Chapter Twenty-Three
Normally, storms didn’t interfere with Christopher’s sleep, but the pounding thunder woke him the fuck up.
Or maybe not.
He and Megan were spooning, and her hair covered most of his face, including his mouth and nose.
Yeah, survival instincts had kicked the fuck in and made him open his fucking eyes. Imagine kicking up his cock because his woman’s hair had smothered him.
Eternal fucking humiliation. Big Joe would never fucking let him live it down…or whatever the fuck they’d be doing…
Instead of contemplating a smothered-by-fucking-hair fate, he found a measure of goddamn sense and moved his head away from the heavenly scent of Megan’s hair. No fucking doubt it was that smell that had drawn him to bury his nose in the golden mass.
The lamp’s light flickered off, then flared on again. Lifting his head, Christopher scowled toward the lamp that Megan couldn’t sleep without.
The motherfucker with the low-wattage bulb flickered off and on afuckingain, because the electricity wasn’t sure if it would bow to the wind and rain and go the fuck out or if the motherfucker could stand strong and stay the fuck on.
He fucking hoped it was the latter. If Megan woke up to a dark room, she wouldn’t be fucking happy at fucking all.
Christopher drew her closer to him, buried his nose in her hair again, and thrust his hard cock against her ass. Shifting against him, she made a little noise in the back of her throat.
He kissed the back of her head. “Sleep, baby,” he whispered.
“Umkay.”
Smiling at her mumble, he caressed her hip, the feel of her silky-soft skin burning his fingertips.
“Christopher?” she said quietly, vestiges of sleep hoarsening her voice. “What time is it?”
He raised his head and looked at the wall clock, illuminated by the night lamp. “Just after fuckin’ midnight,” he answered. Early for them, but the evening had been exhausting.
No wonder they’d taken a quick shower after a quick fuck and stumbled to bed. More tired than either of them realized if they both fell asleep so fucking quickly.
“What’s wrong?” she asked around a yawn.
“Besides that fuckin’ clock?” he teased. “Not a motherfuckin’ thing, baby.”
She gently elbowed him. “I love that clock,” she protested. “And, before I bought it, I asked if it was okay with you. ”
“Unfuckinnecessary,” he responded. “This your fuckin’ house, Megan. If you wanted to buy a fuckin’ elephant and turn into a clock to put on the goddamn wall, that shit up to you.”
“I wouldn’t buy an elephant. It would have to be killed and it’s a defenseless animal.”
He wasn’t touching that. Once, Megan had advocated against cruelty of any type.
Now, he wasn’t sure what to expect. “At least a fuckin’ elephant clock would have numbers.
The motherfucker on the wall barely a goddamn clock.
It got the hour hand, the shorthand, and four fuckin’ lil’ bars to indicate the fuckin’ numbers three, six, nine, and twelve.
If my ass was a stupid motherfucker, I woulda been lost and never know what fuckin’ time it is. ”
Giggling, she twisted around to face him, lifted her head, and stole a kiss before settling in the crook of his arm. “Lucky for us, you’re very smart.”
He caressed her cheek. “If I was a stupid motherfucker, I woulda let you walk the fuck away and missed the best fuckin’ years of my life.” Sliding down, he touched her nose with his own and stared into her eyes. “But I probably woulda got fucked up years ago cuz I wouldna gave a fuckin’ fuck.”
She tilted her head and pressed her lips against his. “What’s wrong?” she asked softly. “What’s on your mind?”
Turning, he laid on his back and pulled her back into the crook of his arms. “Something woke me the fuck up, baby,” he admitted.
“I thought it was the fuckin’ storm.” He wouldn’t mention her hair.
He didn’t want her to worry about the lethalness of her mane.
She might chop it the fuck off again. “But…”
“But…?” she asked when he didn’t add anything.
He stared at the ceiling. “I ain’t fuckin’ sure. Something eatin’ at my fuckin’ ass. Something just ain’t seemin’ fuckin’ right, Megan. I feel so fuckin’ uneasy.”
She sighed and adjusted herself so that her head laid on his chest. “It’s the kids, Christopher.”
Perhaps, but he hadn’t specifically dreamed about any of his lil’ motherfuckers.
Of course, shit was fucking upside down thanks to Harley’s and Bailey’s fucked up behavior.
Then, there was Diesel. He was a grown motherfucker, but he didn’t drop his wife off and disappear for the entirety of the weekly gatherings for nothing.
No one liked that cunt. So what the fuck was up with him?
Finally, there was his Megan. Some years ago, they’d made an agreement that she could fight her own battles.
He didn’t need to intercede for every small infraction.
Agreement came easy enough because she’d still been her .
He allowed her one or two rounds with motherfuckers, then fixed shit behind the scenes.
Fuck with Megan again and you die. Christopher kept his warning simple but concise with the added caveat of, tell Megan I interfered and you die painfully. Nothing too dramatic.
More than anything, though, the danger she was in concerned him.
Instinct told him the situation was dire.
Yet, no one could find a fucking thing. Not Riley, their private investigator and Bunny’s old man.
Not Stretch, who was deep diving the dark web, combing their signals for intercepts, using sophisticated software, and constantly searching for wiretaps and even fucking bombs.
A bomb ordered by Christopher wiped out the Scorpions’ original mother chapter. It made sense if Bash used the same tactic.
Riley and Stretch turned up nothing. Neither had Kendall. Or Derby. Boy. Dez. Brooks, who was on death watch. If he fucked up again, he’d die.
Nor had Christopher found anything. They’d uncovered more about Easton than Bash.
That motherfucker must be on somebody’s radar.
More than a few Dwellers were arrested for one crime or another.
Christopher had been arrested. He had a papertrail and a digital footprint.
An arrest record. Property deeds. Traceable shit. With Bash?
Not a motherfucking thing. It just wasn’t adding up.
What the fuck was Bash’s game? Why had he led Johnnie and Brooks to believe Megan, Kendall, and Mattie were in danger?
Christopher stared at the ceiling. Blinked. Thinking of Jo. Thinking of Megan pregnant. Shocked at his regret that his go-to method of safeguarding his girl—filling her with his kid—wasn’t an option.
He needed to talk to Doc Will himself and plan accordingly.
Ordering Megan to stay on club grounds, especially when his core group was so fractured, might not go over well with her.
Without hard proof that she was in danger, it would seem so fucked up that she would be the only little motherfucker on lockdown.
Bailey had gone fucking insane, driven there by Harley.
Mort would stand with Christopher, but his wife wouldn’t.
Zoann had carried her and Megan’s home healthcare business for the past two and a half months while Megan recovered.
Megan didn’t visit clients but she took care of all business matters.
Sometimes, that took her off club grounds.
Val would stand with Christopher but would offer no help with Zoann.
What she wanted, she got. What she said, went. Same with Knox and Roxanne.
Bunny listened to Digger. He was just a lucky motherfucker.
Ophelia followed Cash’s instructions, and that motherfucker was completely aligned with Johnnie.
What about their little motherfuckers? If he ordered Megan to stay home, he’d have to decide what to do with the kids.
Kids… right .
He remembered Megan’s statement. “Yeah, baby, I guess that’s it,” he agreed.
“As soon as the ball is over, we need to sit down and come up with a budget and a theme for Rebel’s Sweet Sixteen.”
Christopher squinted. “I know my head fucked up, but ain’t we skippin’ a fuckin’ year?”
She laughed. “We aren’t skipping a year, silly. I was thinking about a low key birthday for this year, since we’re spending so much money next year.”
They were? “We are?”
“Of course.”
“What you got in mind?”
“Either the week before her birthday or the week after, we celebrate at the club. For her actual birthday, I can’t decide between a destination birthday or a ball.”
“What the fuck’s a destination birthday?”
“It’s like a destination wedding. We pick a spot somewhere in the world and plan her birthday bash there. I was thinking Fiji. Georgie also offered her private island. I wanted your input.”
“You know Rule turning sixteen, too.”
She sniffed. “He’s a boy.”
“Unless you fuckin’ know somethin’ my ass don’t, CJ got a cock, too. You gave him a birthday party for his sixteenth. Ryan had one.”
“I don’t know what to do for Rule,” she admitted.
“Fair efuckinuff. I’m gonna talk to him and we’ll decide from there.”
“Okay.” She was silent and then, “For CJ’s seventeenth birthday, let’s buy him a Harley.”
On the one hand, the words elated Christopher. On the other hand, Megan’s sad resignation clenched his insides.
He considered how best to proceed. “I was thinkin’ a Duck, then get him the Harley as a high school graduation present,” he said, making shit up on the fly. “Ducks ain’t no bitch ass ride, baby.”
“I know, Christopher, but, please, talk to him first. You can’t join the club without a Harley.
He might take receiving a Ducati the wrong way.
” Her words were soft and sweet, holding no censure, just her usual honesty that kept him the fuck in line.
“He adores you. Wants to do everything you do. I think in his mind the first motorcycle he owns will be a Harley. Just like yours was.”
“I wish motherfuckers didn’t look at my boy and think he’s the next me. I want motherfuckers to look at him for him.”