Chapter Forty-Three
Two days later, Christopher sat at his desk in the club, quite pleased with himself and the way Valentine’s Day turned out for him and Megan. Tasting her pussy, sinking into her…
Pure fucking heaven. He’d missed her so goddamn much and almost tossed aside his obligations at the club to go home.
Last night, she’d gotten on the back of his bike without accusation or argument. She’d forgiven him and loved him and laughed with him.
They hadn’t returned home until the early morning hours with Megan giggling because of the champagne buzzing in her system and making fun of the beard he hadn’t been able to remove.
He’d taken off the padding and the pillows before leaving the restaurant with the orders to get rid of everything.
Whatever Megan used once they got home delayed their fucking, but the itchy motherfucker was gone for good.
Best of all, Rebel didn’t realize half her fucking family had spied on her date.
Christopher sighed.
Reviewing Stretch’s treasury report and checking them against the bank statements couldn’t hold his attention, although he needed to get this shit done.
Usually, he compared the reports on a monthly basis, but he was behind.
Here and there, he’d glanced at the financials.
However, he hadn’t performed an in-depth analysis of checks and balances since October.
Leaning back in his chair, he picked up his cigarette from the ashtray and took a drag, studying the sofa. The old brown one that belonged to Big Joe was long gone, although Christopher hated to part with it. In the end, it was good for nothing but the fucking dumpster.
It had been the place where Christopher first interacted with Megan one-on-one. The place she’d first called him a moron.
He snickered at the memory.
He was pretty fucking sure she’d stolen his heart that night. Yet, his head was still solidly invested in his club.
Now…
Sucking on his cigarette again and releasing smoke through his mouth, he contemplated his left hand.
His gold wedding band gleamed at him. He tamped out his cigarette and held up both hands.
They were deadly weapons, belonging to a killer.
It was easy to use them to pull a trigger, wield a blade, or wrap around someone’s neck and choke the fuck out of them. Death was ingrained in him.
Just as running the club once was.
Even before Megan collapsed on Thanksgiving night, Christopher had grown tired. Mainly because the faction wanting peace included Johnnie and Cash. His boys. His family.
Maybe not tired. Maybe resentful.
Christopher didn’t want to risk his own ass and the possibility of being ripped away from his wife, while those motherfuckers slept peacefully next to theirs. No, it was more than that. He didn’t want to risk her . To get to him, Megan was every motherfucker’s favorite target.
Christopher was pretty fucking sure those two motherfuckers, and the brothers in their peace-loving camp, would feel differently if their bitches were in danger on the regular. They’d still look to him to solve the shit. They’d just lend whatever assistance he needed.
Even now—again with those same peace-loving motherfuckers—they wouldn’t care if Christopher annihilated their enemies off the fucking record.
His mind wandered to the hospital, wondering about Jo. To Megan, wanting to be wherever she was. On CJ, and his gratefulness that his boy survived.
Christopher was tired. The club had outgrown him or he’d outgrown the club.
He wasn’t sure which. It was a different game nowadays.
When CJ entered high school, Christopher created a timeline in his head.
His boy would go off to college on a football scholarship, experience things Christopher never had and become better educated.
Any parent’s dream was to have their kids level up.
He wanted the stars and the moon for CJ.
If, after he received his degree, he still wanted to patch in, Christopher wouldn’t stand in his way. By the time his boy turned thirty, Christopher would be months away from his sixty-fourth birthday.
That had been his unofficial plan. Hold down the shit until his boy was ready to lead. Except plans always went off the fucking rails.
The thought of barring CJ from the club still tore him apart. It was why he jumped at Diesel’s suggestion.
Yet fucking facts were fucking facts.
He was proud of how CJ handled Operation Rebel from start to finish.
Yesterday afternoon, Christopher, Diesel, and CJ rode up on Kaia in Diesel’s Mercedes.
Motherfucker was lucky he only received a few punches but the idea to pay that little motherfucker a visit had been CJ’s.
Not only because of the way he hurt their ears and insulted their fucking senses with those horrendous lines, but because he had the fucking nerve to call Rebel a motherfucking fuck doll .
They hadn’t inflicted too much damage since Reb probably wanted to see him again, sooner rather than later.
“I’m sorry!” he’d said, doubled over. “I forget her age. I just see her body!”
CJ had kicked him. “You knew we were going to listen!”
“I didn’t believe you!” he’d wailed, sniveling like a fucking pussy.
“That means we can’t trust you with her,” Diesel spat.
“I’m sorry! I really like Reb. I tried to stay away, but CJ ordered me to call her.”
Christopher stopped his sons from fucking up Kaia. Motherfucker was right. CJ had insisted he call Rebel again. But Diesel also didn’t think about her age or their family relationship; he saw her as just another female body.
Which was why Christopher ordered Val to install cameras along the staircases from the first floor to the third and in all the hallways. He wanted a camera directed at Diesel’s door, too. To give his boy a level playing field, yesterday he’d informed the motherfucker there would soon be cameras.
“Ain’t fuckin’ up no assfuck until I make sure motherfuckers know why the fuck they gettin’ fucked up.”
Diesel had nodded gravely. CJ looked relieved. Christopher would reserve judgment until he saw for himself if Diesel followed his orders.
As for CJ, Christopher still didn’t believe his boy was cut out for club life, despite how he handled Operation Rebel. That compared to actual conflicts and violent confrontations was nothing.
And CJ still wanted to drop out of school. Christopher didn’t doubt his son’s migraines, but not only hadn’t he returned to school, he hadn’t opened a fucking book or logged onto his account to check for makeup work.
The possibility of a football scholarship slipped further away each day. Christopher doubted CJ even liked football anymore. Despite how hard they’d worked to give their children other opportunities, it was like remaking an old movie and watching it play out all over again with a different cast.
Club life had seduced Christopher too, and he’d dropped out in ninth grade. At least his boy made it to eleventh grade, but it still wasn’t what he wanted for him.
Christopher didn’t know too much about her life before she showed up at the club.
What he did know was she was pregnant when she left.
However, the Randolph he’d met ten years ago didn’t align with the age the motherfucker should’ve been.
Christopher didn’t want CJ to become another him and he didn’t want Mattie to become another Hopper.
For that matter, he didn’t want Ryan to be the Snake of his generation and Harley to become the old Kendall. He hoped Molly Harris wouldn’t turn out to be another Kiera.
Sighing, Christopher pushed aside his morbid thoughts.
“Outlaw?” Stretch’s voice traveled through the closed door.
“Come fuckin’ in,” Christopher called, happy for the interruption.
Stretch stuck his head in. “Tom Harris’s phone is pinging off a nearby tower.”
Eyes widening, Christopher jumped to his feet.
He’d been searching for that motherfucker since he stole Molly.
The closest he’d gotten was when Mason Hough decided to fuck with CJ at the hospital.
Of course, just because they’d found Tom didn’t mean Molly would be there.
But Christopher would make it quite fucking clear, it was in Harris’s best interest to reveal her location.
If it was her grave, Harris would die painfully. If it was her alive, motherfucker would still get fucked up for upsetting CJ.
It would just be quicker.
While Christopher texted Megan about what was going on, he made Stretch look up the tax records of properties near where the phone had pinged. One parcel of land showed the owner Noxious Gnomes, LLC, and was purchased three years ago.
An hour after Stretch came to his office, Christopher tapped a few motherfuckers to accompany him to a rural property on the far reaches of town, with a decent-sized single-story house and several trailers.
Inside the house, Christopher cursed at the filth and smell of raw sewage as he searched the messy place.
Dishes were stacked in the sink. Trash fell out of the cans in every room.
Blood and cum stained the sheets on the bed in the biggest of four bedrooms. In the two smaller bedrooms, there were boys’ uniforms for Ridge Moore.
School books with the names Wallace Byrd and Willard Byrd in them, along with school-issued e-tablets, lay on desks.
The toilets in both bathrooms were stopped up.
Next to each were slop buckets overflowing with shit and piss.
In another bedroom, he found sex toys, used condoms, and dirty tampons.
Flies buzzed around the rooms while roaches darted in every direction.
“Nasty motherfuckers,” he grumbled.