“Have you heard from Nix?”
My question that’s aimed towards Poe is met with silence, telling me that he has no news. I can feel my days coming closer, it’s only a matter of time before Cruz finds her. I pick up my tequila glass and chuck it behind the bar at the mirrors lining the wall, with a hoarse scream of fury leaving my mouth. The mirrors crack like a spider web, making my reflection hazy and disoriented. Silence meets my rage, the club members knowing better than to question me, but I can hear the grumble of whispers.
“Not fit to be our president.”
“He’s losing it and caring less about our club.”
“Cruz should be wearing that president patch, not the old man.”
Each whisper, alongside the sound of cue balls ringing together on the pool table to distract themselves, so they don’t have to look at me, that tells me enough. They’re going to turn against me. Everyone is turning their backs on me, they’re out to get me.
“You okay, boss?” Whiskey mutters, starting to pour me a new drink of tequila, but I smack his hand away and take the full bottle from him as I storm out of the main compound of the club, heading towards the stairs.
“Call Nix and don’t disturb me unless you have something to report back,” I tell Poe, already climbing the stairs without a reply back, he knows the drill.
I’ll shoot him dead if he doesn’t have any news for me, what I say goes. My word is law and I’ll do whatever the fuck I want, no matter what the consequences are. It’s been weeks and I’m still no closer to finding Diana, fucking slut. I’m getting desperate, my thoughts are only on finding her before Cruz. I’ve become obsessed, nothing else matters. Cocaine doesn’t stop my mind from swirling with thoughts that keep me up at night, I can’t sleep or eat. I tip the tequila bottle back, chugging and not giving a shit as it spills past my lips, soaking my beard. Some sweetbutt will be waiting in my bed, naked and willing to do anything to please me, but I don’t want her. I want what’s been denied from me for the past eighteen years. She’s mine to take.
I walk by Rig’s old room that’s been closed for years, and stop in the middle of the hallway, stumbling back drunkenly to stand in front of the door. I eye the locked knob, taking another drink from the bottle, and can only wonder what else Rig was hiding from me. I know he helped Diana escape with fucking Doris right by his side. Traitors. I kick the door open with my boot, pitching forward as it easily gives way. It still looks exactly the same here. I never changed the room, his stuff is still here, as if he’ll be back any second. The club doesn’t really know what happened to Rig and it has to stay that way. He was my little brother, after all. Blood in, blood out, and that means something to a motorcycle club. If they only knew…
A simple room with a queen bed, small bathroom, and a dresser. I never bothered coming in here after he was gone, none of it matters to me. I sway on my feet, drinking more from the bottle until it’s almost empty and then sending it flying across the room to watch it shatter above the dresser in a mess of tequila and broken tiny pieces of glass.
“Where did you send her, Rig?” I mutter to myself in anger, catching myself on the edge of his bed before I trip, sending up dust as I lower myself to the mattress as the room spins.
Taking a small baggie out from the front breast pocket of my leather cut, I dump the white powder on his nightstand and scrabble through the rest of my wallet to cut the cocaine into a thin line, but can’t find my credit card. Opening the nightstand drawer, I rumble through the contents until I come across a photo.
Finally.
Feeling my hands shaking, I quickly line up the pure coke and bend down to snort it through my nose in a straight line. Taking a deep breath, I fall against the mattress and stare at the ceiling with thoughts of how I should kill Cruz. I can make it seem like an accident. No one would be able to understand why I just shot my vice president for no reason, and I can’t tell them the truth. I have too much at stake. I clench my fists and feel something dig into my palm. Bringing the object up to eye level, I squint at the photo. It’s Rig, taken probably a decade ago at one of our yearly cookouts that the charters throw every once and awhile. It’s always been a waste, but Rig argued it’s a way to keep your enemies close, to find out what they are up to behind chained fences. He should have taken his own advice. He’s always been a smart man. I sent him to the other clubs to talk business and it looks like he had some other charters on his side. The other man in the photo seems familiar, tan and tall with brown and purple eyes. Where have I seen him before? Did we do business with him? The longer I stare at the photo, the more the patch on his cut becomes clear.
Hell’s Devils.
That’s where Doris was before she came to my club. I remember Rig talking about that territory charter once. We did some trading, guns I believe, but I never knew Rig was that close with the prez. A throat clearing in the doorway has me looking away from the photo to see Poe glancing around, inspecting the damage with a raised eyebrow. He won’t say shit. He knows his place.
“Better be good,” I say harshly, staring at him with murder on my mind if he doesn’t start talking.
“Cruz followed a trail, they met up with a trucker who dropped off a girl at a bus station downtown. Nix believes it’s Tillie but here’s the thing. An employee at the station gave her two tickets, one for New York and another for Los Angeles. Cruz is leaving a trail of bodies in his wake-” Poe keeps talking but my attention is on the wrinkled photo in my hand.
He stops talking as I chuckle, grabbing my stomach until tears roll down my face and into my beard.
“Prez?” Poe asks warily, taking a step out of the room as I turn to grin at him like the cat that ate the canary.
“Get Whiskey, we’re going to visit another charter.” My voice comes out eager, ominous as I stand up with a stumble, and my boots crunch over the pieces of glass on the floor.
You thought you were smarter than me, brother, but how wrong you were.
“Which charter?” Poe asks, eyeing me as he texts Whiskey on his phone.
“Hell’s Devils, Los Angeles.”
You can run but you can’t hide from me.
