Unbeloved (Undeniable #4)(33)
Preacher flicked his cigarette away and turned to face him, an eyebrow cocked and a smile on his face. “I was thinkin’ more along the lines of pigtails and bad singin’, but it’s nice to know you’re still appreciatin’ my girl.”
“Yeah,” Deuce muttered, feeling embarrassed and wishing his words back. “Fuck you.”
“Speakin’ of my little girl, don’t want you tellin’ her ’bout me. I’ll take care of that when the time comes.”
The image of Eva, devastated and crying, caused Deuce’s chest to tighten. Breathing through the feeling, he quickly relaxed. If Preacher wanted to be the one to tell her, that was Preacher’s business, and he’d happily stay the f*ck out of it.
“And I’m thinkin’,” Preacher continued cheerfully, “that I want to consolidate the clubs. Hand my boys over to you. And f*ck you too.”
Deuce nearly choked and when he was done choking, he saw red, he saw motherf*cking red. Preacher didn’t just have a club or two, the man had a whole goddamn empire, world-f*cking-wide.
“You crazy? I’m dyin’ too! You can’t put all that on me, I got enough of my own f*ckin’ problems!”
“You ain’t dyin’.”
“I am,” Deuce protested, and slapped his hand over his chest. “Doctors f*ckin’ told me I have another heart attack like the last one and I’m f*ckin’ done.”
Preacher rolled his eyes. “You ain’t dyin’, shithead. Men like you don’t f*ckin’ die. They keep kicking and yelling their way through life until someone knocks ’em down when they ain’t lookin’ and even then, they just keep kicking and yelling from the damn grave.”
Preacher grinned at him then. “Best kinda man,” he said. “That boy of yours even got half of that shit inside him, he’s gonna make us both proud.”
Deuce continued to stare at him, feeling flabbergasted and more than a little uneasy.
“First you shoot me,” he muttered. “Now you’re handin’ me your damn club and spoutin’ love poems.”
“She was sixteen, motherf*cker, you woulda shot you.”
“No, *, I woulda killed me.”
At that, Preacher just kept grinning. Jesus, was he in the twilight zone?
A door squeaking open drew his attention to where Ripper was exiting the back of the van.
“We got company, Prez,” Ripper said, nodding.
Deuce followed his gaze where, a ways down the road, he could see three large SUVs making their way toward them. “Right on time,” he muttered.
Turning back to Preacher, Deuce glared at the man. “There is no f*ckin’ way I’m takin’ your shit on.”
Because what a mess that would be. He couldn’t even keep his own boys across state lines in check. His Nevada chapter was now under the protection of the Russian mafia, and although he’d verbally stripped them of their patches, he couldn’t touch a single one of them.
At least . . . not yet. But he’d find a way to kill each and every one of them for their betrayal.
But taking on the Silver Demons? He was just one man, past his prime, who in all honesty was getting more than sick of the bullshit politics that came with managing men who didn’t like to be managed.
More than ever, he wanted to pass that gavel soon. He was tired, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit he wanted to spend more time with his family than he did barking out orders. As for his successor, Cage still had a lot to learn.
Yeah. Like he’d said, what a mess.
But Preacher, that motherf*cker, didn’t seem to think so and just kept on grinning.
Christ. He really wanted a f*cking cigarette.
? ? ?
Erik “Ripper” Jacobs stayed in the background as was expected of him, watching as the Russians filed out of their vehicles. Preacher’s nephew Trey, a Silver Demon, had hung back with him, and together they scanned the area around them for anything that seemed out of place, looking out for potential hidden threats. Never mind that he only had one f*cking eye; he was still every bit as good at his job as he’d ever been, if not better. Funny how shit like that worked. Life sure as f*ck had tossed some boulders his way, small mountains he’d never thought he’d be able to climb over, but he’d done that and more. He’d smashed those f*cking obstacles to pieces and ground them to dust beneath his boot.
“One of those suit-wearin’ motherf*ckers yours?” Trey asked, flicking his eyes toward the Russians.
Ripper scanned the line of men, counting five of them, and not finding Hawk among them. But that didn’t mean jack shit. Hawk, they’d been told, had been shot. Which meant he was either dead and this was a setup, or he was still inside one of their vehicles.
“No,” he said, swallowing back both his welling fear as well as his anger. He was so close to losing it, had been for days now. Finding out who Hawk really was . . . well, wasn’t that some real f*cking bullshit.
All those years, f*cking decades, thinking you knew a man, only to find out you didn’t know jack-f*cking-shit about him. Hawk wasn’t Hawk, everything had been a lie contrived by Deuce. Ripper didn’t know how to deal with that, except for wanting to send his fist straight into both of their f*cking faces. And seeing as he couldn’t punch Deuce without the wrath of God falling down upon him, he would settle for venting his frustrations on Hawk. But to do that, he needed him home, and more importantly, alive. After that, the motherf*cker was fair f*cking game.