“What the hell are you talking about?” Jack barks.
“Now, hold on Prezzy, I can see the crazy creeping in,” Riggs tells him. “Hear me out before you pop a vein in your forehead.”
Knowing he’s right, that Jack’s about to blow his top, I order Riggs to explain himself.
“The garage has served its purpose as an acting clubhouse but let’s be honest, we all know it’s taking away from business. Wolf can show you the ledger—”
“Wolf ain’t here to show shit,” Jack interrupts, running his fingers through his salt and pepper hair. “He turned in his patch.”
More fucking revelations.
My eyes snap to Jack but before I can encourage him to explain, Pipe loses his shit.
“What do you mean Wolf turned in his patch?” Pipe roars, setting his elbows on top of the table as he leans forward.
“Of all people, I have to explain that to you?” Jack fires back, throwing the past in his face. “Apparently, having his son shot and getting doused in gasoline by a man he considered his brother was too much for him,” he reveals. “He wants out and I can’t say I blame him.”
There are vital organs to the human body. When one doesn’t work, the rest begin to shut down, and it’s only a matter of time before someone is signing off on a death certificate. Wolf isn’t just a vital organ, he’s the fucking heart. Without him, well, we’re as good as dead.
“Whoa,” I say, dropping the phone on the table.
“Hey,” Riggs calls.
I ignore him and keep my eyes pinned to Jack. There are two ways I can play this. One, I pacify him and keep the crazy at bay, buying myself time to make sense of everything and possibly pay Wolf a visit in which I then get on my knees and beg the bastard to take back his patch. Or, two, I throw Wolf under the bus. With any luck, Jack will be pissed and instead of walking with his tail between his legs, thinking he wronged his brother, he goes and orders Wolf to get over it, telling him this club sinks without him.
Taking a gamble, I go with option two.
“Nico getting shot was not the clubs fault. As for the gasoline thing, he knows how you operate. He knows your head and still, he kept shit from you…from all of us.”
“That’s irrelevant,” Jack argues.
“The fuck it is,” I hiss, turning to Linc. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight,” Linc replies.
“He’s known Cain had a son for twenty-eight years, Parrish,” I holler. “Never once did he give any of us any inclination of that.”
“What would that have changed?” Jack counters.
“Who knows, maybe it wouldn’t have changed anything but, maybe, we could’ve put together Yankovich’s motive sooner had we known.”
“Wolf didn’t know about Cain and Yankovich until a couple of days before it all imploded,” Jack argues.
“You know that for a fact?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“What the fuck is this Blackie?” Jack shouts.
This is me, the struggling addict, trying to keep my fucking head above water. Me, the man who has a wife he’s tired of failing. A man who knows this doesn’t end well for any of us.
“As the man who is first to put himself in front of a bullet for you and the man who leads in your absence, I’m asking you how you know that?”
“You still take your orders from me, Black.”
“Answer the question, Jack,” Pipe interjects, taking a stand.
Like me, he doesn’t want to fucking sink either.
“He says he didn’t know and I fucking believe him,” Jack growls, slamming his hand against the table. “Do I need to remind all you motherfuckers what that man has done for this club? Yeah, he should’ve told us about Linc and he probably should’ve told us sooner about Cain’s connection to Yankovich but, for nearly thirty years that man has devoted his life to this family. Yeah, I said family,” he affirms, leaning over the table. “And you know why I said it? Because that’s exactly what that motherfucker made this club. Now, I dare any of you to tell me otherwise.”
“I know I’m the last person who should speak right now but, our president is right. Wolf has gone out of his way for everyone sitting at this table. For some, like me, he’s gone above and beyond personally. For others, for everyone with a bottom rocker, he’s done everything to keep this club above water. None of us would be sitting here if he didn’t have faith in the values this club holds,” Linc says.
“Fact,” Deuce agrees.
“He’ll be back,” Pipe says, leaning back against his chair as he pins his eyes to Jacks. “Take it from me, this club is embedded in his soul. He needs to ride like he needs to breathe but right now, he needs a break. He needs to find—”
“He needs to find his fucking heart is what he needs,” Jack interrupts. Lifting a finger, he points to every man at the table, including me. “You all think I’m fucking crazy when I tell you to find yours but those of you who found it, know I’m fucking right. There needs to be a balance and there needs to be something in your life that reigns over the patch. Something that makes life worth living and this ain’t it.”
As true as that is for most of the men sitting at this table, it’s not the case for me and Jack. We both have found our heart and neither of us will ever find that balance. For him, the patch reigns over his mind and his family and for me, it comes before my sobriety and my love for his daughter. I don’t tell him that though. Instead, I let the poor bastard think he’s got all the answers.
Lacey’s voice rings in my ears, reminding I don’t need to be perfect, I just need to be well.
Maybe if I take her advice the rest of this shit will fall into place.
Maybe I won’t feel like I’m suffocating anymore.
Maybe I won’t jones for a fix of poison.
Yeah, fucking right.
Chapter Twelve
Blackie
No one spoke on the matter of Wolf after that and Riggs revealed he purchased a bar that he’s secretly been converting into our new clubhouse. We went from one fucking shit storm to another. Tuning out Lacey’s voice, I was ready to crack and so was Jack.
“There is a massive back room we can use for a chapel and two apartments upstairs that I opened up and converted into individual bedrooms. Bas can finally get out of the projects and Needles, I even made a room for your daughter. The bar will be extra income for the club and help us get out of the red,” Riggs shares.
Until now, I didn’t think our lack of having a clubhouse was an issue. Our days of partying and housing whores were long gone. Most of us were married and had our own homes, others made do with apartments, making the need for room and board for riders obsolete. If another club dragged their pipes through our streets and needed a place to land, one of us had no problem opening our homes for a while and we were making things work by operating out of Pipe’s garage.
Jack grips the edge of the table and bites the inside of his cheek. If I know him as well as I think I do, he’s battling his pride. Jack doesn’t like anyone sweeping in to clean up his messes but me. Everyone here knows it was his responsibility to rebuild what we lost but there was always something standing in his way, some enemy or dire situation and the clubhouse fell to the bottom of the list of his priorities. Riggs taking the initiative has been a tough pill for Jack to swallow.