Chapter 28
Vienna
Now
Poker night, in theory, was supposed to be civilised.
Well, as civilised as a bunch of drunken bikers were able to be.
At least, that was how Dante liked to frame it.
History was against him, but still he insisted on the weekly relaxing sessions.
He said it was a chance for the brothers to unwind, have a few drinks, and a few games of cards.
He said all the shit talk was good for morale.
In reality, poker night was never civilised. Things had improved slightly since Macbeth had kicked the bucket and we were no longer separating him and Dante every five minutes, but they were far from fucking civilised.
It was loud, sweaty, competitive, and usually ended with at least one person accusing another of cheating, someone else threatening to flip the table, and Sunshine trying to convince everyone to do shots every time somebody folded.
And that was on a good night.
Tonight, however, was already shaping up to be one of the worst in recent memory.
Mostly because Shark wasn’t here.
And if there was one thing that Shark had been good at, it was maintaining the beast mode known as “hangry”.
“Why does no one appreciate what Pivot actually does for this club?” Chris muttered, whilst he eyed the state of the table with visible disgust. “Is this it? Shark would be disappointed. We should have taken Pivot up on his offer.”
“Fuck that. He’s a prospect,” Ant replied, shuffling the cards with all the grace of a butcher. “He’s not meant to be appreciated. He’s meant to be used.”
“Well, why haven’t we used him and got a decent spread for tonight?”
“You’re spoilt,” Tools said. “I remember the days of frozen pizza, and some scraps left over from the bar.”
“Yeah, well, I remember charcuterie boards. This is a disgrace,” Chris repeated, looking utterly horrified. “I still say we show some appreciation for Pivot and get him to make us some decent scran.”
“Bit rich coming from you,” Riley drawled from where he was sitting back in his chair with his beer balanced on his stomach. “I’ve seen you make that poor bastard steam your jeans.”
“That was one time.”
“It was three times,” Trent corrected flatly.
“Four,” Greg said helpfully.
Ant turned his glare on him instantly. “Did anyone ask you, Malfoy?”
Greg lifted both hands in surrender and slouched lower in his chair. Across from him, Rooster snorted into his pint, and Chicken let out a wheeze of laughter that made him sound like he’d been smoking twenty a day since birth.
The poker table looked like a fucking crime scene.
Usually, when Shark was around, he’d lay out what he referred to in all seriousness as “the spread,” which was just his weird way of saying he arranged cheese, crackers, cured meat, fruit, dips, and enough pretentious little snacks to make the whole room look like they were attending a middle-class divorce party rather than getting pissed in a biker clubhouse.
Tonight, in his absence, the spread consisted of, one open packet of pickled onion Monster Munch—arguably the worst flavour.
Two crushed packets of salt and vinegar crisps, a half melted Toblerone that Tools had pulled out of his back pocket, and a pork pie that he said “would be as good as new once it aired out,” which meant he had sat on it.
“Who was actually meant to sort food?” Dante asked from the head of the table, pinching the bridge of his nose like he regretted every decision that had led him to this exact point in his life. “We know we can’t order pizza. Macbeth might be gone, but they still won’t deliver here.”
“Oh, I suppose that has nothing to do with you kicking ten bells of shit out of the delivery guy for arguing with Rachel?” I said.
“It shouldn’t. Any man would defend his woman, and that’s all I was doing. It’s nothing to hold a grudge over.”
“Tell it to the hungry men, Dante. Tell it to the hungry men,” I laughed.
“Thought Chris was doing food,” Liam said.
Chris looked up sharply. “Why the fuck would I be doing it?”
“You’re Treasurer,” Sunshine said, like that explained everything. “Thought it came under budgeting.”
“That’s not what a Treasurer does, you thick cunt.”
“Well, what do you do?”
“I stop you lot bankrupting the club on absolute shite.”
“Then technically,” Riley said, completely deadpan, “food would fall under your department.”
Chris stared at him for a long moment. “I hope your next shag fakes it.”
“Bold of you to assume they don’t all fake it,” I piped up.
“That’s enough,” Dante snapped, though there was no real bite in it yet. “Can we just get through one poker night without it turning into an argument?”
“No,” Trent said simply.
“Why hasn’t Divorce done the food?” Rooster asked, pointing an accusatory finger in his direction.
“The fuck would I do the food for? I’ve spent the better half of my life on prison gruel.”
“I’d take prison gruel over Tools’s ass pork pie.”
“It’ll be fine once it—”
“Airs out, we heard you,” Divorce muttered.
“Have no fear, gentlemen,” I said, reaching under my chair. “I have suffered the ways of you fools for too long not to have predicted this. Many a night have I starved, my mouth salivating for just a crumb of a sandwich. Oh, the games I have lost due to the starvation and—”
“Get to the fucking point,” Dante interrupted.
“Voilà,” I announced, ripping the tea towel off the plate I’d been hiding.
The room went quiet.
“Thank you, Vienna,” I muttered, waving the plate under all their noses.
No one said anything. They all looked at me as though me carrying a plate of neatly cut sandwiches into poker night was not normal, reasonable behaviour.
“What?” I said.
Monster narrowed his eyes. “Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve done something.”
I gasped, offended. “Monster, I am wounded by the accusation.”
“You should be wounded,” Dante muttered. “Preferably fatally.”
Ignoring him, I stood up and placed the plate in the middle of the table like I was some benevolent domestic deity arriving to save these useless bastards from themselves.
There were eight sandwiches in total. And I was actually rather proud of them. There was ham, cheese, a bit of pickle. All the good stuff. Solid poker night food.
“Nope,” Ant said, immediately backing away from it.
“What do you mean, nope? It’s a fucking sarnie.”
“Where has it come from?”
“The kitchen. I brought nourishment.”
Sunshine leaned sideways to peer at the plate. “Why?”
“Because unlike some people,” I said, glancing pointedly at the remains of the sat-on pork pie, “I care about this club’s wellbeing.”
“That’s exactly why I don’t trust it,” Riley said.
“Well, you’re not getting one then,” I said, pettily moving the plate just an inch further away from him.
Monster, however, had never once in his life let common sense get in the way of free food. That was why he was one of my favourite people to psychologically experiment on.
He leaned forward, squinted at the sandwiches, then reached out and picked one up. “What’s in them?”
“Love,” I said solemnly.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dante muttered.
Monster sniffed it, and then brought it to his mouth, almost inhaling it in one bite. The entire room went silent, all of us watching him chew, and chew, as though they were all expecting him to drop dead any second.
“Nice?” I asked casually, leaning one elbow on the back of his chair.
Monster shrugged. “Yeah, it’s alright.”
I nodded slowly. “Tell the good men, Monster. Tell them what epic sandwich making skills I possess.”
He frowned at me. “I mean… they’re alright. It’s a standard sandwich.” He reached over and grabbed another one, popping it in his mouth completely whole. I grinned, barely able to suppress the shiver of glee that went through me.
Across the table, Trent had gone very still.
Chris was watching me over the rim of his beer with increasing suspicion.
Sunshine, who had known me since I was a boy, lowered his cards and shook his head.
I smiled wider, feeling like the Joker.
“That one was even better, wasn’t it Monster old pal?”
Monster paused mid-chew this time. “Vienna.”
“What?”
“What’s in the sandwiches?”
I looked at him innocently. “Ham. Cheese. A touch of mustard. Oh, and a secret ingredient.”
There was a beat of silence.
Chicken sat upright. “A what?”
Rooster lowered his pint. “A secret ingredient?”
Monster stopped chewing entirely.
And then, because patience has never been one of my defining virtues, I sighed dramatically, stepped back from the table, undid my belt, and yanked the front of my jeans down just enough to expose my lower stomach.
There, in all its glory, was the evidence.
A freshly shaved bald patch right above my cock.
For one glorious second, no one spoke.
Monster stared at me. Then back at the sandwiches. Then at me. Then the crust in his hand.
And for some insane reason, he swallowed the mouthful of food he already had. “No,” he said, looking a bit green in the face.
I pointed down proudly. “The secret ingredient in all its glory. Freshly harvested.”
The explosion that followed was biblical.
Monster launched himself backwards so hard his chair hit the floor with a crack, his face twisted in pure, betrayed horror.
“You fed me your fucking pubes?!” he roared.
I was laughing too hard to defend myself properly. “Technically, I fed you a balanced meal. The cheese is the calcium, and these unwashed pubes are the protein.”
“You disgusting, hairy little freak!”
“You said they were nice!”
“That was before I found out I was eating your bollock hedge!”
Rooster folded in half laughing. Chicken made a noise so high-pitched and violent it sounded like he was being murdered.
Sunshine slapped the table hard enough to send the Toblerone flying onto the floor.
Even Trent had gone red trying not to crack, though Riley had fully given up and was openly wheezing into his pint.
Monster looked ready to kill me.
Which, to be fair, was reasonable.
He lunged.