Chapter 9 East
East
Malachi’s voice is a low rumble, the final word on a discussion I’ve tuned out for the last twenty minutes.
It usually commands the full attention of the war room, a space that smells of stale coffee, gun oil, and old leather.
Tonight, it’s just background noise. A dull thrum against the frantic, high-pitched ringing in my head.
My knee is bouncing a frantic rhythm under the table, the only outward sign of the storm brewing inside me.
My thumb swipes across the cool glass of my phone screen for the tenth time.
No calls. No texts. Nothing. Just the image of the clock ticking past nine, and the sick, coiling knot in my gut that gets worse with every minute she’s in that house.
Just a text, Frankie. I just need to know if she’s safe.
Hope is a stupid, useless thing, but it’s all I have.
Dinner. With Trent Moreland. The words have been on a loop in my head since Frankie mentioned it, each repetition another twist of a knife.
I picture the scene: a stuffy dining room, her father playing the proud patriarch, and Trent looking at her like she’s a prize he’s already won, his slimy hand probably covering hers on the table.
The image makes my teeth grind, the muscles in my jaw aching with the pressure.
My hand clenches into a fist under the table, the need to hit something a physical, burning ache.
I hear Declan’s laugh in the back of my skull.
It’s the good one, the one that used to cut through every bad idea.
It makes the silence in here feel louder.
“East. The numbers for the fund. Are we clear to green-light the upfront costs for the event permits?”
Knox’s sharp and impatient voice cuts through the fog.
My head snaps up, the sudden movement jarring.
Every eye at the table is on me. Malachi, Knox, Nash, James.
All waiting. A hot flush of embarrassment crawls up my neck, but I immediately plaster on my default setting: a lazy, unbothered grin.
Deflect. Distract. Make them laugh so they don’t see you’re a breath away from climbing the walls.
“Sorry,” I say, leaning back in my chair and kicking one boot up onto the scarred edge of the table. “I was mentally calculating how many shots of the good stuff we could buy if we just skimmed a little off the top. For, you know, club morale.”
Nash snorts, a rare crack in his stoic facade that under normal circumstances would make me grin for real. Knox just glares, unimpressed. “The numbers, East.”
“Right, right. Business before pleasure.” I tap my temple, pulling the figures from a memory that, thankfully, works even when the rest of my brain is offline. It’s muscle memory. The treasurer part of me is always online. Money is a language. Men like Winston speak it loudly. I speak it better.
“As of this morning, the veterans’ fund is sitting at a very respectable fifty-two grand.
Upfront costs for the permits and vendor deposits are five.
We’re clear.” I pause, letting the easy confidence of the numbers settle over me like armor.
“After this run, we should be pushing seventy. Plenty for the families we’re helping and, if we’re smart, a new dartboard for the bar.
” I shoot a wink at Kyle, who’s standing guard by the door, his posture rigid with the effort of looking like he belongs.
Kid’s wired too tight. I should get him under a hood at the garage tomorrow; give that twitch a job that won’t get him killed. “The current one is a tragedy.”
“Meeting adjourned,” Malachi says, his tone leaving no room for argument. The words are a release, and the tension in my shoulders drops a fraction. He knows I’m deflecting. They all probably do. They know me too well.
The guys scrape their chairs back, the tension of the meeting breaking apart into the easy camaraderie of a Saturday night.
I stay seated, scrolling through the dark screen of my phone again, pretending to check emails.
Anything to avoid the hollow feeling in my chest. Anything to stop picturing her in that silk cage, smiling a perfect, hollow smile. The helplessness is choking me.
“You’re gonna burn a hole in that screen,” James says quietly as he passes, his hand landing on my shoulder for a brief, knowing squeeze.
I don’t look up. “Just making sure our investments are sound.”
“Some investments you just have to trust to handle themselves,” he murmurs, then he’s gone. Fucking cryptic old man.
I finally push to my feet, the restless energy under my skin too much to ignore.
The clubhouse is alive now, the air thick with the smell of beer, burgers from the grill, and the cheap perfume of the girls laughing by the jukebox.
The music is loud, some old-school rock anthem about breaking chains.
Ironic. I need to get out. I need a cigarette.
Pushing through the crowd, I make my way toward the back door with my body on autopilot.
The cool night air of the alley is a welcome shock.
As I lean against the rough brick wall, my hands shake while I pull a cigarette from the pack in my pocket.
I light it, the flare of the match a brief, bright spark, and take a deep, lung-burning drag.
My jaw ticks so hard I taste copper. It doesn’t calm me; it just gives my hands somewhere to shake.
The acrid smoke does nothing to quiet the storm in my head.
“Thought I might find you out here.”
I turn my head. It’s a redhead—Chloe, I think her name is—from a few weeks ago. She’s leaning against the doorframe, a hopeful look in her eyes.
“Needed some air,” I say, taking another drag from the cigarette.
She takes a step closer, her perfume cloying in the small space. “Yeah? Or were you just waiting for a second round?” she asks, her voice a low purr. She runs a hand down my arm, her intentions clear.
I don’t move, just look at her, the smoke curling from my lips. “It’s a one-ride-per-customer policy, sweetheart,” I say, my voice gentle but firm, a charming grin taking the sting out of the words. “Gotta keep the mileage low. Makes the first time more memorable, don’t you think?”
She pulls her hand back, a flicker of annoyance in her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Asshole.”
“Guilty,” I say with a wink. She shakes her head and turns, heading back inside, leaving me alone with my thoughts again.
The distraction failed. The cigarette tastes like ash in my mouth. I drop it, crushing it under my boot with a frustrated grind. The helplessness is still there, choking me. I need a real distraction. I need to spar with someone who can handle it. Frankie.
A new purpose propels me back inside, toward the bar. She's there, a solitary dark figure nursing a whiskey amidst the chaos. Showtime. I slide onto the empty stool beside her, leaning in with my most charming grin.
“A beautiful woman drinking alone,” I say in a low purr. “Either I’m incredibly lucky, or you just murdered someone and you’re celebrating. Either way, I’m intrigued.”
She takes a slow sip without looking at me. “Careful, East. My tolerance for your bullshit is particularly low tonight.”
“Ouch.” I place a hand over my heart. “And here I was about to let you buy me a drink. I’m flexible.”
That finally gets a reaction. Her eyes, dark and perceptive, turn to me. She sees right through my act. Always does. “She’s a big girl, East. Let her fight her own battles.”
The words are a slap. She’s right, but that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow. “This isn’t a battle she chose.”
“None of them are,” Frankie says, her voice quiet but edged with something old and sharp.
She finishes her whiskey and sets the glass down.
Her fingers trace a pattern on the condensation ring her glass left on the bar, and her gaze goes distant for a second with that spooky, far-off look she gets sometimes.
The air around us tightens, that static prickle that means she’s listening to whatever the universe won’t say out loud.
“You hovering over her shoulder isn’t going to save her. It’ll just make her feel caged.” She turns that look on me, her eyes seeming to see straight through my skull. “She’s not in danger, East. Not tonight. I’d feel it.”
I clench my jaw. I hate when she does that. Because I’ve known her long enough to know her ‘feelings’ are never wrong. It’s frustrating supernatural bullshit I’ve learned to trust more than I trust the stock market.
“So I’m just supposed to sit here?” I ask, the words tight.
She gives me one last pointed look before sliding off the stool. “Don’t burn a hole in the floor pacing. Go be you. She’ll be fine.”
She walks out, leaving me alone at the bar. For a second, I let myself stew in the truth of her words. But she’s right. Sulking won’t do a damn thing. Performance is a better painkiller.
I spot Knox and James over by the dartboard, arguing over a shot. Perfect.
“For fuck’s sake, Knox, my dead grandmother could make that shot, and she’s half ash in an urn,” I call out, clapping him on the shoulder as I approach. “Let a professional show you how it’s done.”
Knox flips me off without turning. “Piss off, East. I’m concentrating.”
“You’re concentrating on embarrassing the club,” I say, plucking a dart from the board. “Three throws. Loser buys the next round for the whole bar.”
“You’re on,” Knox grunts, finally turning to face me, the challenge accepted.
A cheer goes up from the guys who’ve gathered to watch. Perfect. An audience. The pressure settles on my shoulders, a familiar, welcome weight. For the next ten minutes, I’m not the guy choking on helplessness. I’m East, the charming asshole, the life of the party. It’s a role I know how to play.
“Alright, ladies,” I call out to the room, grabbing three darts. Chalk dust coats my fingers. Grip. Aim. Pretend the shake isn’t there. “Lesson one: how to beat a man who throws like he’s trying to start a lawnmower.”