Chapter 29
Quinn
When we reached my room, we all sat on my bed, and Keith looked at me with an almost sad smile. “Our club was an actual club five years ago. We had eighteen chapter members and three prospects. We were nineteen until our vice president was ousted. I was voted in as VP. God, I was so proud to be one step below my dad, our chapter president.” He sighed, laying his arms on his lap and slumping over. “As the vice president, it was my job to show up when the president couldn’t. My dad was really family-oriented. I had a little brother who choked to death on a gummy. After that, my dad treated my mom and me like we were the most precious things in the universe. He expected his club members to do the same. So, we hosted family days twice a month. One of those days fell on a weekend when a club was opening a new chapter in Arizona. At least three members must show up from every chapter in the nation. As the VP, I went so my dad could host a family day in case I didn’t get back in time.
Keith rubbed his lower lip between his teeth as his body rocked back and forth slightly. “Taven and Zane came with me. We had a good time and headed home. We were exhausted, so we slept in. If we hadn’t, we may have made it home just in time to get murdered by the pigs.”
My mouth parted in shock. I didn’t want to interrupt him, so I squeezed his thigh in silent support.
“The cops planned a raid on the clubhouse that day. Apparently, there were a few patch holders selling coke, and one sold it to an undercover a few times. A kid named Maverick was at family day. He was big for his age, chubby but tall. He was autistic and barely verbal. Apparently, he was playing with a toy gun. One of the rookies saw it, got scared and shot him. A few club members returned fire since they didn’t know who was attacking. It turned into a shootout, and at some point, the pigs got the order to kill everyone. Even the kids. In the end, to cover their fuck up, they claimed a mass shooter crashed the party.”
He swallowed, and the other men sniffled. Zane stared at his knees, his chin nearly pressed to his chest. Taven rubbed Keith’s shoulder, trying to lend comfort.
“My parents, Taven’s brother-in-law, his sister, his niece, Zane’s uncle, and cousin are all dead because of one jumpy cop. Fifteen brothers and their families. All of them are gone. We didn’t know what happened. They pinned the shooting on one of our prospects. Our national president let us become nomads and keep the clubhouse until we could get more members. Then, one day, out of nowhere, a cop calls us to the bridge. He was there. He told us everything. Then he jumped.” Keith remained silent for a long while.
Taven took up the story. “We need revenge. We can’t move on with our lives until we get it. They gunned down our families like they were dogs, so we decided we would gut them like the pigs they are.”
I leaned back, staring into nothingness. I remembered that incident. The news reports said there was a mass shooting at a biker barbeque. Thirty-six people lost their lives that day.
Could I really blame them for their vendetta? I often fantasized about killing the officer who shot Luke with my own bare hands. But they had already killed several; who knew how many more were left? At what point did it go beyond revenge?
Swallowing hard, I lay back on the bed. “I need time,” I muttered, placing my arm over my eyes to shield them from the light.
Zane sighed, “We want to keep you, Sugar. We want you to be with us—all of us. I don’t want to let you go, and neither do they—”
Keith cut him off. “But if you still think we are monsters, we will go back to plan B. We will go to Brazil and call someone to let them know where you are. You won’t be hurt, and nobody will know what you did tonight.”
What I did tonight. Those words weighed heavily on me. I was a killer. I killed a man while he was tied up. Granted, I was in a blind rage, but I still killed a man. I killed a man because he wasn’t remorseful that he caused the death of the love of my life. These men were killing people because they lost blood relatives. Each victim had something to do with the deaths. The cops they were killing didn’t just make a phone call. They pulled the trigger and covered it up. Choking back a sob, I almost begged, “I need time.”
Slowly, I felt the guys get up, and they left, closing and locking the door behind them.