Chapter One #3
Every single one of us has the same reaction, our mouths dropping open like assholes, too stupid to speak up.
Crumbs fall from Malice’s mouth and onto his lap.
Chaos isn’t fucking serious. Otto is the barely legal grandson of Mrs. Odette, who owns the one and only bakery and coffee shop in our town of Amberwood.
It also happens to be our favorite. Chaos took him under his wing to help Mrs. Odette out when his parents passed away, and she was left with a rebellious, bratty teenager.
Chaos has been teaching him the same lessons our old president, Queenie, taught us.
Never keep your hands idle. So, Chaos has put him to work to keep him busy and out of trouble.
The club had some issues a while back that required the untangling of a massive and in-depth network of financials, and Otto worked closely with me to get it all figured out.
He’s a genius when it comes to numbers. He’s a good kid, but he doesn’t belong here with us.
There’s more out there for him than being bound to hell as a Heathen.
“Fuck no,” Sin demands, his voice low and deep.
It’s not often any of us speak up against our prez, but if anyone’s going to do it, it’s our VP.
Sin is a force to be reckoned with. He’s a huge beast of a man, with a penchant for doing whatever needs to be done to protect our own .
. . or his woman, Bristol. He also has a pet bunny named Mr. Bun-Buns, so the man is a complex enigma.
“Are you outta your mind? He’s a kid! It’s bad enough that you brought him in on all that shit with the finances. ”
“His parents are dead. All he has left is his grandmother. He needs us,” Chaos argues.
“No offense, he needs anything but us, Prez.”
“I disagree,” Chaos declares. His eyes trace the carved pattern of the Hell’s Heathens symbol in the center of our table like they usually do when he’s in this room.
Queenie had the table custom built before I was ever around, but I know it’s probably one of the few things that is a tangible reminder to Chaos of the man who raised him.
A large, heavily detailed skull with a dagger slicing straight through the top and out the bottom of the jaw, a crown tilting off to the side.
The same colors that are tattooed on all of us.
It’s the symbol that represents us all. The colors we wear on our cuts.
“If you’re sticking us in here for a fucking vote, mine is no.
That kid needs mentorship, I’ll give you that, but not club life,” Sin asserts, his anger palpable in the room.
Just when I was beginning to think his woman had softened the gentle giant further, he goes and reminds us he’s not to be fucked with.
I recline in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest, listening to the arguments.
Chaos values trust and loyalty above all else, so I understand him wanting to have another man at our side who we don’t have to question, but Otto is still a teenager, and with his brain, he could accomplish way more outside of this damn club than he ever could be a part of it.
We spend the next thirty minutes arguing back and forth.
Otto is barely nineteen and has his whole life ahead of him.
A good life. We’ve all seen him grow up outside the club, and to take him now just feels wrong.
Like we’d be doing a disservice to him. Failing him.
But I want to hear Otto’s argument before we all decide his fate.
The kid has to fully understand what this means.
Another half hour goes by, Sin and Chaos going back and forth, the tension in the room rising.
“We’re not voting without Rolo and Rogue here.
Not on this,” Malice speaks up. “Wrath?” I don’t need to look at our sergeant at arms to feel the lethal stare he’s shooting my way.
But ultimately, my hands are tied, and so are Chaos’.
Rules are rules, and I’m the one who gets the privilege of telling that to Chaos.
“Sorry, Prez, it’s a no. We aren’t voting without them. It’s against the laws of the club.”
Chaos’ hands curl into fists before running them through his long hair, everyone else in the room visibly relaxing. A problem for another day.
Malice’s phone buzzes so loud we all can hear it. When he pulls it out and answers, everyone in the room looks his way. Dread fills my gut when I hear yelling on the other line. Tension increases in the room tenfold, every single one of us on edge.
“It’s Luca! It was a trap! We’re shot! We need backup!” the voice yells and stutters into the phone. Malice stands quickly, his chair flipping over behind him. The rest of us follow, quickly standing and bracing ourselves for what’s next. What the fuck happened?
“Where’s Rolo?” Malice snaps. I watch the change on his face, his neck cracking side to side. The man who was just sitting here, Crew, is gone. Malice is with us, and that can only mean one thing. “Where are you?”
“The-ah-the Asylum . . . he’s hit. I-I don’t know. I’m hit. I can’t get to him.”
“We’re coming.”
That dread becomes reality, and anger replaces it.
A quick rush of adrenaline and fury floods my veins.
Rolo and the prospects were hit at the site.
The site I sent them to. We are all frozen for a beat as we face the unknown, then Chaos does what he does best: leads, reminding us all why he’s our president.
He’s never led us wrong, and we all know he won’t now.
“Round ’em up! On bikes in two! Malice, give it to us.”
Malice barks out orders and a plan, and then all I feel is wrath.