Chapter Twelve ARK
I sleep badly, plagued as always, by wanting too much too fast. I got good at waiting things out when Booker was alive, pacing myself through the pain and humiliation until his attention was diverted by booze or a blowjob.
But now that I’m in his place, and the clubhouse has been purged of most of his poison, I’m itching to accelerate the timeline.
I want to bury every ugly memory, cut ties with every crooked contact, and make the Iron Flyers into the kind of club that my old man would have despised.
Like I told Abbie, I want it to be the family we choose, instead of the one we survive.
Two cups of black-as-sin coffee, and I’m alert enough to go check in with Wings in the workshop.
He’s in the middle of sanding a bike frame for a custom paint job and steps outside in full protective gear.
As he pulls off his face mask and pushes his safety goggles onto the top of his head, I’m engulfed by his newfound scent.
Where he once smelled like sunshine with a hint of musk, the sweeter notes are more prominent now, giving him a fragrance closer to dark chocolate.
I know that my hindbrain will eventually recalibrate, filing this scent away and forgetting the other, but I have to wonder how hard it has been for him to accept the change.
“You doing okay, brother?”
“Sure, Ark.” Where most of the members call me boss or Pres, Wings and I go deeper than that.
He’s one of the few people left in the club who know exactly how twisted my father was, despite my efforts to protect him from the worst of it.
He once said we’re trauma bonded, although at the time I think he was referring to the brutal way Abbie was ripped out of our lives.
“I’ve got a little flack, but not from the guys in the workshop.
” He snorts as he casts a glance back over his shoulder.
“The fumes are pretty toxic in here, though, so I doubt they can smell the difference.”
“Well, if anyone gives you any shit, send them my way.” He offers me a half eyeroll, and I plant my hands on my hips. “I’m serious, Wings. Maybe it just rolls off your back, but I’m not exposing the other omegas to that kind of bullshit.”
“Fair enough.” He straightens, his eyes narrowing. “Cruise told me that Abbie had a run-in with Jackpot yesterday. He didn’t hear it all, but he was spewing some shit about me, and when she told him to fuck off, he threatened her with a hammer.”
A deep, rolling rage moves through me. He raised a fucking weapon against her? I’ve been operating under the premise that I’ll keep Jackpot around until I’ve squeezed every last bitter drop out of him, but it looks like I need to accelerate his timeline, too.
“You should’ve told me right away.” Cruise too, for that matter. He’s promised me that he’d watch out for Wings, but he should know that protection also extends to Abbie. “I can’t keep her safe if I don’t know what’s happening.”
“She handled it.” I narrow my eyes right back at him and Wings lifts his hands in a placating gesture. “But I will let you know if he tries anything else.”
“Make sure you do.”
Wings’ mouth quirks as he runs his thumbnail over his cheek. “Don’t be surprised if she takes matters into her own hands, though. She was up at dawn and asking for directions to the gun range.”
Fucking hell. Abbie might have grown up in a clubhouse, but she’s spent the majority of her adult life on her own.
She’s the definition of a lone wolf, which is one of the reasons I’m so anxious to bring her back into the fold.
Being forced to take up arms against other club members is not part of that plan.
“Thanks. Catch up with you later, brother.”
He slaps my back, but I’m still fuming as I leave the workshop and head towards our security hub.
It’s the base for our primary business, which is hiring out the skills we honed in the military to civilian enterprises looking for a little extra insurance.
It’s the kind of security they can’t get from their lawyers or corporate guard dogs and is a mix of personal protection and counterintelligence.
If a guy in a thousand-dollar suit can’t sleep at night, I’m usually the first person they call.
When I reach the hub, I swipe my pass over the keypad and nod at the prospect on the desk just inside the door.
Ryan Clifford still has sand in his ears from his last desert deployment, but like most of our ex-military members, he skipped the hang around phase and moved straight into a prospect cut.
He’s on his feet faster than a whip crack, and while he doesn’t salute, it’s a close thing. “Major.”
“At ease, Cliffy.” He winces at the name and I smirk. “Still not working for you?”
Some clubs can be real assholes about assigning road names, but I figure we’re not a hockey team, looking to score chirps.
For the most part, prospects can choose their own name as long as they don’t pitch something obscure or unpronounceable.
“Threads thought I should try Signal,” he tells me, unable to keep the pride out of his voice. “What do you think, sir?”
As a specialist in the operation support services, Clifford handled technical communications for tactical units, with a focus on field support.
Without him, units like mine would have been dead in the dark, and I’m well aware that he’s wasted manning a desk ten feet from a compost pile.
If he keeps doing his time like he has been, he’ll probably be Head of Security in a few years.
“Signal gets my vote,” I tell him, then add, “Your six months are up soon. Threads says you’re on track for full membership. ”
That can only be granted with a unanimous vote by senior leadership, but with his impressive resume, technical skills, and Threads as his sponsor, I don’t see any problems with patching him in.
“Thanks, Pres.” He manages to get the title right this time, and I slap him on the back. It’s our version of a salute, and the faster he gets used to it, the better. “Are you looking for Threads?”
As well as his mentor, Threads is currently acting as my VP. He’s one of the toughest guys in the club, but with the least ambition, and every day he reminds me that his role is only temporary. “I’m looking for Abbie, actually. Did she come through this way?”
“She’s in the gun range.” I nod, but he looks uncertain. “She didn’t have an access card…”
“Doesn’t matter. Like I said at the briefing last week, she’s a special case.”
Most of the hub’s team have had Abbie on their radar for the last couple of years, but the new guys sometimes struggle with a non-member having full access to both the clubhouse and their president. “Carry on, Cliffy.”
He manages to hide his wince this time, and I head through to the gun range, certain I can smell her scent long before I hear her handiwork.
We all grew up handling guns, and Abbie was a crack shot even before she left the club.
As far as I’m aware, she doesn’t practice anywhere, but as I watch her shred her paper target with perfect aim, I feel a familiar warmth spread through my chest. My lone wolf has kept her claws sharp.
When she catches sight of me, she places the Glock on the table and pulls off her safety glasses, leaving her ear muffs to hang around her neck.
I can’t help running my gaze over the rest of her, taking in the skinny jeans and white tee with a flannel shirt knotted at her waist. The weather’s warming up, and she seems to have left her brother’s jacket in her closet.
The dog tags, I notice with no small amount of satisfaction, are still tucked under her shirt, close to her heart.
My slow perusal doesn’t seem to have offended her, because there’s a gleam of amusement in her eyes. “I just had an urge to get a few rounds in.”
“That’s good,” I tell her, walking over to study her target. “Looks like you’re as sharp as ever.”
She preens a bit at the praise, some of the tension easing in her shoulders. “It’s a great facility.” She pauses, then adds, “In fact, you’ve done a great job with the whole clubhouse.”
I drop my gaze to her upturned face. Doesn’t matter how many times I’ve seen it on a security screen or in a surveillance photo, the real version still makes my heart thump like a drum. “I kept a few good bits, but the rest I burned to the ground.”
Her eyes go wide. “Literally?”
Wouldn’t that have been cathartic? “No, although the thought crossed my mind. I needed to sell the place to pay for this one.” Along with the check for the old clubhouse, a number of high-risk security jobs have helped clear the massive debts Booker managed to pile up in the club’s name.
“I heard the new owners are going to turn it into a mini mart.”
“We should ask if there’s going to be a ribbon cutting.” A savage smile transforms her face from beautiful to breathtaking. “It could be a club outing.”
I chuckle and can’t resist swiping a stray strand of hair off her face.
Her pupils dilate, and her scent wafts over me, the same sweet fragrance edged with something darker that makes my throat tighten.
I want Abbie to be safe. First and foremost. But I also want her for myself, and I’ll be damned if anything other than the omega in front of me will get in the way of that.
“Someone gets in your face, you have my blessing to remove them, okay? Whatever it takes.”
Her mouth opens, her lips parting in surprise. “Like a trip to your friend at the morgue?”
“If it comes to that. I’m serious about looking after you, Abbie.”
“I can see that.” She takes off her protective gear and walks over to collect the gun.
She hands it back to Spire, the brother in charge of the range, and they chat for a while about her session.
He flicks a couple of glances my way, but he knows better than to cut her off when I’m savoring every word that comes out of her mouth.