37 | Sarge
Sarge
Watch your fucking mouth.
Light falls into my room with the rising sun. No need for an alarm today. Nothing to wake me from aside from the nightmare I’m living. I couldn’t shake the thought of filthy motherfuckers touching my woman. No man worth a damn could find peace in that.
The mental image of her held captive somewhere, and possibly being sold to the highest bidder... I know my Butterfly is strong, but they could be starving her, drugging her, beating her.
Not knowing what she is enduring and not being able to protect her hurts in ways I didn’t know I could.
I’ve been through what I thought was hell and back, but this makes anything that came before look like a walk in the park.
Lying in a hospital bed, not knowing if I would live or die, could never compare to not knowing if she will make it out of this.
But she has to, I can’t accept any other outcome.
I won’t.
Because she will be okay.
What the Saints of Hell do or don’t do should never have affected her. Any club running street drugs has no reason to give two shits about us or what we do. We don’t cut into their profits, don’t step on their turf. Can’t imagine that’s who did this.
It took a lot to get us where we are. We made sure not to make enemies along the way.
We passed our drug route to another club that was more than willing to line their pockets.
We are legit now, mostly. It’s not exactly legal to move large amounts of pharmaceuticals, but it’s been a hell of a lot lighter on my conscience.
Now my conscience has to bear this. An innocent being taken because of me, because of the club. I need to find out who leaked information and who the fuck cares enough to do something with it.
The clock on my dresser reminds me I should get my ass up and help with breakfast. Making pancakes feels almost disrespectful when Hannah might not be getting fed a damn thing right now.
But we have to keep up appearances. We are wounded, and we can’t let it show.
Time to go offer my contribution to Sunday breakfast
I opt to man the entrance today. Collecting money and greeting those who have come to support the club and fill their bellies. It gives me a chance to scan every face that comes through the door.
I’ve got a line of founding-father-looking men at the gate already. Doors open at seven, which is early as shit for most of my brother’s on a Sunday, but not early enough for these guys. They don’t care about club politics; they care if the coffee is hot.
I force a nod and smile for the regulars, playing the part of the welcoming President while my mind is miles away. We’ve got lots of familiar faces coming through the gates so far. No one seems off.
“Morning, Sarge,” an older local says, dropping a ten into the jar. “Great day for pancakes.”
“Yeah,” I manage, “Pancakes.”
It’s a beautiful fall morning, surprisingly cool enough for a coat.
But nothing feels good or enjoyable while I’m sitting here without her.
Without the sweetest brunette I’ve ever been lucky enough to share my bed with.
My mind is stuck back in my California King, tracing the skin of her collarbone, wishing I were anywhere with her.
“Hey, Sarge,” a sultry voice greets. “Long time no see.”
I look up, the mask of the President sliding back into place before I even see who it is. That mask quickly morphs into indifference when I meet the eyes of none other than Scarlett.
She walks up looking like cheap whiskey and expensive regret.
Wearing a skirt that looks like it might fit a child, a long-sleeved shirt that shows more skin than I care for, and some kind of furry boots.
No way she’s not cold in this weather wearing that.
This chick might be certifiable, but no one can say she’s a quitter.
“Scarlett,” my voice comes out flat as I hold out the donation jar. “You’re early. Pancakes aren’t even on the griddle yet.”
“Well, I don’t seem to be the only one who likes being early,” she says on a bounce, gesturing to the few regulars who have already trickled in.
I don’t have it in me to point out that they’re all older than the dirt we’re standing on, and time is not on their side. They’ve been awake since four a.m., and God help anyone who dares to stand between them and their coffee.
“They’re here for the coffee and cheap breakfast,” I tell her. My eyes scan the parking lot behind her, looking for anything or anyone out of place. “What are you here for?”
She lets out a laugh that might have been cute if it weren’t her. “Well, breakfast, of course. And you, silly.” She looks around, her nose wrinkling like she’s caught a whiff of old fish. “Where’s that girl? Heather, right?”
The wrong name is not a mistake. Scarlett doesn’t care about anyone but herself. She wouldn’t be looking for another woman unless she thought there was a vacancy. I keep my face like stone, hoping she’ll walk away soon.
“Hannah,” I correct. “And she isn’t here.”
I shouldn’t have corrected her. Given her that attention, but Hannah deserves it.
If Scarlett were trying to bluff a game of poker, she would be broke in an hour. She doesn’t even try to hide the spark in her eyes. Her smile is too wide, her gaze too hungry.
She takes a step closer, invading my space with a perfume that smells like desperation.
“Aw, that’s too bad. Some girls just can’t handle this lifestyle,” she says on a shrug.
My scowl should be enough to end this conversation. It should be enough to send her running. But instead, she keeps on going.
“How long have we known each other, huh, Gavin?”
She runs her tongue along her lower lip and bites it.
“Over a decade at this point. So crazy. I’ve seen you go through so much. I’ve seen you change and become who you are today. How you transformed the club into something you’re proud of. This life you live, I fit into it. I fit with you. Can’t you see that?”
Why the fuck is this the moment that no one is coming up to pay their breakfast donation? How did I get trapped here with her?
Act normal. Act normal.
Act. Fucking. Normal.
As much as I want to stand up and ring this bitches neck for disrespecting my woman, I don’t believe in physical violence towards the fairer species. Plus, this psychopath would see it as foreplay.
“I know you. Know the real you. I know what you went through. I know how you got those scars. Your ex wasn’t ready for this life, and that girl you picked up the other night clearly wasn’t either.
But I’m right here. I’m ready to take on this life with you.
You need a woman who can handle the shit that comes with being an Ol’ Lady. ”
Rage fills my veins. It’s a slow, pulsing heat that makes my vision cloud at the edges. I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. Now I have to listen to this wannabe succubus try to audition for a role that’s already taken.
Yeah, I grew up around Scarlett, hung out in the same groups, and went to the same parties. But she acts like we ever had something between us.
It’s a struggle to keep my hands at my sides. She thinks a decade of hanging around the club gives her some claim. She thinks using my name means we share something real. In reality, all I see her as is a parasite.
I think of Hannah and her quiet strength. I think of the way she looks when she’s half asleep, and her hair is a mess. I think of her witty sass and how she busts my balls every chance she gets. The comparison isn’t even a contest. It’s an insult.
“Watch your fucking mouth,” I growl.
I stand and lean in until I’m looming over her. I want her to feel the weight of my shadow. I want her to see the monster she’s flirting with.
I take a deep breath, attempting to calm myself enough to form coherent words.
“Not looking to fit with you or anyone but my Ol’ Lady, Scarlett. Now, go enjoy some cheap breakfast.”
If my words affected her, she covered it quickly. She tosses her head, throwing her auburn hair over her shoulder, and struts toward the food.
“See you over there,” she calls back.
I close my eyes for a moment and focus on my breaths. It’s something I learned to do when my mind goes back to that roadside bombing. When I get too lost in my head, I focus on my breathing. In. Out. Steady and calm.
“Hey man, you okay over here? You look a little... okay, a lot pissed.”
It’s Raydar. I know it before I even open my eyes. He and I go back as far as, if not farther than, Scarlett and I. The difference is that Ray is my brother. He’s been by my side through it all. Before the military. Before the club. He’s as close to me as my own blood.
Scarlett is merely a girl I’ve been around by chance. Same groups of friends. Same parties. Same gatherings. She’s never been quiet about wanting more with me, but I’ve never felt the same.
“Yeah. Scarlett isn’t just here for the pancakes.”
“Fuck, man. That bitch is a walking psych-eval failure. Hot as hell, but not worth the headache. What’d she say that’s got you so tense?”
“Some shit about how she knows me simply due to the passage of time. How she watched me turn the club legit. Stupid shit. She thinks she knows me, but she only knows what she sees. What she hears.”
“She’s a hang-around, man. One drunken night away from being a club whore. But, how the fuck does she know anything about being legit or not?”
Raydar’s eyes narrow; his humor is completely gone now. He is looking at her like a problem that needs solving.
This is why Ray is my VP. He can think in times I can’t. He keeps my head on straight when my first instinct is to burn everything to the ground.
“She knows because someone told her,” I say. The realization landing like a punch to the gut. “She’s a lot of things, but she isn’t smart enough to figure out our business on her own.”
“Don’t confront her yet,” Raydar says. His voice is barely a whisper. “If she knows something, we need to find out how. Snatching her now will just spook her.”