Christopher
Death, killing, didn’t bother him. If someone wronged him, he could pull out his piece and blow them the fuck away, drink Al or suck on Aunt Mary, and call it a fucking day.
Except…
Family.
His fucking son.
His stupid fucking son.
His miserable fucking son.
His fuckhead, assfuck, fuckbag, conscienceless, brainless fucking son. He’d do that motherfucker a favor by killing him. That motherfucker risked Megan.
No. Fuck. That was too fucking random and farfetched. There had to be another explanation for why Tabitha ended up dead and Rebel and Jana ended up in the ER.
Fuck, had Christopher taken a good look at Jana when he’d peeped in, saw that she knew him and her surroundings, and fucking dipped? She wasn’t his main priority. He didn’t like her. She was spineless and whiny.
Kinda like Fee, but that was his little sister so he had to tolerate her.
Jana, though?
Unless…
Unfuckingless…it was a manipulation tactic to get motherfuckers in her corner and overlook what the fuck she did. Or might do.
No, no, and no. Those scenarios were a figment of his imagination.
Not reality. Jana was a drug addict who overlooked whatever Diesel wanted to do and asked for his permission to piss.
Diesel was a misguided fuckhead who chose another girl to marry so Christopher wouldn’t hack his cock off.
Rebel walked upon motherfuckers trying to steal Jana’s tennis bracelet and stepped in to save her life.
Tabitha was a dead bitch who OD’d.
Period. The fucking end…
Christopher growled.
“Prez?”
At the sound of Mortician’s voice, Christopher remembered his and Val’s presence.
Needing to think, Christopher walked around the condo, taking in the scene, processing minor details.
Her dress folded over the back of the sofa, her panties slung on top, as if she’d done a line, anticipating a fuck.
One of her wedge sandals was next to a stool at the breakfast bar. The other one was nowhere to be seen.
“Fuck, maybe, we should put extra guards at the hospital, Outlaw,” Val said, gazing in every direction. He shook his head. “I’m thinking about doing that for Zoann.”
Lighting a cigarette and staring at Tabitha again, Christopher took a few puffs, then asked, “Why?”
“Jana and Rebel was attacked and now Tabitha overdosed. Something going on.” Val heaved in a breath. “I can’t stand thinking about all the ‘what-ifs’.”
Christopher glowered at Tabitha, took his smoke between his fingers. Thought again about Jana. Rebel. Diesel.
Shooting fuckheads no longer served its purpose. Family members had sniffed out his weakness. Yeah, he knew Megan had her No-Kill list, and he honored that, but something in him couldn’t kill family. It was why Johnnie remained alive, when he hated that fuckhead.
Fuck, except today. Today, he was thankful Rebel survived. He couldn’t repay that favor from Heaven by adhering to tenets from Hell.
But what about the parameters in which he lived in the here and now? He’d given Megan and their kids the lives he felt they deserved, assimilating into the regular world while still living on the fringes.
Unfortunately, their brush with the civilian world left him and his club vulnerable to death or imprisonment.
He and Megan bought Diesel a condo in this luxury high rise in the heart of the Medical District, complete with security—cameras, patrols, check-ins.
Someone pulling the footage of Diesel entering the building and/or departing near the time of Tabitha's death risked his arrest and Bash’s retaliation against the club. Against Megan.
Civilian adaptation was Christopher’s fault. Stupid fuckheadedness was Diesel’s.
Both situations made partnering with Lance Hart much more appealing, despite the risks.
That type of life-changing money bandaged slights and funded new beginnings.
A state-of-the-art clubhouse, a private hospital, and a club controlled municipality could course correct the last few months and repair all the fractures.
“Outlaw?” Nivins called as he rushed in. He was a nondescript motherfucker with nondescript features. If he wasn’t always immaculately dressed because of his position at a high-end apartment building, he would’ve just blended into the fucking crowd. “I have to call this in.”
Christopher sucked on his smoke, exchanged a glance with Mortician.
“Come to the club tomorrow for leading them to the wrong apartment in the first fuckin’ place,” Christopher said.
“Who reported it initially?” Mort asked.
Unease crossed Nivin’s face and Christopher knew he wouldn’t like the answer, any more than he liked the fact that Diesel was a motherfucking brainless assfuck.
“A man named Mickey.”
Christopher knew a man named Mickey. If it was the same motherfucker, and Rebel and Jana weren’t fucking laid up in the hospital, he’d accuse Mickey of overdosing Tabitha.
That cunt still had no excuse for entertaining another man after demanding Diesel remain married to her.
Especially if that other man was the president of a club Christopher didn’t trust and had an uneasy peace agreement with.
The same club he suspected of being a Scorpion shadow club.
Anger surged into him, even before he received confirmation.
Tabitha was a scheming cunt and scheming cunts always had fucking game. “He wore a cut?”
“I’ve only seen him on a few occasions.”
“Ain’t asked you that. Answer my fuckin’ question.”
“He did,” Nivins said hesitantly, “but it didn’t have Death Dwellers patches.”
“Lemme guess,” Christopher snarled, staring at that dead bitch and wondering if she’d played him and Bash or if Bash was in on that cunt’s games. “Mickey’s cut had Noxious Gnome rockers.”
“Fuck,” Mortician said.
Nivins widened his eyes and nodded. “How’d you know?”
“Just a lucky fuckin’ guess,” Christopher said, refusing to go into detail with a civilian. “Tell me when that motherfucker first started comin’ around and what fuckin’ time you got the call that this cunt was dead. Start from the fuckin’ beginnin’ and don’t leave nothin’ out.”