Reign (The Sainthood - Boys of Lowell High #3)(57)
“We need to pick our battles.” I tug the zipper of my hoodie up under my chin. “I got it.”
Theo distributes our wedding bands, and we put them on, agreeing to keep our hands under the table during the meeting so we don’t tip him off early.
I let Galen take shotgun, and I jump in the back, sitting in between Theo and Caz. Galen blasts rock music, and we don’t talk as Saint drives us to Prestwick for the meeting.
He pulls into the parking lot, gliding into a vacant parking space, alongside a truck and a couple of motorcycles.
“Watch your backs,” Saint warns as we get out. He rounds the hood, taking my hand, and we walk into the devil’s lair.
CHAPTER 22
THE LOWER LEVEL of the building is a lot like The Bulls warehouse we torched. A narrow hallway opens out into a large space. Stools are lined up under the counter of a bar that resides on one side with a myriad of couches, tables, and chairs on the other.
Several men in leather cuts are dispersed across the room, many with scantily clad young girls sprawled across their lap.
Club paraphernalia lines the walls alongside the entrance to the small kitchen. Facing the bar are two pool tables, and a bunch of older members lifts their heads from their game, nodding at Saint and the guys. A couple eye me with blatant interest, and Saint gnashes his teeth at them.
“This one’s possessive,” a guy with a shock of thick red hair says. “But not for long, according to my intel.” He licks his lips, letting his gaze freely roam my body.
Saint tilts his head to the side, and Caz grabs the man, shoving him into the wall before thrusting his fist in his face. The guy slumps to the ground, out cold, and an icy chill infiltrates the room. Eyeballs are glued to my back, and nervous adrenaline prickles underneath the surface of my skin.
The guy’s friends simmer and seethe, but they say nothing.
The dynamics within The Sainthood are fascinating to me. That the guys get away with this, purely because Saint and Galen are in positions of leadership within the junior chapter, and they are related to the current president, is unbelievable.
“The bedrooms are back there,” Saint explains, pulling me away from the pool tables and pointing to the corridor on the left. “And these are the stairs to the upper levels that house the office and meeting rooms.”
We trek up the stairs after a couple of younger members, and Saint leads me along the hallway, past a few closed wooden doors, and through the double doors at the very end. I press on the necklace to automate the recording software as we walk across the worn hardwood floor.
All conversation mutes, and every person in the room looks at us. About fifteen guys are sitting around the rectangular wooden table in the center of the room, and they nod their heads in acknowledgment.
“Gentlemen.” Saint steers me to the end of the table, pulling out the chair on the left side for me. “This is Harlow Westbrook.”
I jerk my head up, offering a tight smile as I glance at the guys around the table. “Sup.”
A chorus of greetings whips around the table from all but a couple of guys, who sit near the end, eyeing me warily. And I get it. Most probably don’t want women in the organization; however, they’ve no choice but to suck it up, because it’s the president’s order.
A few more bodies filter into the room as Saint sits down beside me, at the end of the table, and Galen takes the seat across from me. Theo slides in next to me with Caz claiming the seat beside Galen.
Footsteps thud across the room, claiming my attention, and I smile as Bry walks toward us.
“Hey.” He nods at the guys. “Lo.”
“Bry.”
He sits in the empty chair beside Theo, surreptitiously handing him a folded note. Theo passes it to me, and I slip it into Saint’s waiting palm. Saint dips his head, reading the details of The Arrows next shipment. He jerks his head at Bry, in a barely there acknowledgment, and I kick him in the shin. Saint narrows his eyes at me, and I pin him with a look that tells him not to fuck around. Bry has come through for us, and this hostile shit ends now. He needs to start treating him with more respect.
“Thanks, man,” Saint says, and he almost sounds sincere.
I’m about to kick him again when the doors burst open, heralding Satan’s arrival.
“Welcome, my little cherubs,” Sinner says, stalking into the room with the bald creep I hate. He’s rubbing at his shoulder, and it gives me immense pleasure to know I inflicted pain. Sinner occupies the seat at the head of the table, and the creep sits on his right-hand side. “I see we have our new female initiate with us today,” Sinner adds, smiling like the cat that got the cream when his eyes land on me.
It hasn’t escaped my notice I’m the only female here, confirming what I’ve suspected all along—Sinner’s “we’re letting women into the ranks” statement is a load of bull. It was a ploy to trap me, to control me, and nothing more.
The creep’s mouth curls in a sneer, and he levels me with a look suffused with venom, making an obscene gesture with his fingers, which I ignore, despite the distaste flooding my mouth.
Another man enters the room, sitting down on Sinner’s other side. I recognize the scraggly beard and disinterested scowl from the initiation meeting. He’s another board member and another asshole probably salivating at the prospect of raping me.