Never Have an Outlaw's Baby (Deadly Pistols MC #3)(58)

Joker couldn't bring me back. He grabbed me, shook me, thundered in my face.

I'd been so stupid it made me sick to death. I'd sacrificed our son for a lie, an illusion, and now it was too late to take it all back.

Our happiness had cost us everything.





10





Going Solo (Joker)





Once, when I was a stupid piece of shit going on my first real run as a prospect, we all stopped in this little bar on the Virginia border. This place was dirty, right down to the grime on the floors, the cheap booze, and the dirty bitches offering their holes to us for the night.

Piece shit his pants for a f*ckin' week afterward, wondering if he'd picked up the clap, or something nastier from the whores. My biggest sin was taking a long, discolored smoke from the f*cker managing the bar, grinning at me with his dirty teeth.

Never knew what the f*ck the * laced it with.

Whatever it was, it sent me to f*ckin' Saturn and back, ripped me outta my body and threw me down on the ground so f*ckin' hard I woke up screaming, turning over tables, making a goddamned fool outta myself.

Dust had to punch me out cold before I woke up again, the pain sobering me up. He was just the Veep then, leaning over me with his old man, Early, our Prez in those days.

“Don't move, you goddamned psycho sonofabitch,” Early growled, his thick gray beard matching his eyes.

“Prez! Fuck, I –“

“Shut up. I'm talking. You want your bottom rocker, you'd better wisen up about a few things, boy. This club's got no damned room for loose cannons, fools, or f*ckin' jokers.”

I looked at him coldly, and nodded. Later, we were still milling around the bar, waiting for these other f*cks coming down from Jersey to launder some money, far from home.

Assholes were a big crime syndicate in Atlantic City, some proxy group tied to the Russian mob. We were counting their cash, separating our fee from the shit we were banking, when this big, bald f*cker crept up on Dust.

I got between him and the devil's switchblade with about a second to spare.

That sleek, metal sonofabitch slid straight into my side, narrowly missing my guts. Didn't feel the burn 'til after I had my nine out, aimed at his head, and pulled the trigger.

I blew the bastard's brains out. The brothers put holes in more of them before we realized they'd come here to f*ck us over. A few more f*cks limped away, begging for mercy. None of 'em would answer what the hell they were trying to pull, so they got their brains shot out too.

Piece pulled a marker outta his pocket on Dust's order, cursing underneath his breath. Every single bill he checked was counterfeit.

Early f*ckin' lost it. Reached into our truck for gas, poured it all over the black bag of cash, and lit it the f*ck up. We warmed ourselves in the rainy forest that night, stoking the flames with the shit they'd tried to feed us, before we burned their bodies.

Before it was over, the old Prez ripped off half his t-shirt, tied it around my waist, stopping the bleeding. “I'm sixty two years old, but I'm man enough to admit when I'm wrong about shit. Dusty, you tell him.” Early looked at his son, strange amusement flashing in his eyes.

Dust looked at me, the same cold, dark stare I'd see for the next seven years. Maybe for the rest of my life.

“This club needs a joker after all, brother. Some f*cker who's crazy enough to move, not think, even when he's been stabbed. Joker. That's what we're calling you from here on out.”

I rode home with the rest of the crew the next day, numb to the core. The whole thing had been nothing but a f*ckin' accident, all due to a drug laced cig that f*cked up my head and my nerves so bad I couldn't feel the pain in my guts.

The name stuck.



*

“Joker.” Dust said my name about a split second before his big hand fell against my shoulder. “It's time, brother.”

I looked up, hating him for making me rip my hand away from Summer's. She lay on the little cot in our makeshift infirmary, dazed and asleep from the shit Laynie had given her, but still tossing and turning every few minutes.

Bingo slept at her feet, dead to the world. Best part about being a dog was that you never had to suffer through this shit.

“Go. I'll be right here, the whole time, in case she needs anything.”

Prez led me into our meeting room. All the brothers were already there, gathered around, waiting. Every man looked at me, sympathy or sadness carved into his face.

“Where's the f*ckin' video?” I sat down in my usual spot, running my fingers over all the cuts I'd left in the wood over the years.

Normally, my blade would've been out, stabbing through my f*ckin' fingers, relieving the blackness rising up inside me like tar. I'd lost too much today for that to do a damned thing, though.

I'd had it all and lost it in one goddamned week.

Fuck.

“It's here,” Skin said nervously, pulling out his phone. He looked at the Prez and then at Sixty, both of them on each side of me. Quietly making sure they were ready to hold me down when I lost my shit, before I turned the whole clubhouse upside down.

I'd only seen pictures of the sick, pockmarked motherf*cker who showed up on the screen a couple times before. His lips twitched, smug and punchable, making my knuckles burn. Fuck, I wanted to break his jaw, and then keep going 'til the goddamned thing was just a mess swinging on his face.