“You ain’t in any shape to go,” he scowls. “You’re drinkin’ like this every night, you’ll be too hung over to function.”
“I’ll be fine. You forget, I’ve trained for this,” I joke.
Tank shoots me an angry look but doesn’t answer. He’s silent the rest of the way back to my place. I try for a few jokes, but he doesn’t take the bait on any of them. He doesn’t say another damn word, in fact, until we’re in my living room — me on the couch, him sitting in on the coffee table.
It doesn’t escape me that we’re both sitting exactly where we were the day he asked me to be Ember’s protection.
“You want a drink?” I crack, even though I know I’m pushing it.
“No. I do not want a goddamn drink. I told you to lay off that shit, Strike. You gave me your word you’d stand by me during all this custody bullshit. And look at your sorry fuckin’ ass.” He shakes his head, disgusted.
“What the fuck? I am standing by you,” I fire back, pulling out my smokes. “I got Ember covered, Tank. At least one of the Lords are on her all the time. She’s safe, brother.”
Tank says nothing.
Then:
“The paternity test came back.”
I stop with a cigarette halfway to my mouth and wait for him to finish.
Except one look at Tank tells me what he’s going to say.
“I’m not the father.”
“Fuck,” I hiss. I lower the cigarette. “Jesus. Shit, brother. I feel like hell about that.”
“Yeah? Then act like it!” he snaps.
“Whoa, what?” I sputter. “What the hell do you mean? I told you —”
“Goddamnit! This ain’t about Ember. Jesus!” His face is a snarl of anger, but behind that there’s nothing but pain. “You’ve been AWOL for three goddamn days. Three days, Striker, do you read me? I don’t have time right now to be worrying about whether you’re dead in a goddamn ditch somewhere.”
Tank jumps to his feet and locks eyes with me.
“If you wanna help me, pull yourself together,” he bites out. “Otherwise, get the fuck out of the way.”
Before I can respond, Tank slams out the door. A couple seconds later, his engine revs and the tires squeal as he pulls away.
Fuck. Me.
Before the fight, I told myself I wasn’t gonna let him down anymore.
“Goddamnit! Fuck!” I yell, kicking out with my boot at the coffee table. It goes crashing across the room, into the wall, where one of the legs splinters off and goes flying. I grab an empty glass and throw that against the wall, too, and then fly up off the couch and into the kitchen for something to finish what I started back at the fights. A bottle of Mad Dog, some tequila, and the dregs of some Jäger are all I find, so I grab the MD and get to work on it, in the dark sitting on the kitchen floor with my back propped up against the cabinet.
Eventually I’m lying down instead of sitting, but I keep drinking. The room gets hazy and starts to spin. Before I pass out, I realize three things I hope I remember in the morning.
First, I gotta get my life right if I ever want to be with Ember again.
Second, Tank’s right. He’s my best friend. I can’t fuckin’ let him down again.
And third, there may be one thing I can do to make shit better for him.
I’ve been thinking about it for a while. It’s a long shot. But I need to finally follow through on it.
33
Striker
Turns out I lied to Tank about being okay for the run. The morning we leave, my head is pounding like a jackhammer when I wake up.
I eat a bunch of aspirin like candy, suck down a ton of coffee and water, and do what I can to push the hangover away before I have to spend six hours riding in a formation of loud-ass Harleys. By the time I get to the clubhouse, my headache isn’t quite as bad, but I’m still gonna be hurting for this trip.
I must look as bad as I feel, because my prez, Angel, notices it right away. “You tie one on last night, brother?” he asks. “Wasn’t sure you were gonna make it.”
“I’m here,” I growl. “I’m ready. Let’s do this.”
We set off as soon as our Road Captain, Gunner, arrives. We ride in formation, with Angel and Gunner at the front, then Beast, our VP, and the rest of the officers, then the other full members. Ghost, our Sergeant at Arms, rides at the back. I haven’t been on a long run in a while, and if I didn’t feel like shit, it would be a good ride. But I do, so it fucking sucks.
But I deal with it.
The address Tank has for where Cady used to live with her ex turns out to be in a leafy neighborhood south of downtown Charlotte. It reminds me of Ember’s neighborhood a little bit, only richer and snobbier. It’s the kind of place where a well-off family engaged in organized crime can hide in plain sight — free of the suspicion or scrutiny of neighbors who are naive enough to think having money equals having good character.
It’s also the kind of place that wouldn’t look too kindly on a bunch of bikers driving down the street in full leathers, but that’s gonna work to our advantage. Once Tweak rides ahead and confirms that Cady’s ex is home, we drive up, engines revving, and surround the place. Angel, Beast, Tank and I walk up to the front door, and Beast pounds loud and hard on it until it opens.
“Jesus Christ, what —” a guy who must be Cady’s ex starts to say, but when he sees us standing there his eyes bug out and he moves to slam the door shut. Beast kicks the thing wide open, sending the guy sprawling backward. He and Tank grab Cady’s ex by the arms and pin them behind him.
“Guessin’ from your reaction, you’re Kurt Sawyer,” Angel says casually as we follow them inside. “We would have called ahead, but we wanted it to be a surprise.”
Behind us, the rest of the Lords troop in and spread out, guns drawn.
“What the hell?” Cady’s ex struggles and kicks, trying to free himself. “Who the hell are you?”
“You got any muscle around here?” Angel demands. Just then, there’s a loud pop and a yell over to our right. I turn just to see Thorn dropping an unconscious man to the floor.
“This one tried to sneak up on us,” he says simply. “Any other guards around?”
Cady’s ex pinches his lips into a thin line, then shakes his head.
“You sure about that?” Angel asks. “If you’re lying to us…”
Beast wrenches his arm up higher behind his back. Cady’s lets out a yelp. “There’s no one else!” he yells. “Who are you guys, anyway? What do you want?”
“We’re friends of Cady’s,” Angel answers. “We’re here to give you a message.”
“What message?”
Tank steps around to face him, and before the guy can react, punches him hard in the gut with his right, then gives him a solid uppercut with his left. The crack of his jawbone smashing against his upper skull echoes in the room.
“Fuu—!” Cady’s ex screams, doubling over. “Whah you do tha fah?”
“That’s the message,” Tank spits. “Maybe you didn’t hear it. You want me to repeat it?”