When I’m done with her, I shove her away roughly, and she stumbles for a moment before wiping her mouth.
Then a sultry smile crosses her face and she leans into me. “Peaches? Is that my new nickname or something?”
I raise a brow as I pull out a cigarette and light it up. A moment later, I blow smoke in her face. “Now why would I give you a new nickname when Fire Crotch fits you so well,” I say, gesturing down to her box-dyed pubes.
She frowns. “I thought you said you liked it.”
“I just wanted to see if you would do it, and you did,” I scoff.
Her expression turns outraged, but before she can reply, Crow whistles to her from across the room.
“Fire Crotch, bring that pussy over here.”
She looks to me like I might save her.
Fat fucking chance.
I turn away, and she skulks begrudgingly over to our oldest and by far heaviest member before climbing into his lap. She knows the deal—she can turn down anyone at any time. No one is gonna force her to do shit. She also knows that if she turnsdown too many people, she won’t be allowed to hang around anymore. Not unless someone lays claim to her.
I look around the semi-empty bar and see not a single other eye is set on her, so that seems unlikely.
Taking another drag of my cigarette, I pull out my phone and read the last text I got from Nick.
Nick: I’m glad you’re gonna come by. We all miss you, man.
I don’t know what possessed me to reach out to Nick, let alone agree to come to dinner. It’s been at least six months since I’ve seen Nick and years since I’ve come home for… anything. And there’s a good reason for that too.
After everything that went down, I knew what it would mean to keep a close relationship with them. What it would put them at risk for. Back then, I cared too much to do that to them. Now… shit, even I can’t convince myself I don’t care. They’re the best family I ever had. Unlike the piece of shit that’s just strolled in here.
My dad struts through the bar like he’s a king and this shithole of a bar is his goddamn castle. He looks around his “soldiers” getting drunk or getting some pussy and nods with approval. This lifestyle is unlike anything else, and in his words, the way to keep a man loyal is to keep him content—fill the bar with booze and floozies and they’ll never dream of a better place.
I nod at him. “Snakes.”
Everyone is given a nickname when they join the club. Some guys still go by their own name, but my dad didn’t think Matthew would strike fear into the hearts of his enemies, so Snakes it was. His VP Bones is walking beside him and juts out his chin to me in greeting. They’re both in their mid-fifties, and while my dad had me just before my mom passed, Bones never settled down; never had an ole lady or a kid. Their lives are one hundred percent focused around the club now. Being a kid thatgrew up in and around the club, I gotta say I think it’s the way to go.
“Church in ten,” my dad says as he walks past me, heading to the back of the house where we host our “church.”
No, we don’t gather round and talk about the gospel. Church is just what we call our meetings, our time to come together, open our goddamn mouths wide and listen to whatever horseshit he wants to shovel down our throats. Gee, do I sound bitter? It’s because I fucking am. I hate him. I hate how he runs this club; I hate how he treats its members. He won’t be in charge forever, though. One day, all this will be mine, and I’ll be implementing some serious fucking changes.
I push up from the booth and start following them, still puffing on my cigarette.
Bones and my dad are already having a hushed conversation at one end of the table, so I take a seat at the other end, then reach into my pocket and pull out my knife. I flick it open and closed repeatedly, a motion that’s become so second nature to me, it’s as easy as breathing. Though guns are obviously a cleaner and more effective approach, I’ve always preferred using them last. Maybe because I know just how goddamn much they hurt.
Chapter Seven
Naomi
Iknow he told me to stay at the house, but Nick is right. Since Matthew got out of prison, Kolter’s been spending all his time with him. He almost never makes it home in time for dinner, he’s missed Nick’s last three football games, and he didn’t even make it to the regionals for my chess team. I know his dad is forcing him to keep his distance; I just can’t understand why. We were there for him when he basically abandoned him—we’re his real family. He’s just a bio-dad. It means nothing. He owes him nothing.
Following him was tricky considering I’m fifteen. No license, no car, which means, yes, I resorted to the hot-pink bike my mom got me for my twelfth birthday. I can barely still fit on it, and it obviously doesn’t have a headlight or anything to see at night, but it does the job.
I watch as Kolter pulls into the parking lot of what looks like an abandoned warehouse. We’re only a few blocks from the house, but I can honestly say I’ve never been to this area before. Seattle can turn from urban to sketchy in a matter of a hundred feet or so, and I think it’s safe to say we’ve crossed over into the sketchy district.
I tuck myself behind a tree and watch Kolter greet a man at the door. He’s wearing a similar leather vest to Kolter. The only difference is this guy’s vest has a patch with a logo instead of the word “prospect.”
I looked up what it means to prospect a motorcycle club and hated what I found. Maybe that’s why I made the incredibly stupid decision to follow him to what I now understand is some kind of job for the club.
The man that was apparently standing watch outside the warehouse heads for his bike then rides off. Kolter takes up his spot, lighting up a cigarette as he leans against the front door.