Never Have an Outlaw's Baby (Deadly Pistols MC #3)(38)
“Aw, shit, Veep. What's the matter? Don't tell me you gotta be f*ckin' sober to walk the dog!” Sixty's goatee twitched as he looked at me with a shit-eating grin, one man over from Skin. He slapped Crawl on the back like he'd just cut the best joke in the world.
I gave him that look. Shut the f*ck up, Mister Comedian.
Took my sweet time folding up my knife. It never took more than a crazy look to shut these boys up when they threw their shit, and Sixty was back to nervously talking to the brothers, soon as I stood up.
I headed for my room, too f*cked in the head to stir the pot tonight, much as I wanted answers from Dust about facing down the Deads. Fuck, I needed those answers soon, before I decided to suck face again with an old flame I needed to smother.
I only got to the hall before I smelled the Prez's tobacco trailing after me. “Hold it, boy. Where the f*ck you think you're going? We barely get the whole crew together anymore with half of 'em running their asses off, and the other half f*ckin' around with their girls.”
He grabbed me by the shoulder and swung me around. I looked into his cold gray eyes, trying to hold in my rage. Trying, and f*cking failing.
“I know that look,” Dust growled. “You've got some serious shit on your mind. More than just the usual venom gnawing at your bones. Let's talk.”
Reluctantly, I let the Prez push me a little further, guiding me toward his office.
A minute later, we sat down and shut the door. My back pressed tight into the beat up chair across from his desk.
“Better start talking, Veep. This club don't need any more shit running under the surface with the big op coming together.”
“That's what's pissing me off, Prez. All this talk about taking down the Deads, doing deals with the Grizzlies and the Devils, and you haven't said shit about your promise.”
“The f*ck?” Dust straightened up, blew out his pipe, and slammed it down on his worn desk. “What do you think I'm pulling, brother? Taking the f*ckers down in their home state does everyone a solid. Club gets its money and flexes its nuts. Wrecks its biggest threat. I get Hatch's f*ckin' head on a pike, and you get the bastards who murdered Piece and put Don in a f*ckin' nursing home. What's missing here? Nothing!”
His fist came down. I stood up, rage flashing in my eyes.
Crazy as I was, I wasn't about to accuse the Prez of dragging his feet, f*cking me over because his eyes were purely on the cash 'til now.
Prez's rage caught me by the throat and squeezed. He wasn't wrong – wiping out the Georgia Deads technically fulfilled his promise. The op missed the spirit of what he'd sworn to me that night, when I came in, ready to ride off alone, straight to certain death.
“You promised me peace, Prez. That's the word you used that f*cked up night. Peace.”
It still smelled like bullshit coming outta my mouth. Had I been a f*ckin' chump? How the hell was I ever supposed to have peace, really?
Even tearing the throats outta those sick bastards wouldn't put Piece back together again.
He was gone. Lost to Heaven or Hell. Forever.
“Yeah, I promised, all right,” he said quietly, standing up. “You know I keep 'em, too.”
Prez stepped out from behind his desk, walked straight past me, and flopped down on the torn leather couch in the corner. Our gaze never wavered.
He was about ten years older than me and still a f*ckin' mystery. He'd survived more death than any other brother, had his damned throat slashed just a couple months ago, and walked away from it alive.
And that was probably nothing when he'd been born in this club's blood.
The prince who was always meant to lead it when his old man's gavel fell. Nothing on the pirates he'd said he fought overseas, an ex-captain in the U.S. merchant fleet.
“Boy, you're looking at me like I f*cked you over, but you know it ain't right. Every brother here respects you, Joker. Every brother loves you. You're walking around town every damned day with a chip on your shoulder the size of f*ckin' Jupiter. You do that shit with the knife every damned day. And every f*ckin' day I'm watching, waiting for you to slip, carve off a perfectly good finger.”
My jaw clenched. Dust's voice came steady, cool, and calm. He leaned forward, folding his hands.
“You need to pull your head outta your ass, VP. You wouldn't be wearing the patch if I didn't trust you to have some reason mixed with the psycho killer bullshit. You were smart enough to listen to me that night you showed up, asking for blood, telling me you'd go for it yourself. That would've been suicide – we both know it. You were patient. You were f*ckin' smart. And now, it's almost time to get what I told you. Everything I promised.”
“I ain't getting shit, Prez. Let's face it. Even if we kill some f*ckin' animals, yeah, I'll feel better for a few hours, maybe a week. But once the party's over and I finally sober up, cleaning their blood off my knife...Freddy's gone. Grandpa's f*cked. My hometown's a goddamned shithole that won't ever welcome anybody with a patch again – not after the dirty shit the Deads have been pushing there. Putting the motherf*ckers down won't un-f*ck anything.”
“That's why you gotta reach inside and feel your own guts. Don't f*ckin' wait for the final battle, Joker. Do it sooner. Now. 'Cause if you wait, we'll win like we always do, and you'll still walk away empty f*cking handed.” He leaned forward a little more, his steely eyes boring into me. “Bullets and knives only kill the demons outside you, Joker. The shit underneath your skin – that's where you gotta use your brain, your heart. You're the only one who can.”