“So what?” I knocked his hand off my shoulder, then gave him a hard shove in the chest, sending him a step back. Anger flared in my chest. What the fuck did this guy think, that he could just grab me and boss me around? I was so fucking tired of being disrespected and pushed aside and taken advantage of. “I don’t give a fuck about Empire territory. I’m with Hell’s Ankhor Crew, fucking try to fuck with me and see what happens.”
“Yeah?” the guy asked, visibly unimpressed. “You’re not even a prospect. You’re just a fucking civilian, and you better show some respect and apologize, or get the fuck out of this bar.”
“Fucking make me!” I said furiously.
He made me. I was wasted, and the guy socked me hard in the chest, sending me sprawling onto the floor into the sticky mess from the beer I’d dropped. It knocked the wind out of me. The throbbing pain, my choking breaths, the disorientation of suddenly being on the floor—nausea roiled in my gut, and I choked down bile. That’d surely only make it worse.
Then the guy’s big hand was on my arm, and another person’s hand was on my other arm, hauling me to my feet. Before I realized what was happening, I was being dragged forcibly to the front door. The guy I’d bumped into and another Empire enforcer booted me out the front door, and I stumbled onto the sidewalk and into the cold air.
I whirled around. “Fuck you guys,” I spat angrily. “You’re not going to fucking get away with this! Fucking—fucking Hell’s Ankhor Crew is going to be knocking on your door!”
“Sure, jackass,” the guy said. The door swung closed.
Then I was alone, in the cold air, on the empty street. I’d done more than my fair share of drunk driving, but even through the haze, I knew that there was no way I was getting my truck home in one piece tonight. I stumbled to where I’d parked and crawled into the tiny backseat to sleep off the booze.
In the quiet, cold dark, I tried to pull my jacket around my shoulders and stop my teeth from chattering. My head spun, my chest hurt, my stomach twisted, and that hot prickling behind my eyes was back.
Shit, this was really fucking pathetic. I couldn’t even catch a break in a different club’s bar. No one wanted me around—and why would they, when I acted like a dickhead at the slightest provocation and ended up sleeping off my sloppy mess in the back of my own fucking truck?
I couldn’t keep doing this—didn’t want to—but I didn’t know what the hell else I was supposed to do.
My thoughts went in dark circles until, thanks only to the booze still coursing through my system, I managed to fall into an uncomfortable, restless sleep.
15
Nix
“This is fucking unbelievable,” Shane said, looking like he might lunge across the table at any moment, his green eyes flashing with anger. We didn’t deal a lot with the Empire Club directly and having the president himself come to the clubhouse was a big fucking deal.
I was posted up near the front door, arms crossed, listening in disbelief as Shane furiously narrated the events of last night to Blade, Mal, Dante, and Priest. Joker was at my side, on enforcement duty as well. And Blade had wanted us both here to see how the conversation went, since we were the ones who had vouched for Dawson in the first place.
“I can put up with the occasional fuckup civilian,” Shane said through gritted teeth. “But this guy spent all week mouthing off about how he got banned from Ballast—which, whatever, what he did to get banned is his business—but last night was the last straw.”
Mal cut his gaze to me, brow furrowed deeply, before he returned his attention to Shane. Anxiety pulled my chest into knots. I’d worried about what Dawson might end up doing at Tempest—but this was even worse than I’d imagined. This felt dangerously close to rock bottom.
“And apparently,” Shane continued coldly, “this Dawson guy thinks he has the same standing as a patched-in member, because he was using your club name to threaten us. I don’t know what the fuck kind of club you guys are running that lets civilians get that close, without real supervision, but if he’s comfortable threatening us with your name, we’re going to take those threats seriously.”
“Shane, come on,” Dante said. “You know that’s not necessary.”
“No, I don’t know that. Something needs to be done about this, or we’re going to have a serious problem on our hands.” Shane’s expression darkened. “This is putting the relationship between the clubs at risk. If the Empire can’t trust Hell’s Ankhor to respect our sovereignty on our own properties—and to make reparations as necessary—there’s going to be consequences.”
“Is that a threat?” Blade asked, low.
“No,” Shane said. “It’s a response. You’ve threatened us.”
“That’s not what happened, and you know it,” Blade said. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not going to let Hell’s Ankhor walk all over us,” Shane said. “Not all of us are going to roll over like Liberty did.”
Mal pinched the bridge of his nose. “Shane. Calm down.”
“Don’t fucking tell me to calm down!” Shane barked. “This is a serious breach of our agreements, and you know it!”
I tensed. This was starting to sound a lot like Shane wanted war—or at least, revenge.
“Guys, guys,” Priest said. “Let’s take a breather here, okay? Shane, can I fix you a cup of coffee?”
The offer seemed to throw Shane for a loop, and he leaned back a little in his chair. “Sure. Fine.”
Priest stood up with a nod and padded over to the coffeemaker, then poured a big mug for Shane, and one for himself. He deposited it in front of Shane with a friendly nod, but then walked back into the kitchen to fix his own coffee with cream and sugar. A genius move, I thought—changing the conversation so Shane wasn’t facing down four leaders that didn’t like what he was saying. It diffused some of the tension in the room. Priest leaned against the kitchen counter and took a sip of his own coffee.
“I hear you,” Priest said. “And I agree with you.”
“Damn right,” Shane muttered.
“Obviously, Dawson’s not a patched-in member,” Priest explained, “and he’s clearly gotten too comfortable using the club’s name, since he’s been spending a lot of time on-site working on our renovations. Because of that, Hell’s Ankhor Crew will pay whatever reparations the Empire deems fit, within reason.” He glanced at the other three HAC leaders. “Do you guys agree with that?”
“Within reason,” Blade emphasized. “Reparations—not a chance for you to prove a point.”
Shane shot him a dark look. “You think that’s what this is about?”
“No,” Mal said, nodding gratefully at Priest. “It’s not.”
Blade took a deep breath, then nodded. “Right.”
Dante nodded in agreement. “We take responsibility for Dawson’s behavior. We’ll deal with him on our end, and then work with Empire for reparations.”
“Do you have anything in mind?” Priest asked.