31. Tyke
31
TYKE
Church is sacrosanct. An act of unifying the men deemed strong enough to rule a one percent club and giving them the platform that they need to discuss matters that shape the future of the people who wear the colors. A platform private enough that the general membership isn’t concerned with problems that may never come to pass or influenced by the knowledge of what said officers do in the name of keeping the peace.
Said officers like me.
But church has always been that—a holy space kept separate from the rest of the club activities. A sacred room that only those deemed worthy enough may enter.
The segregation never sat well with me. I understand it, but I don’t feel it.
Sure, the badge on my chest says that I have the final word—that it's my choice to keep the peace or send us into war.
But the hive mind of these men around me ensures I stay true to my path. That I don't let emotion or prejudice guide my hand, and the best interests of all are always at the forefront of every decision.
Which is why I threw conventions out the window after taking the gavel and turned the previous meeting room into the fucking laundry Lou Ann always wanted, inviting the men into my space instead.
A space where we sit as equals. Nobody at the head. Nobody unheard at the end. We face one another and fucking nut this shit out like men should—together.
Only today, that exact position leaves me feeling vulnerable as I sit under the scrutiny of the men I call brothers.
True brothers.
Especially when my blood brother put me in this fucking position of hell.
I glance at Minion—his back to the group as he stands, arms folded, surveying the pictures he's viewed a thousand times before. He's angry, and rightly so.
We’re fucking indebted to the goddamn Devil’s Breed, and there’s no easy way out of that.
All because I had a heart too soft to do the damn thing I should have: visited my goddamn brother to retrieve the colors he failed to surrender and hand down the beating owed for such a violation.
I let emotion guide my hand. And it's that knowledge, that defiance of the fucking purpose of this hierarchy, that shakes my belief in our organization.
If I was allowed to flaunt the common code, then how the fuck do I trust these men to call me out when I'm wrong about war?
“You gonna sit there all night chokin’ on your words, or we gettin’ this started?” Hammer asks.
Unlike Minion, his rage sits proudly for anyone to see. If he'd had his way about it, Fox would be strung up in the garage, still reaping the rewards of what he sowed.
“Meeting open at…” I glance at the thick leather-bound watch on my wrist. “Ten forty-two.”
Rigs' thumbs fly across his phone screen, noting the necessaries for the minutes.
"Tonight's points of order are twofold. One, we need to agree on what I'm asking these clubs at the rally to agree to when they help us, and two, we've got a complication that we need to discuss first."
Minion turns from the wall, edging around the end of Digger’s sofa to occupy the free space.
"Fox is gone. He checked out earlier this evening." I pause, gaze on the table's edge before me, and steel my jaw. "Unfortunately, he revealed shortly beforehand that he used his unsanctioned colors to enter into a deal with the Devil's Breed. One that would have benefited him, and solely him."
“Fuck’s sake,” Turnip mutters, hiding his mouth behind a relaxed hand as he looks away, elbow on the rolled arm of the sofa.
“Further to this deal, I want to emphasize how every fuckin’ thing that’s happened of late circles back to one man: Terry Creed.” I pause, roll my jaw, and shove down the burgeoning anger for later. “Fox had an interest in securing the Plymouth Street lot for Terry so that fucker could finish his bypass through Red River. Signs of Fox's involvement in that issue first showed up several weeks ago, although, at the time, I wasn't certain it was him." I pause, allow the timeline to settle in, and wait for the predicted response.
The men don’t disappoint.
“Why’s this the first we’re hearin’ of it?” Hammer folds his arms high on his chest, glaring from his position on the sofa opposite mine.
I glance at my brother and offer an apologetic smile. "I spoke with Dig about it at the time, and it was deemed best to keep it on a need-to-know basis.”
“Why?” Turnip snaps. “You two do this often? Go off makin’ decisions on behalf of the club behind closed doors?”
“First time,” Digger assures him.
It doesn’t appease the man in the slightest, his nostrils flaring and eyes hard as he stares me down.
I feel a foot shorter for every second that passes in this fucking room. My heart yearns to be elsewhere, cradled in the fucking arms of a woman who promises to let me be, yet my gut tells me if not now, when? When will it be best to show these men the hole I’ve dug without their knowledge?
“What I tell you next will create more questions,” I warn. “But for now, just let me get on with what I got to say, yeah?”
“We’re listenin’.” Rigs sets his phone atop his knee, folding his arms.
“A few of you know Peachy weren’t my true momma. That she agreed to raise me as her own when my birth mother gave me up.”
“Heard somethin’ about it,” Hammer affirms. “Figured it was no business of mine where you came from as long as your heart was here.”
I give the man a nod of appreciation and then continue. "The old man always stuck to the story that my momma was a user who passed, that she chose the kit over me." I shrug. "It was a hard enough truth that people wouldn't question it. That they'd feel uncomfortable pushin' for more."
“But that’s not the truth?” Rigs frowns.
I shake my head and lift my chin. “My birth mother is Senator Mitcham.”
Minion shifts forward on his seat, elbows on his knees.
"Fox supplied that information to Terry to blackmail me into signing the sale papers."
Rigs leans back with a loud exhale.
“ That’s why I didn’t say anything at the time.” I survey the men in the room. “Because this is how I knew you’d all react.”
Hammer utters a quiet "Fuck" and runs a hand over his head.
It's Turnip, whose lip lifts in a sneer as he regards me with new eyes. "Senator Mitcham is that bitch that wants to reintroduce the death penalty, am I right?"
“Same one,” Digger mumbles, gaze locked on me.
"Hope you told him to go fuck himself." Rigs chuckles, referencing the blackmail.
“The threat was anonymous, so I ignored it. Until they gave me something concrete to go on, I didn’t see the point in giving whoever had sent it credence.”
“Hold up.” Turnip raises his hand before him. “Let’s back up to the fact your fuckin’ mother is the woman who’d have us sittin’ in the chair for the things we’ve done.”
“It don’t matter right now,” Digger warns, lifting his chin.
"Like fuck it don't." Turnip scoots to the front of his seat, arm extended, and pointer finger stabbing my way. "The fact Terry knows is dangerous enough. What if he turns narc and feeds her info about our club? About the very illegal shit you do?” He shakes his head. “You kept this from us, and I want to know why you didn’t find it pertinent to share information that affects all of us.”
“This is why!” I erupt, throwing my hands at my sides. “Because one little truth and you fuckin’ look at me different, Turnip. Like I’m the traitor.” I shift closer, leaning down to level our heated stares better. “Did it matter before today? Did whose cunt I came screamin’ out of matter when I gave you that badge?” I stab the stitched title over his breast.
His jaw hardens—a warning to keep my hands to myself if I want this conversation to maintain some semblance of civility.
“Did it?” I holler, demanding his fucking answer.
He leans back, slow and measured, and looks away.
It’s all the answer I’ll get, but it’s enough for me to know I’m right. It didn’t matter shit. So, it shouldn’t matter now.
“I mean, maybe,” Rigs says quietly, “bein’ your mother and all, she might rethink re-instating the penalty if she knows it affects you.”
Got to love the guy. Always looking for the silver linings. "It'd make her fast-track the fuckin' thing," I mumble. "Look, the point today," I say with an edge to my voice, "is that the Reapers have a fucking contract with the Devil's Breed to cart their goddamn skin trade to the border, and it has no end. Fucking Fox shook hands on a goddamn work ticket that, first off, goes against our ethos, and second has no exit clause."
“And none of it would have happened if you’d just taken his fuckin’ colors when you were supposed to.”
I snap my head around, body twisting to follow, and raise an eyebrow at Minion. “You think I don’t know that?” Of all the fuckers in here, his turn in support shakes me most.
The man has always been a respected sounding board, the guy I could trust with my life and my children's.
And now he wants to question me.
"It could be argued that we're all equally to blame," I say, low and level, as I inch closer to him. "We sat here, in this very room, and voted on whether he'd receive punishment for his actions when the deadline passed for Fox to turn in his patch. And we all decided he wasn't enough of a threat to be concerned with at the time. We all agreed that he was an issue to be dealt with later."
I roll my jaw; eyes narrowed on the fucker. He knows what I don't say. That as a club, we decided to keep our focus on supporting Minion through the death of his old lady. That we deemed laying Carly to rest and providing a stable environment for her daughter were more important than meting out violence and unrest against my fucking brother.
“Bitchin’ over whose shit is in the cornflakes won’t get us anywhere,” Hammer states. “Shit’s still in there, ruinin’ everything, so best we can do is decide how to fix it.”
“What sort of fuckin’ metaphor is that?” Rigs says with a slight laugh.
“He’s right, though. We can’t change the past, only move forward with intention.” I appeal to each man in the room. “ That’s why I wanted to get through what I had to say before everythin’ fell apart.”
“Have at it then,” Turnip grumbles, settling arms across his chest.
“As we all know by now, Volkov pulled his contract with us after that shit in the warehouse went down.”
“You mean, after you refused to hand Rae over.” Hammer shrugs. “I’m not saying it was the wrong decision, but let’s call it what it is.”
Grumbles echo about the room.
I give the man a pointed stare and continue. "Finances will take a hit because of it. We tread on thin ice here, bein' able to stay afloat, and a loss like that is relatively monumental in the scheme of things."
"What you suggestin', then?" Minion eases one arm along the back of the sofa and lifts his chin to hear me out.
“We know taking out Terry leaves a gap. We’ve talked about this already.”
“We have,” Turnip agrees.
“We need Terry’s business stable without having Terry at the head of it. We need the Devil’s Breed off our back. And we need a way to make money.” I sigh. “I don’t know how the fuck we achieve all that without askin’ for a goddamn miracle; I’ve only got solutions for half of it; something’s gotta give.”
The silence is fucking poignant—a testament to the forgiveness these men have in their hearts. To the trust they have in me if I can drop bombshells like I did, and they still believe I can lead them out of this shit.
“Anyone got any ideas, then?” Hammer prompts, hands laced behind his head.
“Like Tyke said,” Rigs mutters. “We’re expectin’ a miracle.”
I steel my jaw, work that muscle side-to-side, and draw a deep breath. “Look, don’t get me wrong: I’ve got ideas. But nothin’ that runs start to finish without creating more problems.”
“Kinda feels like we’re the dumbass stuck in the middle of this fuckin’ brawl, gettin’ pushed every which way.” Rigs shrugs, eyes cast down.
“Because we are.” Digger eases to the front of his seat, appealing to each man in the room as he casts his gaze across the four officers. “Way I see it—and correct me if I’m wrong—is we either risk startin’ a war with the Breed by backing out of this deal. Or we suck it up and accept that the best way to control movement through the state is to control who owns it.” He throws his hands palm up. “Nobody can take advantage of the vacuum created by taking out Terry if we’re already there. Am I right?”
“We don’t need the complications that come with that,” Turnip says with a shake of his head. “Look what happened when the Fallen Aces took down that Carlos fella. They got stuck with babysitting a fuckin’ drug trade they never wanted and the goddamn fallout that comes from dissolving an operation that size. We got half the manpower they do and quarter the knowledge on what it takes.” He tips his head, jaw tight. “That ain’t our path, Dig.”
"I agree," Minion says, breaking his reverie. "We put ourselves in his seat, and we muddy up a previously clear line—no fuckin' narcotics. That ain't our game, and it’s a moral we shouldn’t have to compromise.”
“Which is why we don’t control it,” I say.
“This one of your ideas?” Turnip grumbles.
I nod. “I’ve put the proposal to Marco.”
Discourse rumbles between the four walls.
“No fuckin’ way are we owing that asshole,” Minion snaps. “Can you imagine the way that fucker would lord that over us?”
“I can,” I state. “And I still think it’s the most logical answer.”
“How?” Hammer challenges, arms folded high over his chest.
“Marco takes Terry’s trade, which suits his ambitious ass fine. It means relations between us will be forced to remain at a certain level of civility due to the family connection.”
“You’re hinging a lot on one crazy ex-wife,” Rigs muses.
I lift my hand. “I am. But with Marco at the head, he carries his family’s weight behind him. The Breed won’t want to fuck with him if he refuses to open that road for their trade. They’ll be forced to take it elsewhere.”
“Who’s to say Marco won’t look at that deal with fuckin’ dollar signs in his eyes?” Minion asks. “You know as well as I do, Tyke, that he doesn’t hold the same moral code we do.”
“I also know he has a daughter who he keeps locked away for fear some fuck will take advantage of her the same way.”
“You’re relying on his conscience as a father to stay away from guaranteed business with the Devil’s Breed?” Turnip shakes his head. “You’re basing a lot of this plan on hopes and prayers, Tyke.”
“You got somethin’ better?”
The older man narrows his eyes. “What comes next?” He raises his chin. “When you’ve reneged on this deal with the Breed? We then earn a reputation as untrustworthy?”
“We already had that,” Minion says quietly, referring to our time with my father at the helm.
"You rather we ship kidnapped women across state lines to save fuckin' face?" Surely, Turnip's not saying what I think he is.
"Fuck no." He leans forward. "But I think you ought to put more thought into the fallout of this bullshit your brother got us into. There'll be repercussions. And not just from the Breed. What happens to Connor, huh? You haven't mentioned where he fits into this idyllic world with Marco heading his family's business."
“No.” I agree. “I haven’t. And for good reason.”
“What would that be?” Turnip narrows his gaze.
“Because I don’t know where he fits yet.” I sigh, collapsing back against the sofa. “The kid wants out, but I don’t trust him. He wants out because he wants away from his father’s abuse. If we remove Terry, I can’t predict what Connor will do.”
Minion shrugs. “For all intents and purposes, he genuinely seemed to want to help us find Maddie today.”
“I got that feeling too,” Hammer affirms. “But I also agree we can’t let him out of our sight if and when this transition happens.”
“What do we do with him, then?” Digger opens the floor for solutions.
“Would Marco work with him?” Rigs asks. “Keep the kid on board?”
“Thought about it.” I rest both hands atop my head, arms wide. “But he’d be a liability. Plus, Marco works best alone. If he’s going to have an apprentice, it’ll be Deo.”
“True.” Rigs shrugs, indicating he’s out of ideas.
“What if he came here?” Hammer looks about the room, gauging reactions.
Turnip shakes his head hard. "No fuckin' way."
Minion frowns. “And at what point do you think we know for sure he’s no threat, huh? An arrangement like that is a lifetime deal, and I ain’t down for it.”
“He’ll always be a threat,” Turnip snaps. “As long as you’re the reason he’s a goddamn orphan without a dollar to his name, he’s got reason to want you dead.”
“He asked us for help to kill his father,” Digger reveals. “This morning.”
“What if that’s a ruse?” Minion points out. “What if he’s playing your sympathies to get inside these walls? It’s working, ain’t it?”
I hate how valid his point is. Rae is here, and Connor will do anything to get close to her.
“It doesn’t have to be decided today,” I stress. “All we gotta do before we leave here tonight is agree on what we’re doing with Terry.”
“Well, you’re overlookin’ one key thing,” Minion states. “Say we replace Terry with Marco and hope he agrees to veto this private road, making the freight way useless. What stops the Devil’s Breed from forcing us onto the highway? How does this solve the issue with Fox’s fuckin’ handshake agreement?”
"We play the devil's advocate," I state, arms folded as I face the room. "We appeal to the Breed's sense of greed and push them north."
“What?” Digger frowns. “How?”
“Point out the issues surrounding usin’ the main roads. Make it expensive. Add costs—bullshit figures—related to avoiding the authorities and make it less viable for them to continue to move through Red River.”
“As though they’d care,” Rigs mutters as Digger says, “You push them North, you move them toward the Kings.”
"I know." Cracking my knuckles, I return to the sofa and drop into the seat. "Which is why the Apocalypse Kings would be first on my list to meet with at the rally."
“They’d be insane to let you do that.”
“They’d be fucking immortal if they helped us bring an end to the whole fuckin’ trade.” My heart hammers. “And we all know they love a good reason for bloodshed.”
Turnip snorts, head moving side-to-side. “You’re crazy if you think you can do this shit without losing lives.”
“Nobody ever did anything great by choosin’ comfort, brother.”
He sighs, Minion shifting to his left.
“Fuck it. I’m in,” Rigs states with a shrug. “Let’s give your ex-wife’s new toy something better to play with.”
“Follow you anywhere, brother,” Digger affirms.
“You know my stance on what the Devil’s Breed fuckin’ do,” Minion growls. “Can’t say I like the idea of a war, but putting a stop to their fuckin' abuse of women is as good a reason as any, in my opinion."
“Hammer?” I narrow my gaze on the Viking at the far end of the room.
He sighs. "Shit, man. I ain't got any family to think of, but many of you do. This could get ugly. Real ugly."
“So could tangling ourselves up in their fuckin’ game,” Minion shares. “So could continuing to let Terry position us as his yes-men. I know which choice means I’ll sleep better at night.”
“Fuck.” Hammer leans forward, elbows to knees. “Gotta die for a valiant cause, right?”
“Ain’t anyone dyin’ over this,” I snap.
Ain't anyone fooled, either. We face a real threat, positioning ourselves as the key instigator in this mess.
"I'm in," Hammer nods. "But we're gonna need a solid plan to convince the Kings to get involved."
“No doubt.” I shift my attention to Turnip. “Brother?”
“This ain’t what I signed up for.”
“No?” Minion snaps. “What did you sign up for when you joined a one percent, then, huh? Bake sales? Toy drives?”
"Fuck you," the older man spits. "This club was nothing but muscle for the local underground when I patched in. The worst we did was a little gun trade on the side to make some extra cash, but the only thing we traded on the regular was our reputation. Since then, it's drugs, women, money launderin', and fuck knows what else. We do this; we're diggin' our heels in the sand and leavin' a mark."
“Yeah,” I snap. “We are. As men who don’t allow this bullshit to exist in the world. At least, not in the part of the world we control.”
“But we don’t control it,” he argues. “We’re controlled by this shit happenin’ around us. We do this in response to the bullshit that other men control.” Turnip scoffs. “We’re no more in control of this farce than Rae is of her fate. We’re all just puppets dancing about at the whim of mad men willing to cross the lines we’ve drawn to pursue their goals.”
“We do this shit,” I grit through a stiff jaw, “and we take control back. We do this shit, and we prove we’re nobody’s puppet.” I lean forward, dropping my voice to add, “We do this, and we’re the ones to fear.”
Turnip nods, a smirk on his chapped lips. "That what you want, Tyke? To be feared?"
“If it gets the job done, yeah, I do.”
"Then you can get it done without me." He stands, the oldest club member and longest-standing officer, and slowly drops his colors from his back. "I'm too old for this shit. I want a peaceful life, not the chaos that'll come with taking the throne." To everyone's shock and surprise, he lays the leather gently over the back of the sofa and turns to Rigs. "Have it noted in the minutes that I resign from my position and my place in the club effective immediately." Fucker stares straight at me and adds, "And have it noted that I handed my colors back, as laws dictate I should."
Asshole. “You sure you want to do this?”
I know the answer in my heart before he opens his fucking mouth. “Been sure for a while now, Tyke.” Plain as any Joe on the street, Turnip moves for the door with a salute. “Best of luck, boys.”
The door clicks shut in his wake, the tension in the room easing with a single word from Minion.
“Fucker.”