Chapter 22

CHAPTER

TWENTY-TWO

CLINK

Atomic, King, and I moan identical groans as we sink down into our chairs that are placed around the conference table. Although I’m not sure Atomic is feeling anything at all right now other than hot rage.

I’m not sure why, though. Lifting my chin, I cross my hands over my stomach and close my eyes for just a moment to breathe. Resting my head back, I wait for the room to fill. When it does, Atomic announces it’s time to start.

I open my eyes and watch him for a moment as I wait for whatever it is he’s got up his ass. Clearly, there is something up his ass because he looks like he wants to rip someone’s head off.

“Vixen fucked us in a big way,” he begins. “As most of you know, she had a kid with Blur. A kid that is now set to be in transit to the Southern Mafia. Promises were made, betrayals were fucking had, and now we have both Blur and Conrad locked in the basement along with Vixen.”

“What's gonna happen with them?” King asks.

Atomic’s brows snap together. “The rest of their men are gone, at least the ones at that fucking Airbnb. Now we have to deal with the ones who are waiting for Conrad to come home. The ones who are waiting for the shipment of bitches that will be heading their way.”

“And you’re pissed because?” I ask.

He lets out a heavy sigh. “I’m pissed because Vixen didn’t just recently fuck us. She's done it for years. And with her fucking, three of us got stabbed, an old lady was kidnapped, and we’re still not done with this.”

“Where do we wage war?” Guts asks.

Atomic’s lips twitch. “War has been waged,” he states. “I’ve called in a few clubs for backup. But we are at war. Demon Guns and Southern Mafia. We are done with those shipments. We focus on beer deliveries and loans the way we used to. I don’t want to owe anyone a goddamn thing.”

“What happens with Conrad, Blur, and Vixen?” I ask.

“I’m so fucking pissed the fuck off,” Atomic growls.

I almost laugh because, yeah, he’s pissed, but this isn’t anything new. I wonder if it’s the pain meds that have him all fucked up. I almost ask him but decide against it. He’s still working on his anger in this situation. But I’d like to get to my woman, so as entertaining as this is, I’m ready to go.

“The Demon Guns and Southern Mafia have been working together for years. Something they hid from everyone. It isn’t going to be easy to go to war with them both at the same time, but we can’t have any survivors.”

“Vixen’s kid?” I ask.

“Will still go to Nash. There’s no way in fuck that we can let her be free. We don’t know what she knows or what they fucking told her. She needs to be watched. And when I say watched, I mean under lock and goddamn key,” he states.

“We need a vote,” he continues.

We all stare at him, wondering what’s got him so raging angry. Then it finally hits me. He’s scared. He’s been stabbed, almost lost his wife, and he’s got an old lady and kids now.

I don’t blame him because if I did, I would be a goddamn hypocrite. I can’t deny that this one was bad. We got fucking jumped and weren’t expecting it. I don’t know if any of us have been blindsided like that before.

He feels as weak as we do. I know he does. President or not, he’s still just a man, a husband, and a father. We aren’t the same men we were a few years ago. I suck in a breath and hold it for a moment as he continues.

“A vote?” Piston asks.

Atomic stands as straight as he can before he speaks. “A vote. Three, actually. I want to know how you feel about war with the Southern Mafia, war with the Demon Guns, and ending Vixen for her betrayal.”

“Aye,” Rim states, standing. “They all go down. I’m tired of this shit. All of it. I want to be done and have at least five fucking minutes of peace,” he states.

I don’t blame him. I feel the same way. I am done with all this fucking shit. We all deserve a few months, if not decades, of free and easy. We haven’t had that, and it’s time we make it happen for ourselves.

“I second,” I say, deciding that I’m done with this shit, too. “Vixen fucked us. Clubwhore or not, Dark Horse property or not, she brought all of this on herself. I’m tired of this whole thing. My woman was taken, and they fucking knew she was mine. They did it just to fuck with us, and that’s not acceptable. Not to mention none of them gave much of a fuck when we were stabbed.”

“Hear, hear,” King grumbles.

“So, who votes yay?” Atomic calls out. Everyone raises their hands. “And nay?”

Not one single person raises their hand. “Then war it is,” Atomic states. “And Vixen is out.”

“Out,” Piston growls.

“No time for a betraying cunt,” I grind out.

“Exactly,” Piston agrees.

Atomic looks over to Brew and jerks his chin. “Let’s start bringing them in one at a time. See if we can get anything.”

“Sure you want to torture people in here?” Brew asks.

Atomic chuckles. “You’re right,” he says. “Take Conrad to the warehouse. Let’s get this shit rolling,” he murmurs.

I have to admit that I’m glad we, as a club, are taking action. I feel like we’ve spent far too fucking long trying to make deals and keep the peace. Fuck peace. We only live once, and I’m tired of these bullshit contracts.

I know that Atomic was just trying to make shit easy and diversify, but I think working with Sal, the keg deliveries, and loan-sharking are the way to go. That’s enough shit on our plates.

“Not to add more shit to your plate,” I call out, thinking out loud.

Atomic stops, arching a brow as his gaze focuses and trains on mine. “We need to think about maybe being more active with Sal’s,” I offer.

Atomic jerks his chin. “When this shit is done, I think we as a club need to sit down and hash out a full plan of diversification.”

I like the sound of that.

A hell of a lot.

Together, all of us head to the metal shop that’s on the property. The prospect, Zombie, is dragging Conrad into the building just as we arrive. I watch as he lifts his arms to attach the rope to the hook that hangs from the ceiling. There is a drain below him that will catch all the blood once we get to work.

It’s now time to find out everything he knows.

Expertly.

DILLION

Checking my email, I sign the disclosure agreements and the rest of the documents my real estate agent sent me a couple of weeks ago. She probably thinks I’ve changed my mind, but I haven’t. I’m ready to sell this house and move on.

It’s also time for me to get back to work. I spent one day feeling sorry for myself, crying, and being scared. Now it’s time for me to put my big-girl panties on and earn some money. Because as soon as I can, I’m getting out of here—maybe even sooner than that.

When I open my front door, the first time I’ve emerged from my house since Rim dropped me off, I’m surprised to find a man standing on my front porch. He’s wearing a Dark Horse MC vest, but instead of his position on the chest, it reads PROSPECT .

“Name’s Wackie. I’m in charge of your person.”

I stare at him for a moment, blinking, unsure I’ve heard what I have. In charge of my person? What the hell does that mean? I start to ask him, then I decide that I don’t care. He can do whatever he wants.

“Okay,” I murmur, turning my back to him before I walk to my car.

I sink down into the front seat before I start the engine. I have to adjust the seat. No doubt a man drove the car from Sal’s Bar because my legs aren’t short, but I can’t even reach the pedals.

Without waiting for him, without giving a shit, I back down my driveway and head toward the bar. I haven’t talked to Sal since being taken, so hopefully I still have a job waiting for me. Although I can’t imagine he would fire me for being kidnapped. He seems like a guy who has gone through this kind of stuff before.

The moment I pull into the parking lot, my breathing starts coming out in quick pants. I didn’t think this would bother me. But it does. The parking spot comes into view. The one my car was parked in when that asshole took me.

I don’t park there. Instead, I pull into a spot as far away from that one as possible. The sound of a motorcycle rumbles behind me somewhere, but I can’t even look behind me. I’m too busy attempting to breathe so that I don’t pass out.

Forcing myself out of the car, I move. One foot in front of the other. One, two, three. I count my steps in an effort to focus on anything other than the fact that I was taken from here and I want to freak out right now.

I can’t do that, though.

I need to make some money so I can get the hell out of here. I can’t sit around and feel sorry for myself or be scared. What I need to do is work. Make money, pack my shit, and get the hell away.

The beach is calling my name, so I think that’s where I’ll go. I know it’s expensive, but at the same time, I know the ocean has healing properties, too, and I think I need them now more than ever.

I need to heal from my childhood, from Humble and his lies, from my kidnapping, from everything in this life. I just need to heal and breathe. To find peace within myself. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be wholly at peace, but I can at least try.

The only way to know is if I try.

And I need to leave to do that. Staying anywhere near Shreveport or Pineville will do nothing but keep me down and hold me back.

Walking into the bar, I make my way straight to Sal’s office. The door is closed, which doesn’t surprise me. Sal tends to keep his office locked up whether he’s inside or not.

Lifting my hand, I ball my fist and knock three times, then close my eyes and breathe slowly as I wait for him to call me in. He does. I open the door, slip inside, and close it behind me.

Sal is sitting behind his desk. He doesn’t lift his head for a long moment, but when I stay quiet, his eyes flick up to meet mine, and when they do, his head follows. I watch as his gaze connects with mine, holding unwavering contact for several breaths before he stands from behind his desk.

He moves toward me, a smile appearing on his face as he approaches me. His arms widen and he envelops me in a hug. The moment my arms wrap around him, my entire body exhales and my eyes close.

I breathe.

“You’re okay, honey,” he murmurs, his hand rubbing up and down my back. He takes a step backward, his fingers gripping my biceps. He looks into my eyes, his gaze searching. “You’re going to be okay,” he states.

“I will,” I whisper.

“You want to work the storeroom tonight? We have plenty of inventory to do.”

His offer is sweet—so sweet. I know he’s trying to protect me, but I need the tips and the paycheck. That paycheck is going to get me out of here. The tips are the icing, and I need as many hours as possible.