in a more built-up area of the town. It doesn’t have endless rooms or places for people to live but there are a few residents. The rest of the brothers live in town. I have my own place off site too.
It’s nothing like the clubhouse in Sussex, which is on its own compound, gated and protected by armed men and cameras. There, it’s more like a village, with homes for the brothers and their families, and even businesses on the property.
That reminds me of Handlebar. I never did anything to warrant the way he turned on me, but I sure as shit know what caused it.
Cassie Beillo.
I don’t have time to think about her, or Handlebar right now. What would be the point? Nothing will ever happen. And I have more important things to do than worry about hot women, when I can get that whenever I want it from someone much easier to tame.
No, Cassie Beillo is all wrong for a guy like me. And whether he wants to admit it or not, Handlebar is in the same position.
We get through Church, discussing what needs to be done in the coming weeks, figuring out a run that we’re going to be involved with. It’s only a protection ride for a middleman running some product to Ohio.
We break things up and everyone files out to go do their thing. Only one guy is hanging back.
He takes out a pack of cigarettes and lights one up, inhaling deeply before blowing the smoke up to the ceiling. He’s our current treasurer who keeps an eye on all the finances. An original Kingsmen.
“What’s up?” I ask, checking my phone and finding six texts. I lock it and put it in my pocket, I can deal with that later.
“You thought any about what I asked about?”
“You’re still stuck on that shit?”
“It’s not shit. It bothers me.”
“It’s been your road name for eight years.”
“You think I don’t know that.”
“We don’t hand out names haphazardly, Chaos. There is a reason you were given that name and to request it to be changed isn’t a small thing.”
His jaw clenches. This is the kind of shit I don’t want to have to deal with, but having bad blood amongst the men also isn’t what I want in my club. I’ve heard him out, he made his case a few days ago about changing his road name.
The issue is, he’s an officer on the council and everyone here, and at the other chapters of Devil’s Chaos, know his name. To change it would be a massive fuck you that would be felt around the MC.
“You can tell them it’s about respecting the patch,” he makes his case again. “That I should change it because we’re still proving our shit to them.”
“That is not how it will be taken.”
“It’s bullshit.”
My jaw flexes. We all made a choice when we signed up for this. Being an asshole about it won’t be tolerated, not now. Not by me and certainly not by King.
“You had a choice, Chaos. You signed up for this. You could have walked away. King didn’t force anyone to join.”
“Leave my brothers and walk away from who I am?” He stops talking and glares at the wall.
“This is who we are now. It’s too late to change your name or your choice. You know how this works. Do you want leave?”
“No,” he grinds out.
“Then suck it up.”
“Fuck,” he grunts, still not making eye contact.
“We done?” I ask impatiently. He nods. “I said, are we done?” I repeat, with a cold look.
Back when I was the VP at the Kingsmen, I had no trouble making people fall in line. My authority here is much greater. To go against me, will leave Chaos in a whole world of shit. Something I don’t want to have to do.
We all know the rules when we sign up. Yes, our situation is different, I’ve repeated multiple times we all agreed to it. Chaos knows I’m not asking. He drops this, or we have a major issue.
“It’s done.” He takes another long inhale of his cigarette then dips his chin.
Long after he’s gone, I stand in the massive room, looking down at the table where all our decisions are made.
When he first came to me, he made the point that if anyone else asked to change their name, it wouldn’t be an issue. He accused me of not doing it because his name is Chaos.
It’s partly true. There is politics involved here. More than that, it’s about identity. Chaos is exactly what he is. He was well known for causing chaos back in the Kingsmen. Not for the club, but for anyone who got in the way of the club.
No one I’ve ever known in my whole time in an MC has asked for a road name to be changed.
My phone beeps again and I pull it out. Reading through the texts I send one back saying I’ll be there soon and head out of the room.
Talon is outside and pauses his conversation, lifting his brow in question.
“Zelda.” It’s all I need to say.
My bike is parked close to the clubhouse, and I walk over, admiring the machine.
Handlebar was fucking with me keeping it as long as he did. He could have fixed the issue in an hour. He kept it for almost a week.
Instead of dwelling on that because it’s fucking pointless thinking about his motivation, I’m thankful to have it back.
The ride doesn’t take too long. The staff at Meridian Behavioral Health Hospital are used to me but I try not to let the residents see me too often. I head for the office of Megyn Merritt, the manager.
“Mr. Connelly, please have a seat.”
It’s odd hearing someone call me by my legal name. I’m so used to being referred to as Mace. There is something jarring about it. A reminder of the person I was a long time ago, when I first found this place.
Megyn is an older woman, maybe ten or so years more than me, but younger than the previous manager.
“What’s the problem?” I ask.
“She’s been asking questions. We’ve managed to keep her appeased for a few weeks. But she has started…” she pauses thinking of what to say. “Acting out.”
“Acting out?”
“Getting herself distressed, becoming argumentative and lashing out. She thinks we’re keeping something from her. And we are indeed doing that.”
“It’s for a purpose.”
“Which you haven’t disclosed, and I haven’t pressed like you asked.”
She says that like she was forced. We might be intimidating but I’m not in the habit of scaring people. Especially ones who spend their time looking after and caring for those who have issues with their mental health, or substance abuse.
The majority of the residents here deal with those issues. The problem is, Zelda won’t react well to finding out what happened to her family.
“It’s causing me a problem. She has a right to ask these questions about her family and not being able to give her answers is no longer sitting right with me.
Zelda has been a resident for a long time, she is well liked, an active member in her groups.
And she follows the rules. Her mood is changing. It’s affecting other residents.”
“Finding out the truth is going to be hard for her.”
“At this point, not knowing is causing more harm than good. We have staff here trained to deal with these kinds of things, specifically grief counselors. They will help her through it.”
“The last thing I want is for her to spiral,” I say with a heavy breath.
“I have a board to answer to. And when something like this occurs, they want answers. At present, I can’t give them answers.”
“She’s been that bad?”
“As you well know, there is a fine balance here. People with some serious concerns and medical conditions. We house a lot of challenged patients and its imperative they have a safe space, somewhere that doesn’t upset the balance we create for them.”
“What has she done?” It’s the last thing I want to ask but Megyn is giving the impression it’s bad.
“She and a number of residents barricaded themselves in one of the therapy rooms. Things were broken and the stand-off lasted a few hours. When we did eventually get them out, some of the patients were so riled up they joined in and caused some damage.
“We cannot afford to focus all of our time on one person. I don’t want to run my facility like a prison, Mr. Connelly, but we had to deal with what she caused. It took even longer to get the other residents to calm down.”
“She caused a riot.” I let out another sigh.
“Problematic enough that the board has raised concerns. There is only so much I can ignore.”
Meaning she can no longer allow me to keep quiet. This is not going to be easy. It’s down to me she is here and has been for so many years.
Zelda wasn’t always trouble. She was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder and got addicted to drugs.
One of the things I hated most about my club was how easily the drugs flowed through the clubhouse. She needed help, and I was the bad guy who got it for her. It’s been all too easy to forget about her, out of sight, out of mind.
Her brothers, Clipper and Danish were killed in the whole mess with Devil’s Chaos. They blindly followed Nytro, loyal to the club to the end.
Megyn might think seeing Zelda is going to fix this. Reality is, telling Zelda her only living relatives are dead is going to make things a million times worse.