Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Marie
There are men all over my house, chatting, drinking, and talking. I didn’t have time to dry my wet blonde hair, which means it’s pulled back on a clip to keep it off my neck. I dressed quickly in a short sleeved maxi dress and called it a day.
I have no idea what a woman wears to meet her scent matches’ club, but clothes are probably a pretty good idea.
“Everyone, say hi to Marie,” Storm yells, making me flinch as all the attention is placed on me.
It’s not my favorite place to be, but I raise myself to my full, though modest, height as I say hello. I don’t cower, refuse to hide next to Storm, and raise my head high. Introductions are made so quickly, it’s difficult to remember everyone, but I make an effort to try.
“Want to get drunk and talk?” Arsenal asks, grinning.
“I think I deserve the day off,” I agree, pulling my phone from the pocket in my dress to quickly text HR that I’m not coming in today. “Now I’m free as a bird.”
“Beer or something stronger? I have a good Irish whiskey in my bike compartment,” he offers.
“I’m Irish. I’ll never say no to whiskey,” I reply.
“Fuck yeah,” Burner says, watching as Arsenal leaves to grab the whiskey. “We were just talking about pot, Marie. Do you partake?”
My lips twitch, not sure his words are true.
“They drug test at work,” I say apologetically. “I can’t.”
“Booze is safer,” he says sagely, making me grin as I nod. “Come sit with us. We’re telling stories that would make Lore want to kick our asses.”
Storm’s warmth is behind me as his hand presses against the small of my back, and I take strength from that and the stun gun I put in my pocket. Anyone who says that pockets in a dress shouldn’t be functional, is a liar.
Walking to the large couch, I find a spot to sit.
“Let’s see how those steaks are coming,” Wilder says, heading toward the back door.
Storm takes a spot holding up the wall, his eyes on me as men make themselves comfortable around me.
“Storm, remember when you were just a prospect in Callous’ club?” a man with long black hair asks. His hair is up in a hair tie, and I have a feeling he’s getting ready to run if necessary from his seat. You know, in case he pisses Storm off. His name escapes me, and it pisses me off.
“Ah fuck,” Storm sighs. “I thought this was about Lore? Yes, I remember.”
“Lore’s father was Callous,” Burner murmurs, sipping his beer.
“He was retired with a bullet between the eyes, and Lore took a portion of the men who didn’t want to stay tethered to a stationary location.
Devon is still struggling to get his internal house settled with the old guard left in the club. ”
Taking a breath as I attempt to get over how easily life and death are dealt with in the club. I hold all life to be important, even if the person doing the living is a demonic asshole. I incline my head in thanks to Burner, glad that someone is willing to give me a crash course in club history.
“Prospects are at the bottom of the club,” Storm adds. “They’re not patched in until it’s known they can hack club life.”
“You can’t get out of this life once you’re in,” Burner says. “Death is the only way out, though that’s not true of the women who are sweet butts or old ladies.”
“Do not explain what a sweet butt is,” Storm growls. “We don’t have any of those in our club due to being nomadic. I was running from my past, and figured a motorcycle club would be the perfect way to get lost.”
“For a lot of us, it is,” Arsenal says, coming back inside. “Would you like ice, Marie?”
“No, thank you. It just dilutes the whiskey,” I reply.
“Huh,” Burner says. “You don’t look like the kind of girl who likes when her alcohol bites back.”
“And you don’t know me,” I say, shrugging. I accept the drink as Arsenal gives me the glass, surprised he managed to find one.
It’s been a busy week, and while the guys have been trying their best to buy things for the house, it takes time to get essentials.
“Fair.” I glance at the man whose name I can’t remember, and he chuckles. “You’re trying to place names and faces, aren’t you?”
“I’m usually better at this, and I hate not being able to keep everything straight. There’s a doctor at the hospital who keeps getting my name wrong, and it irritates the hell out of me,” I admit.
“I get it. My road name is not something flattering. Just call me Nick,” he says. Storm’s cheeks heat, and I raise my eyebrows at him as he chuckles under his breath. God, it has to be a sex thing. Gross. “Now, Storm was watching the gate, and he swears he saw a ghost that night.”
“A wraith! His eyes were white and glowing,” Storm interrupts. “Ugh, not this fucking story.”
Nick snorts, and goes into a story where Storm was shooting into the dark, certain an evil ghost was going to get him.
“To be fair, it was creepy as fuck in the middle of nowhere,” Nick laughs. “The club is in a different location now, and Devon does a good job of keeping things up.”
“Lore talked me down that night,” Storm says.
“He turned the spotlight on, showed me there was nothing to be afraid of, and then admitted the woods surrounding the club were sketchy as fuck. We ended up clearing some so it was harder to sneak up on the clubhouse the next day. This was when we all belonged to Callous’ club.
I was a prospect for a year before I patched in. ”
“Five days later, we were attacked,” Arsenal says. “The evil spirit may have saved our lives.”
“Dramatic much?” Burner snorts. “Granted, this was before I joined Lore and the Knotted Anarchy, but I’ve heard this story. We’re also a superstitious bunch, so I’ll accept a spirit having fun scaring the piss out of Storm.”
I want to ask what their superstitions are, but I don’t want to hijack the conversation. I need more stories about Lore, so I settle in my corner of the couch and take a sip of my whiskey.
My mouth doesn’t sneer at the taste, and I’m impassive as I swallow it down. It’s not shitty whiskey. It’s just what I need for a makeshift wake for my alpha.
Arsenal appears impressed as he watches me, and he raises his own glass to me before speaking.
“Lore was full of tough love moments,” he says. “Yet, he’d never ask us to do something he wasn’t willing to do himself. It’s why he took meetings we knew were sketchy, and we’ve unfortunately walked into more than one trap over the years.”
“Our president always felt invincible,” Burner sighs. “I’ve watched him go into a room with a hammer in his back pocket and a smirk. That’s how he forced people to pay attention to him.”
“He also refused to take the old guard who were loyal to his father with him,” Storm says. “They’re lucky he wasn’t the one who stayed tethered to a clubhouse.”
“He’d have killed them all and moved on without batting an eye,” Arsenal grunts.
“None of that,” Wilder says, re-entering the house. “Devon is coming for the funeral. Let’s not make him think he can’t handle his affairs.”
“Yes, Prez,” Burner says.
My eyes slide closed at how easily he said that, and my heart cramps painfully. This isn’t a heart attack, it just feels that way.
“Marie?” Arsenal says. “Hey.”
“I’m good,” I croak, hating the tear that escapes as I open my eyes again. “Tell me another story about Lore, please.”
“Where did we leave off?” Wilder asks, licking his bottom lip as he watches me carefully.
I’m not made of glass, even if I feel as if I’m about to explode into a million pieces.
“Lore’s hammer,” Burner grunts. “Did I say something wrong? I feel awkward as fuck, and I need to know if I did.”
“It’s me,” I promise. “I’m probably going to be skittish for a while. Talking about Lore helps.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Wilder says.
“I forgot the fucking hammer. He transitioned to knives with his guns after a while. His weapons were an extension of himself. Lore knew how to keep people alive for as long as necessary to extract information, and how to make shit hurt. His hammer became legendary, and people still talk about it. He needed to make the people sit up and pay attention at a meeting with the Ghost Syndicate. This was before we went to one working with our own people. Back then we were broke and Callous, Lore and Devon’s father, had recently died. They didn’t want to take us seriously.”
“Swear to God, he said, the first fuckhead who shows his ass is getting a taste of my hammer,” Storm mutters. “He bought it specifically to break fingers and bust heads. Crazy fucker.”
“So he used it?” I ask, sipping my whiskey. The warmth from the drink is spreading through my body, and wrapping me up in a false cocoon.
It separates me just enough from the bubbling, curdled anger and sadness of grief. I refuse to fight it, if only for long enough to enjoy these moments frozen in time. I know they’re making food outside, but I doubt I’ll be able to eat any of it. My stomach is unhappy with me.
“You betcha. One of the guys said he didn’t want to do business with a punk who didn’t know his head from his asshole,” Storm says. “So, he got the business end of the hammer across his dominant hand. Lore’s signature move became that fucking hammer.”
I huff out a laugh as I think about how that must have looked for others. Lore’s big body, self assured smirk, dropping a hammer on the table would have commanded attention.
“It’s effective,” I admit. “I bet people changed their minds quickly after a few meetings with his hammer.”
“They did,” Arsenal chuckles. “Lore dealt with other people’s bullshit for just long enough until he could pivot and only take care of our people. It’s been calmer up until recently with the change.”
“Traitors suck,” I rasp, finishing my whiskey. It’s refilled quickly, and I continue to listen to the men talk until the food is ready.
I refuse food, content with my whiskey and my grief. I don’t want to move from my spot on the couch right now. Storm and Wilder glance worriedly at me when they go upstairs to talk with the other men, while I pull the blanket over my head and fall asleep.
I don’t much like this timeline. I’ll try again later.