Chapter 15
India R. Adams
I ndia R. Adams
Goliath
On a mission to kill, literally, I charge into the clubhouse. I groan my frustration, noticing a roadblock. “Now what?”
Cowboy is eyeing me from under his worn hat. “Hear me out?”
I can’t stop my nostrils from flaring. “Make. It. Quick.”
A grin forms, and it’s full of amusement. “The fucker is right.”
Tilting my head side to side for a crack of patience, I ask, “Who?” but I never get an answer. Cowboy turns on his boot heels and heads into church.
Following him, I try to calm myself by promising to soon be throttling, stabbing, and torturing answers out of Dawg.
Inside, everyone is at their seats— except for Wash. I stand behind his empty chair, wishing he’d been captured, too, and with Dawg, waiting for me. Preferably in a room where Prez don’t mind some blood splatter and dead bodies.
Leaning over the empty chair, I rap my fingers on the wooden table as if giving myself a drum roll. “Lead me to Dawg.” I lick my teeth while gripping the back of Wash’s seat he will never fill again. “I’m ready to play .”
Studying me, Miller is leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. Only a finger moves as he points to my chair, silently commanding me to place my ass in it.
With an agitation I can barely contain, I do as I’m told. Not without bitching about the delay. “Fucking killing me here.” Once in my chair, I sarcastically tuck my legs under the table then place my arms on the wood while exuding a smile of warning. “Can we move this along?”
Chuckling by brothers has me snarling. Then glaring at Miller. But, before I can open my mouth, he calmly asks, “Why did you sit down?”
Thinking of Alex, I use a practice from her playbook and exhale my stress. “Miller—”
Dismissively, he leans forward. “I know—I know. You want Dawg, but give your Prez a damn minute first.” Again, he patiently asks, “Why did you do what I just asked?” He smirks. “Even though you're so thirsty for blood, you’re about to become Freddy Krueger himself.”
My brows bunch at his stupid question. “Because you may have intel I need to know.”
He baits, “On how to torture Dawg?”
My jaw ticks. “No. I can handle that on my own.” I pinch the bridge of my nose as I explain, mockingly, “I’m sitting, like a good boy, because there’s something I may need to know. If I fuck up this interrogation and kill Dawg too early, it could harm the club.”
Brothers at the table all start nodding, but I don’t think it’s at me. It’s to Miller, who looks proud as fuck. “Always putting the club first.”
Drake teases, “Except for a recent pussy that shall not be named.”
That causes another round of chuckles. Fuckers.
Miller’s smile slowly fades, twisting to reflect his internal guilt. “Why did you take the fall?”
Prison.
I swallow due to my throat suddenly seeming a bit drier and tighter than a moment ago. He and I haven’t had the chance to truly discuss much about it. I was kind of hoping it would stay that way. What’s done is done.
Voice dropping so deep I can barely hear myself; I speak my truth to him and our brothers. “They needed you.”
Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Miller nods while motioning to the men watching us. He understands who ‘they’ are. My brothers. My other family.
I give a curt nod, then motion back to him. “You’re now Prez. I was right.” I went with my gut, and it paid off. He’s where he belongs.
As if not surprised by my answer, he shrugs, leaning back in his chair to bait me some more. “No way for you to know that was coming.”
“Bullshit,” I argue. “You’ve always been a leader. Even when we were kids.”
Before I went to the pen, the writing had been on the wall. Our president at the time was making mistakes. I knew they’d cost him his life. What would my brothers have done without a solid leader to step up and see them through?
Again, Miller nonchalantly shrugs. “A leader is only as strong as those around him.” Suddenly, he stares at me with such conviction. “A club is only as strong as its most dedicated brothers.” His leg moves from under the table, then the VP chair is pushed back from it as well. “It’s time you take your place.”
I blink in dismay. “What? Nah.” I shake my head. “I’m a follower.”
Men around me start to grumble and scoff, as if offended I’d speak of myself in such a way. I’m barely fresh from a long stint in prison; I haven’t been home long enough to deserve this. I may have sacrificed for the club, but they’re my family; it’s what we do when shit hits the fan.
Miller’s jaw is rigid as he leans forward again, this time nowhere near as relaxed. “Now who’s spewing bullshit.” It wasn’t a question. His finger stabs the table to drive his point home. “You may see a follower in yourself, but we,” he gestures around the table, “see precision, every thought and action of yours having purpose. Shit,” he slams his hand on the table, “you even decided not to wear a condom because deep down you saw that woman was your perfect match.”
Jesus, is he right?
Miller continues, “I know we have to make room for Alex in your— our world, but I don’t care. I think she has awakened a beast in you. I believe dangerous Goliath is now deadly as fucking sin.”
There is no arguing with that. My need for revenge is clawing at my insides like a beast demanding freedom. But… “Doesn’t make me worthy of the VP chair, Miller.” I gaze at my peers around the table. “Thank you for the honor, but—”
Prez immediately rises from his chair and hovers by his spot at the table, ultimately the position in our lives. “Your loyalty to this club is, literally, unmatched.”
My head falls forward to hang in a humble manner. I’m the only Joker to take that long walk…
A patch is slammed in front of the VP chair before Miller adds, “I would never ask you for somethin’ you weren’t meant for.”
Drake, trying to be playful yet sounding as sincere as can be, says, “We want Gramps to help lead us.”
Fuck. Me. His admission hits me straight in the gut. Drake teasing is actually his way of sayin’ something.
Feeling all kinds of shit inside, I hold Drake’s stare until Miller adds, “I know you don’t have to search deep to know we’re right. It’s in your DNA—”
Out of nowhere, even while Miller keeps talking, I think of Alex and all that is in her DNA.
He continues, “—You will always do right by the club, your family—”
Famiglia… What this club is to me is what her family is to her.
“—Time for you to spread those wings, Goliath.” He finishes, and the word hits me like a punch.
Wings…
Back at Alex’s apartment—more like penthouse—her father had mentioned something about birds, also. He’d been leaving the room—where he had chewed me a new one—and mumbled, “I adore the eagle. You prefer a pigeon,” before glaring at me from over his shoulder.
Assuming the old man had cracked under all this pressure and worry for Alex, I ignored his odd remark. Then I went straight to his eagle and clipped her wings, demanding she stay hidden.
From the very first day we met, I knew my woman had been trained. For what, I didn’t know, but now it is all becoming perfectly clear; Alex’s father only let her live on her own to see if all her training—upbringing—being prepared to lead, was to see if she could.
And… she has, even with enemies trailing her.
‘Papá’ is proving to have bigger balls than me. He’s known, all along, who she is and what she’s capable of.
Me, on the other hand, has been in complete denial. I’ve been trying to control, protect, and claim a woman who is beyond capable of doing so herself. Her dad has been letting her spread her wings , pretending to be overprotective, only to see if she would cower.
She hasn’t wanted to. She’s even offered herself as bait, but because of me, she is letting her father down.
I can’t let her do that. Nor can I let my family down.
Exhaling in acceptance, I know damn well this decision will change so much. I look at my childhood friend, “Thank you for never wanting to hold me back. For supporting my decisions, even as hard as it was letting me take the fall.”
Getting to his feet, he rushes around the table and pulls me into an embrace only brothers can understand. “Your character is something every man should strive for.”
Surrounding us, I hear fist after fist hitting leathered-covered chests, as if our brothers can’t agree more. The sound fills me with pride, with a sense of honor I can’t convey in words. But right then, I make a silent promise to be the best motherfuckin’ VP they’ll ever have.
“VP!” They bark the title in unison, the conviction coming straight from their MC hearts.
***
Being a part of a one-percenter club is a dangerous way of life. Leading one, you have a constant spotlight on your back. At the moment, I wish that spotlight was in my eyes so I don’t have to witness this trainwreck between my brothers tossing random shit my way. They’d be lost without Prez keeping their bullshit straight for them at times. They’ve been spoiled by the club girls in my absence, I can see it now.
Cowboy is holding my cut in one hand and my new Vice President patch in his other, utterly clueless about what to do next. He shrugs to JD. “Super glue it on?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. I wouldn’t be surprised at this point if Cowboy thought a goddamn Christmas fairy came down and attached our patches while we slept. Miller wanting this patch in its proper place is keeping me from where I want to be. I have important shit I need to handle that has to do with Alex.
JD’s jaw unhinges in disgust. “Super glue it on? Are you stupid?” He peers about. “I’m sure it’s an iron-on.” Searching behind the bar, he asks, “Do we even have an iron?”
In complete disbelief, I look to Miller. He’s gotta stop this madness before I end up punching someone. Where were these assholes when they got their patches? Did the club girls handle it for them? Surely not.
He rolls his eyes. “I know. We’re completely fucked with these boys.”
I’ve accepted the new position. I’ve done what’s asked of me. Now it’s my turn, and I’m losing the small amount of patience I’d held on to through church. Arms flailing angrily, like my current twisted-up state of mind, I yell, “I have a man to fucking torture!”
“I have a stripper!” Drake calls in excitement as he drags some poor girl—who has clearly just been on stage—through the club’s front door. She’s in an elf costume, go figure, but she’s got nothing on my gorgeous, pregnant elf I’ve left safely at home.
The stripper’s pissed. “Exotic dancer, asshole!”
Practically giving up, I slap my forehead. “God help me.” I just want to torture Dawg. I need anyone trying to hurt my ol’ lady dead and rotting six feet under.
Ignoring us both, Drake flicks a tassel hanging from the dancer’s costume. “See? I was in her bed when she needled that thing on her boob cover—”
He doesn’t get to finish because she smacks him upside his head. “Somewhere you will never be again. My best-paying regular was in the audience just now. We have a holiday special—”
Studying me, Miller interrupts her, “Hey, I’ll pay you five hundred for two minutes of your time. Can you sew or not?”
Guess that answers my question about having club girls sewing patches on. Looks like it was strippers.
Hearing the crunch of the changing season’s browning grass under thirteen pairs of heavy leather biker boots, and one pair of cowboy boots, my upper body rounds with tensing muscles. Like a boxer eager to step into a ring, my hands slowly open and close, preparing to break bones. The brothers are all shoulder to shoulder, ready to watch, while at the same time praying for a chance to inflict pain themselves.
This isn’t just about Alex. Wash, Dawg, and Rabbit are all a part of us being shot at. They’ve killed innocents at the hospital located on our turf. They’ve stabbed the club in the back, and if you stab one of us, you stab us all. The brothers are furious, as am I.
While prospects and other members watch over our club, the officers are ready to interrogate one of these stupid fucks we’ve caught. “Uh,” I interrupt the silence, noticing the clubhouse getting farther away behind us. I ask, “Where are we going again?”
Miller watches me while JD explains, “To keep the club party-goers from snoopin’, we have a specific place for certain activities now.”
As if I’m suddenly the Devil’s spawn, I smile, rubbing my hands together in glee. I’m finally going to get my interrogation time. “No worry of blood splatter.”
“Or screams,” Drake casually adds.
We reach the door of a freestanding block building and wait as Miller pats his pockets, searching for keys. “I know I had them here somewhere.”
Veins bulge from my neck as my anger continues to build, festering to rage at this point. They’d be feral too if someone kidnapped their woman, tried to rape her, and kill her. Toss in the fact she’s pregnant and mine, well, this Christmas, Santa is getting bloody so these fucks never touch her ever again. “Millerrr—”
He holds them up. “I’m just kidding.”
I don’t understand why is— Then it dawns on me. I was a distance from the club before realizing I didn’t even know where I was going. “Okay.” Scratching my beard more in annoyance than a true itch, I admit, “I now understand your joking around, taking the time to put the patch on my leather.” I exhale, thinking of my Alex. “I promise to stay in control.”
Miller nods with approval. “There he is.” Then he unlocks and opens the door before flicking on the fluorescent lighting hanging from the ceiling. With the bright light, I notice a barren block room with, well, a bunch of sketchy shed tools hanging on the walls. To any norm, it’s a good cover for this building’s true purpose. To a criminal eye, however, there are noticeably suspicious stains on the ‘gardening’ tools, and the large stainless-steel sink and concrete floor are the pristine kind of bleach clean.
I’d take time to notice more—like no windows being present—but a movement in the far-right corner has me homed in like a snake to a rat.
In this case, it’s a Dawg.
Without hesitation, my feet swoosh to the right, then to the left before propelling me into the air. As I come down, my right fist crashes into Dawg’s face. He doesn’t stand a chance against the force and drops back down to the hard concrete with a thud.
Drake teases, “Gramps, you’re off to a rough start with self-control.”
The adrenaline rushing through my veins has me breathing hard. I hold my arms out in question, “Did I break his jaw?” I doubt it. I actually was holding back. All the movement before my strike was to give my cravings something else to focus on.
My pointy finger grazes the tools-of-my-kind-of-pleasure, as I tell Dawg, “Many men would hate to be you right now. You fucked with my brothers.” I pause on a rusty blade, grabbing it, then face the man who is starting to shake. In a whisper that is darker than most, I add, “And you laid a finger on what’s mine .”