Never Have an Outlaw's Baby (Deadly Pistols MC #3)(9)

“Why didn't you tell me this place was closing up shop?” I asked, sitting down as Piece looked up, and pushed an extra beer over to me.

Took a long sip. Thick, bitter, and dark. Just the way I liked it, second only to good southern whiskey. Could've used the harder shit today, when we were taking a kick to the nuts like this.

“Figured you'd both be here to see her off yourself, boys,” Grandpa said, twisting his old Marine cap, full of crests and honors from Vietnam. “They're having their last big bash today before the whole thing goes belly up. Latest victim of the rot chewing up the poor damned town.”

Yeah, f*cking right. Seventy-five years old, and our hard as nails grandpa had never talked more truth.

“What's Dusty doing?” he asked, folding a fist around his scotch and looking at us. All those fancy changes better pay off quick if the club ever wants stakes in Georgia again.”

“Shit, Grandpa, that's what we're here for,” Piece said, slamming down his glass. “We haven't given up. Long as this patch keeps coming across the border, f*ckers will talk about us. All the other *s will know we're here, and they'll keep the f*ck out of our territory.”

“Ain't always that easy, boy,” the old man snorted, pausing to swallow more scotch. “The men moving in from Tallahassee, they ain't like the old clubs. No code. No limits. They'll slash your balls off just for the pleasure of it. Been hearing about them sending more scouts up here lately from Atlanta. They'd own the whole damned city by now if it weren't for the gangs and the Torches.”

“Yeah, yeah, we've heard it all, too. The Deads are dirty motherf*ckers, but they don't know the lay of the land like we do. These roots go deep,” I said, bristling at the thought of another club taking our hometown. “Home field advantage. That don't go down easy.”

“Our roots are dying on the damned vine,” Grandpa snapped, giving me a hard look. The old man had the same bright hazel eyes I saw in the mirror every day, a Taylor trademark that bound us all by blood.

“No, they ain't,” Piece growled, shaking his head fiercely.

“Cut the crap, boys. If you can't see we're in trouble, you're both gonna get yourselves wiped when you step into the wrong shit. Deadhands MC isn't just mean as a snake. It's bigger than a grizzly, so big it'll be chewing up half of Dixie in a few more years and shittin' it out. We'll be lucky to hang onto East Tennessee”

“Nah, Grandpa, you don't understand,” I said, stiffening in my seat. “Dust has got all kinds of plans to rebuild our coffers, get us into the gun trade. We're off the nasty shit. No more drugs. Early f*cked up keeping us in a dirty, dying business for too damned long. Now, we got ourselves a second chance. Something cleaner, without as much blood.”

“Jackson, son...” He paused, gripping my shoulder, shaking his head sadly. “Freddy.”

His other hand pulled at my brother. When he used our real names, shit got real. Really f*ckin' real.

Grandpa lived and died by the club before he got too old to ride, and he respected the road names we'd carried for four long years.

His pause lasted a little longer because Johnny Cash started screaming on the jukebox, his favorite, kicking off the last songs our favorite bar would ever have.

“I'm too f*ckin' old to watch either of you boys get yourselves axed. You're young, arrogant, full of piss to sling around. I remember that feeling like it was yesterday. In case you boys forgot, I made your old man a promise before he died in that wreck.” Piece and me both turned to stone, knowing what was coming, and hating it.

“If shit comes down to building the club or saving your lives, you know what I'll choose. Have your fun here boys, and go the f*ck home. Don't come back here wearing that patch. You get seen by the Deads, or surrounded by a train of 'em when you're working your way south, trying to talk to mobsters out in Savannah, you're as good as gone. That ain't happening while I'm still breathing.”

I locked eyes with my brother. Our eyes slid to Grandpa and we both nodded, too resigned to his touchy-feely shit to argue. We'd humor him.

The old man loved us like our father couldn't because he'd been six feet under for twenty f*ckin' years. We loved him back, and respected him to hell, even when he said shit that made us want to spit bullets.

Most of what he said had been dark as hell lately.

There wasn't time for tears, or pig roasts with the brothers. Barely enough time to knock back brown honey or to get my dick sucked, though I always made time for that.

There definitely wasn't time for a drag out fight with Grandpa, the man who'd raised us, or holding hands and singing songs like one big happy family.

Freddy and I had a feeling this shit was coming before we rode down. We shared a quick look. Our signal to throw one arm each around the old man's neck, hugging the shit outta him, showing him we'd read him loud and clear.

And we weren't gonna f*ckin' listen because the stakes were too damned high.

“You've got nothing to worry about, Grandpa. We hear you.”

Fuck, I hated lying to him. Both of us did.

But he didn't even know half of how desperate, how f*cked up the ass we really were.

Piece and me didn't have a prayer of going all the way to Savannah. We were setting up shop here in Seddon for the next few weeks, waiting while Prez phoned every f*ckin' mobster on the southern half of the eastern seaboard.