Through A Glass, Darkly (The Assassins of Youth MC #1)(27)
Pure animal bloodlust overcame me when I saw his tongue start to protrude from his mouth, his eyeballs bulging. I held on and waited for that subtle change in skin coloring from white to blue.
I snarled, “You f*cking gangbanger. You f*cking had to rape another guy up the ass with the help of a bunch of Hellfire Aryans? That’s the f*cking lowest of the low. I don’t want you in my f*cking chapter, and I don’t even want you in my f*cking club.”
But the sturdy Breakiron still had life in him. He had enough gumption to make a desperate elbow drive into my abdomen, sending me staggering back across the floor. I stepped on the stupid f*cking spoon—I guess it was better than stepping on a fork—so I was completely off balance by the time I slammed into the fridge. Breakiron had the advantage now, landing a resounding uppercut to my jaw that had me seeing stars. A box of Dingo’s Froot Loops must’ve been knocked over on top of the fridge because the sugary rings sprayed all over my head harmlessly.
“And I’m not gonna be Veep in a new f*cking chapter underneath you,” he roared goonishly.
All the wind had been knocked from me, so Breakiron started pummelling me in the gut. I had just the barest inkling of air left in my lungs to gasp, and I kneed him a straight bullseye to the balls.
This was a good time for my own uppercut to his nose, sending Breakiron lurching backward like a Frankenstein. I was gratified to see a fountain of blood spray from his nose. I was even sort of irked some of it splashed on the floor tiles.
I didn’t let up, taking the advantage I had and advancing on the moron. One, two, three, a right hook, then a left, then another right hook to his idiotic jaw, and he was crashing back on top of the flimsy breakfast table. The dishes that, of course, were still there from breakfast exploded as though a bomb had gone off under the table. A piece of a plate hit me in the forehead.
But I wasn’t going to give up. His face was already so swollen, broken wide open like a razzleberry pie, and his eyes looked like two cartoon Xs. But as soon as he started crawling up out of the breakage like the dickwad from the bottomless pit that he was, I was on him, chopping him in the throat with the side of my hand. He kept struggling to get up, and I kept chopping him down. I wasn’t going to let him stand until he cried uncle.
“Men! Men!” cried Dingo.
I had enough of an advantage now to back off a few inches and turn to look at the Prospect. He stood there with grocery bags—I’d been given the authority to purchase him his own Softail Harley, and he was having a blast riding his used scoot.
“Fighting is not the answer!”
He looked so clean and chaste standing there, which I guess he was. I still wasn’t used to having someone so uncorrupted and righteous living under my roof. “Hey, Dingo. I hate to break it to you. Sometimes fighting is the answer.”
Behind me, Breakiron just roared his reply. His face now resembled spaghetti and meatballs, but he clutched a deadly shard of ceramic. “I’m not going to be Veep under you, you sleazy *! First you push up on Papa’s old lady. Now you’re schmoozing all over one of The Prophet’s wives. Who the f*ck can trust you?”
Dingo asked seriously, “You made passes at the Prez’s old lady?” He was just getting the hang of the biker lingo, and everything sounded funny coming out of his prissy mouth.
Ignoring him, I loomed over Breakiron. “Well, that’s just f*cking fine with me! Because I don’t want you being Veep under me!” I had no idea what he was talking about. He appeared to have heard some news that I hadn’t. In retrospect, maybe Sax Saxonberg had even heard this news before me. So I bluffed my way through. “When I’m Prez of the Avalanche chapter of the Assassins, I’m going to pick someone totally new for my Veep! You’d make a shitty Sergeant-at-Arms, too. When are you going back to Bullhead City?”
Continuing to the fridge and crunching breakfast cereal underfoot, I swooped a bottle of cold water from the crisper and sauntered past Dingo, still standing there holding the bags. I had a f*cking important job to do, and couldn’t risk Breakiron giving me a broken bone.
“I’m never gonna let you become Prez!” was the last thing Breakiron shouted, still in a pile of fried eggs and bacon bits.
I was heading down the front interior stairs when Dingo made his big statement. He declared, “I want to come with you.”
That made me stop. It had never occurred to me to bring anyone with me on this run. “Say what?”
“I want to come with you down to Mesquite. If you’re going to be the Prez of our new chapter, I should be allowed to start doing things most Prospects do. You’ll need someone to guard your bike while you negotiate the guns, right?”
That was true. “You’ve never even handled a gun, much less shot one.” That was on my to-do list. Take Dingo to the shooting range.
“But I can look menacing in this cut. I am better than no one.” Finally putting down the bags, he straightened himself up, tall and proud. “Just wearing this cut will scare off a few thugs, at least.”
I paused, thinking. Then I heard Breakiron bellowing in the kitchen, so I quickly said, “Okay. Come right now, though.”
We’d ridden together before, of course. Dingo knew how to ride sweep behind me, and he was right, it was better than no one. Not that he looked menacing, with his white Nikes and absence of ink.
But he was right. I had no one else. Dingo was it. And if I was really going to start a new chapter here in the Zion foothills, I’d need to start with the best of the best.