Chapter 29 – Christopher #3
What of that office? Christopher still wasn’t convinced CJ could be in the top spot. Besides, how would that look? For as long as there’d been a club, the President of the Mother Chapter also served as National and International President of the entire organization.
CJ had been to Europe twice on family vacations, but Christopher never took his boys away the way Big Joe had to introduce him to the overseas chapter presidents and socialize with them.
Fuck, Christopher hadn’t gone in five years.
He’d been riding so high on the peace wave, he hadn’t even bothered to visit any chapters.
He saw a lot of his members on the bi-annual runs—one of which he missed last year—and that was that.
It seemed as if his club had stopped mattering as much long before they fucked over Megan. That merely completed Christopher’s disconnect.
So, what now? If he stepped down, Johnnie became president until a special election was held. The years Christopher had devoted to the club would go down the fucking drain. Johnnie wouldn’t know what the fuck he was doing.
What would prematurely vacating his post mean for CJ?
Whether Christopher thought he could handle the position didn’t matter.
Only time and experience would reveal the truth.
Suppose Christopher managed to get Diesel into place until CJ was ready?
Would that be fucking fair to either one of them?
In the end, would it create the same situation as his and Snake’s?
The thought of Snake prompted Christopher to the hallway closet, where there were numerous boxes, containing a bunch of shit, including old photos.
Unfortunately, Christopher had to search through a bunch of fucking boxes because none of them were labeled, so he stacked two smaller boxes—a logical place for fucking photos—on top of two cardboard file boxes, like the kind Kendall had gotten from Bailey.
He frowned at the contents in the first box. It was Dementor’s patches, probably ripped away from his cut when that chopped that fuckhead up. A small manila envelope with RIP Dementor rested on top of a stack of hit in various sizes.
Did he really want to see those fucking photos that bad? It was a lot of shit to go through and he needed to sit down to make a crude drawing of how he wanted the house to look with the addition of the fourth floor.
Or draw a new house for a new plot of land. Maybe both.
Indecision annoyed the fuck out of him, so he tossed the RIP envelope aside to open later, then grabbed one of the small boxes and opened.
He smiled at all the photos of Megan. At first. He must’ve forgotten the box existed. He picked up a small stack, his grin deepening as he looked at all the images of his wife. Many of them seemed to have been pulled from the surveillance cameras at various places in the club.
“Obsessed fuckhead,” Christopher said, laughing. He was still obsessed.
Then, he came to photos of Megan in a red mini dress made of lace.
She’d been exquisite, but so very sad. The one time she showed him the photos of how she’d looked for her fucking date with Johnnie, Christopher tore that motherfucker the fuck up.
So why the fuck would she have this exact same motherfucker?
Had she made copies?
Annoyance replaced his pleasure and he threw that photo aside, then looked at the other one and glowered. It was from the same night, but she stood next to Johnnie for a selfie or a fucking himfie since that motherfucker held the phone.
He growled. The surveillance camera shots made fucking sense now. He hadn’t been the obsessed motherfucker.
It was motherfucking Johnnie.
He was the only fuckhead who’d have a mountain of photographs of Megan, some obtained without her knowledge and some quite recent. There were others from various events at the club, at the house, other places, where Megan and Johnnie were together, smiling, hugging each other.
His nostrils flared. Johnnie fucked with Megan and made the brothers lose respect for her.
He’d shown these goddamn pictures at some fucking point and ran his fucking mouth, spouting lies and bullshit to smear her fucking name.
It was the only fucking reason Christopher could see why they’d turned against Megan.
Heaving in a breath, he kicked the fucking chair. Killing that motherfucker would require explanations to Megan and Kendall. If either of them discovered Johnnie hid photos of Megan, both her and Kendall would be crushed and humiliated.
What the fuck could Christopher do?
Growling like a rabid dog, Christopher stormed to the console drawer across the room and pulled out a scissors.
Sooner or later, Johnnie would come for those photos again.
What he’d find was a fucking message: chopped up fucking photos.
No, fuck him. This was a job for the paper shredder, so when he opened the box, nothing but little bits would greet him with a message in Christopher’s handwriting.
Surprise, motherfucker?
Smile, motherfucker?
That had merit if Val installed a camera and Christopher could see Johnnie’s reaction. Except the installation would have to be done when most of the fuckheads were off premises so none of Johnnie’s crew informed him.
Breathing heavily, Christopher sat the photos down before a blood vessel burst in his head and he stroked out. He snatched open the other small box. More patches from Dementor and his crew.
Why wasn’t those motherfuckers burned with their cuts? Did they still have friends in the club, mourning their loss, and plotting the downfall of those responsible for their deaths?
Namely, him.
Christopher looked at the photos of Megan again. Were they Johnnie’s? He was leaning toward fuck yeah because of the photos from their date, but why the fuck would Johnnie create photos from a live feed when he had access to so many that she’d willingly taken?
This reeked of Johnnie, and Christopher’s instincts had never failed him before. But…
Fuck!
But, but, fucking but!
He wanted there to be another explanation. He didn’t know if he could find it in him to let Johnnie live if they were his. Kendall loved him, which was why she was falling apart at his behavior. Little by little, he was destroying her.
Suppose she fucked herself up? A busy Kendall was one thing. A sad Kendall was another. Her children would be devastated. Roxanne.
And Megan. They were so fucking close.
Maybe leaving his handwritten note would make the motherfucker wonder when the fuck Christopher would strike. Maybe he could leave similar notes around the club and see which yellow-bellied fuckhead almost fucking fainted every time he looked at them.
Or, maybe, he’d just leave. Him and Johnnie couldn’t co-exist in the fucking club. One of them needed to bow out. Or die.
Since Christopher had a fucking conscience and couldn’t do that to Kendall and her children, Johnnie could have the fucking club. Let that motherfucker run it into the ground or blow it the fuck up.
When they threatened to vote Christopher out, he’d bowed to their wishes because it wouldn’t weaken his power and resources. They probably would’ve wanted to take him out, too, not trusting that he wouldn’t want revenge or wouldn’t try to snatch the presidency back.
In effect, Johnnie and Cash had sanctioned his death.
Accidentally. Because neither of those fuckheads understood the gravity of forcing Christopher out.
What about his faithful lieutenants? Val, Mortician, Digger, and Stretch would’ve gotten taken out, too.
They might’ve left Cash alive because they believed he wanted peace for peace’s sake.
Not because he had a fucking kid who might not even want to join the fucking club.
“Fuckin’ motherfuckin’ fuckheads.”
He removed the lid from the other file box.
There it was. Like fucking magic. The photo of him, Johnnie, and Snake at Big Joe’s last birthday party.
He grabbed the others in the set. A photo with Big Joe.
One that included K-P, Digger, and Val, and then their individual photos, including Rack and Logan.
After studying each other photo, he set them all down, except Logan’s, Johnnie’s and Snake’s. He held them side-by-side and squinted.
Well, fuck.