Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
SHORT
Fuck, but it’s great to be back at the club.
Being around civilians always unsettles me, but then I suppose, nobody likes being stuck in a hospital bed, having needles stuck into them, and being prodded and poked.
As for the food, it’s exactly what it’s cracked up to be –bland, unappetising, and in far too small portions for a man my size.
Piston and Stalker cheer as I step inside, and beckon me toward the bar where I eye the spirits and beers with remorse.
I’d gotten a lecture from the doctor before I discharged myself – in spite of her advice I needed another night on the ward – on the interactions between the antibiotics she’s prescribed and alcohol.
It was when she’d gone on to list the ramifications that I’d started listening to her.
While I usually show someone the finger if they warn me against doing something, the idea of spending the night praying to the porcelain god, risking tearing the stitches in my lung while I’m at it, is enough to put me off having a drink for now.
And damnit, I can’t even smoke a joint to take the edge off.
Still, fed up with lying in bed, I limp my way over to where they’re sitting and gingerly perch myself on a stool, one hand on the counter to support me.
“Good to see you back, Short,” the prospect, Heathen, tells me. Apparently, he’s the bartender for today. Knight, our other prospect, had been the one to collect me from the hospital and bring me home. “Whatcha having?”
“Soda,” I growl, then scowl to make sure no one’s going to comment about my choice of refreshment.
Footsteps sound behind me as I’m reaching for the drink, then a heavy hand lands on the back of my cut, and kid you not, to my embarrassment, I scream like a fucking girl.
Which isn’t great, as my lungs still hurt when forced to expand.
I double over, my leg buckles, and to add insult to injury, I fall to the floor.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Rattler’s voice sounds from my rear. Even turning around is currently beyond me. “Here, let me help you up.”
“I got it,” I growl, not trusting him to not drop me on my ass again. Slowly, I get my good leg beneath me, and with the help of the rungs of the stool, slowly make my way up until I’m in a standing position.
“Rattler!” Bullseye storms out of his office. “What the fuck are you doing? Short’s only just out of the hospital, and against medical advice.” Then, to me, he asks, “Thought you were supposed to be taking it easy and lying in bed?”
“I’ll rest when I have to, Prez.” I look toward Piston. “You think you can do me a favour and beat the fuck out of Rat for me?”
Piston flexes his hands, cracking his knuckles in the process. “Would be my fuckin’ pleasure.”
“For fuck’s sake, I just got this man out of the hospital, and now you’re suggesting you put another back there?” Prez rolls his eyes.
“Hey, I can take him,” Rat comments.
Piston snorts. “You and whose fuckin’ army?”
Rat’s moved where I can see him. My glance bounces between the two men.
Piston’s got a hundred pounds or so more on him.
He’s not fat. He’s solid muscle. Even I would think twice before upsetting our secretary, and that’s without the knowledge that, back in his day, he was an MMA champion.
Rat, on the other hand, while fit, is lean, a featherweight who’d definitely be in the wrong league.
Bullseye shakes his head. “If you have to kill him, you’ll have to schedule it later.
With Short back with us, I’m going to call church.
Unless you think avenging Short’s vulnerability is worth more than addressing what we’re going to do about the Mojave Devils?
Which, I’d like to remind you, we’ll probably need all hands on deck for, and preferably healthy. ”
“Step down, Piston,” I sigh as I tell him. “Rat might not be worth much, but he can handle a gun. Now, anyway, perhaps not so well if you put hands on him.”
Joining us, Stalker snorts.
Rat throws his arms up, palms in the air. “Why does everyone think so little of me?”
“Because you’re a fuckin’ lightweight.” Piston deliberately bumps into him, causing Rat to stagger. “And because you’re a pain in the ass.”
Raising my soda, I salute our secretary. “Made a good point, there.”
He clinks his beer bottle with my glass.
“Fuck’s sake.” Prez rolls his eyes and wears an expression that suggests he’s corralling children. “Heathen, call the rest of the brothers in. Church in an hour, and you,” he deliberately points his finger toward Piston, Rattler, Stalker, then me, “better fuckin’ behave yourselves.”
Stalker speaks at the same time I do, and says exactly the same thing. “I wasn’t doing anything.”
Bullseye sighs heavily, flicks his middle finger at us, and leaves.
Rattler huffs. “An hour? Well, I’m off to get a sweet butt to sink my cock into.”
My eyes roll to the heavens as I remember another of the doctor’s warnings. She’d issued dire threats about the damage any strenuous activity could cause. She can certainly describe shit in vivid detail.
“But, Doc,” I’d told her smirking. “I just have to lie there while a bitch takes care of my cock. Don’t even have to move a muscle, well, perhaps one.” I winked.
She hadn’t cracked a smile, nor in any way seemed embarrassed. No, that was me, when she’d asked, “And when you ejaculate, do you not breathe deeply?”
Damn Rattler for reminding me of yet another joy in life I’ll have to wait to experience again.
Gradually, the rest of the brothers, summoned by the prospect, wander in, all pausing to greet me and tell me they’re glad to see me home. By the time the sixty minutes are almost up, it’s a full complement that walks into church.
My chest aches, and the bullet wound in my leg is hurting me. I try to keep the grimace off my face as I enter and take my chair. At the head of the table, Bullseye, Saint, Freak, the enforcer, and Tempest, our sergeant-at-arms, are already seated, arms folded across their chests.
Piston takes his place, followed by Woody, the road captain. Then Stalker and Paint, whose arm is still in a sling – which reminds me I’ve got to thank him properly, and buy him more fuckin’ tobacco. As a gesture, I raise my hand in salute, which he accepts by giving me chin.
Rattler takes his place beside Genie. Winchester is next, looking far healthier than a man who was knocked out stone-cold should. Finally, after a minute’s wait, Words enters, looking almost as pale as I am.
Bullseye grimaces when he sees him. “Bad day?”
“The worst,” Words replies, mouth tight and turned down. “Fuckin’ four-year-old kid. Hit and run. Head-on collision. I warned the parents about viewing the body, but they insisted. It was hard enough for me, but for them?”
Words runs the funeral home in our small town.
He also conducts the ceremonies, gets the graves dug and bodies either buried or cremated.
The latter is a very useful service to the club for when we need to dispose of a body.
Words got his name from how he can give fancy eulogies, but sometimes dealing with the emotions of the living can take a toll on him.
Like the others, I murmur an incoherent condolence, and accept that his contribution to the meeting will probably be negligible.
The gavel crashes to the table. Church is in session.
“I know we all want to officially welcome Short back to the land of the living,” Bullseye starts. Nods, chin lifts, and salutes come toward me from around the table. “He’s still under medical care, so we’ll keep this meeting short.” He pauses, then looks at Tempest. “Any sign of the Mojave Devils?”
“None,” the sergeant-at-arms states. “Maybe they’ve crawled back under the rock they came from. But I don’t like that they must have had eyes on the club to plan the ambush that took out Short, Winchester and Paint.”
“I’ve checked the clubhouse for bugs.” Genie, our tech guy, leans forward. “All clean.”
“Could they have hacked our systems or phones?”
Genie gives a deliberate shake of his head.
“I’ve looked into it. Our encryption, courtesy of Pippa,” he pauses to give a chin lift of acknowledgment toward the VP, whose old lady he’s talking about, “is the highest level of security.” He frowns.
“If the Mojave Devils could get through it, then no one could hide from them, not even the Secret Service themselves.”
“Ace wrote the goddamn software,” Freak comments. “It will be invincible.” He might be Ace’s father, but paternal pride doesn’t bias his sentiment. His teenage kid’s got mean skills.
I feel it’s time to interject my contribution.
“However, they knew we were heading down that road. They found us.” Looking around, I see I hold their attention.
“While they came up with a cock-and-bull story, they were searching for an old pal who’d had his own reasons for jumping clubs…
” I have to pause to wait for the snorts of derision to die down.
I have to join in with a chuckle before continuing.
“They all but admitted they’d put a plant in our club, and were fishing to see if we’d discovered that, and if so, whether we’d killed him.
They obviously thought that was the likeliest conclusion, but there was enough room for doubt.
I think that’s why they left us breathing.
” Just breathing, in my case, but that I don’t add.
“If we’re innocent, they don’t want a war with the Kings. ”
“Well, they’ve fuckin’ got one. No one puts bullets in our members and gets away with it,” Rat puts in.
“Griz, or Skunk as we now know him, was a flake.” Paint agrees with my assessment. “As far as they know, he could be off chasing pussy.”
Words snaps out of his funk to interject with a scoff. “Not unless he’s found someone in Hell to consort with. His body’s been burned to ash.”
Winchester just waves his hand. “What they said. I was out of it.” He offers a sheepish smile to go with his words. “I didn’t hear fuck all to form an opinion once they knocked me out.” He rubs the back of his head and winces.
The VP looks around the table, then back at the prez.
“They gave information away rather than gained any. So, how about we go on the offensive? Speak to their prez, tell him we don’t take kindly to them trying to infiltrate the Kings of Anarchy, and telling them to back off before they get more heat than they can handle? ”
“I almost died,” I growl.
“But you didn’t because I sacrificed my tobacco for you—”
“Shut the fuck up, Paint.” I turn on him, wait a second for him to back down, then roll my eyes when he pointedly rubs at the bandage on his arm as if to garner sympathy. Ignoring him, I add, “Think we need some compensation as well as their prez’s word they leave us alone.”
Prez’s eyes land on me. His intense stare makes me want to squirm as if I’m an insect under a microscope.
Silence descends over the whole table and seems to stretch on, while in reality it’s no more than a few seconds until he thumps the table, points his finger directly at me, and barks, “Now that’s the kind of fuckin’ idea I like.
They injured our own and, as far as they know, for no goddamn reason.
” His head spins, his focus on Genie now.
“You get me their prez’s details, and I’ll make contact.
Let him know this disrespect to the Kings won’t go unpunished.
They want to start a war about their missing member, then they can have one.
” He pauses to grin. “Especially as they fucked up and mentioned he was put here as an informer. If they act upon any of the information he supplied, our routes, which we know now are compromised, then any Mojave fuckin’ Devil passing through our territory is ours. ”
“The routes are blown, Prez,” Freak reminds him.
Bullseye grins. “We know that, they don’t.”
Genie raises his hand. “Ace and Pippa have been looking at alternatives. Reckon we might have found something better than before.” Freak swears loudly and slams his hand down on the table.
Genie’s eyes narrow. “As his fuckin’ dad, if you don’t want him working with us, then keep him under control.
What am I supposed to do when he comes in with ideas? ”
“Send him a-fuckin’way,” Freak growls. “I don’t want him anywhere near club business.”
Looking upward, then back down, Genie sighs loudly. “You should be grateful Pippa’s keeping a close eye on him. Fuck knows what he’d get up to left on his own. We could end up with the Feds knocking at the door.”
“Better fuckin’ not,” Bullseye growls.
Freak’s teenage son is a fucking genius, who knows his way around computer systems, even those locked up as tight as Fort Knox. Pippa is ex-Secret Service and knows how to hunt down hackers from the other side of the law. If anyone can teach Ace how to be safe while online, then it’s Pippa.
After raising his hands in the air, capitulating without words, Bullseye looks around the table.
“Okay, I’ll make contact with Wrecker, the MDMC prez, once I get the details.
Anyone have anything else to say before I let Short go?
” He gives a half-grin, half-grimace as he levels his stare at me. “You look dead on your feet, Brother.”
That about sums up how I’m feeling. Maybe I did discharge myself too soon.
Saint grins. “Got to wrap this up anyway. He’s got his personal medical staff coming in to change his bandages soon.”
Frowning, I raise an eyebrow his way.
Saint chuckles. “Yeah, just got a text. Doc and Bronwyn are on their way in.”