“Not sure. I haven’t seen them.” We’d prospected together, and I knew his tells. Slate didn’t have a poker face, so when he wiggled in his seat, I knew I had him. Why, though? That was the question.
I contemplated what could have held up Sabre and Grizz, but no scenario I came up with required both of them. Checking down the table, I saw Scrub was sitting in his chair, so no one was sick. As much as I hated it, I’d have to wait with everyone else, unless I got Slate to crack.
Leaning over, I put my elbows on the table, staring him down. The man loved to talk about other people’s problems, so I used a phrase I knew he couldn’t resist. “Have you heard anything?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head, taking a gulp of his soda in front of him. “Alright, I saw them. Prez got a phone call, and when he looked at the screen, he waved to Grizz. They’re in the office. That’s all I know.”
“So why didn’t you fucking say that the first time?” I shook my head, not following why he had hidden that. There were just some things about Slate I’d never understand, and I needed to accept that.
“The only thing I can think of is that Gerry is making more deals with the cartel. The man has a fucking death wish,” Twig muttered. “I still have nightmares from when I had to babysit him. Fucking menace.”
“Yeah, but Prez made it up to you. He gave you the week off with pay, while Berry and I had to clean the Playroom.” Pint wagged his finger at Twig before flicking him off.
“If it’s about Gerry, something happened in rehab. The cartel wouldn’t make a house call like that. Besides, if they want another fight, we’re nowhere near ready.” Op had said the quiet part out loud. “We were lucky we only lost A last time.”
I’d never sat out a club fight, and I wasn’t about to now, but my prime years were over. It had taken a week for my body to recover, and I’d nearly lost my head a few times. I wasn’t the only one who’d walked around afterwards with ice packs in places I wasn’t willing to tell. If something or someone was coming after the club again, how many of us would still stand?
“Is it nine yet?” Count asked, stretching his arms towards the ceiling. “If we’re being dragged into another fight, I’d rather not speculate.”
Pretty pointed his pen at Count. “No one’s guessing—especially about why the fuck you’re wearing gray sweatpants.”
Wreck couldn’t hold in the growl that escaped. He leaned over the table, placing his palms flat against the surface, but then his eyes scanned the room, looking for reactions. Most of the brothers were blatantly staring at the walls. No one wanted to be on the receiving end of Wreck’s grudge.
“Shouldn’t you be checking out Wreck’s dick and not mine?” Count popped open an energy drink.
“Better be careful. You drink too many of those, and you won’t be able to get it up, like your buddy over there.” Pretty’s pen shifted from Count to Cyph and then back at himself. “I don’t have that problem.”
“Knock it off. We got shit to discuss.” Sabre walked into church with Grizz right behind him. No one was concerned that they’d strolled in right on time. They hadn’t brought coffee cups with them, and that was what made the brothers uneasy.
“Let’s get the club businesses out of the way,” Sabre directed at Pretty.
“I’ll go first,” Grizz piped up. “The construction crew has finished opening the ceiling of the banquet center. I don’t get the aesthetic, but it looks nice. As soon as the tracks come in, they’re going to give Meredith a call, but they think they’ll have them installed by the end of the week.”
Sabre shifted forward, laying his crossed arms on the table. “You know what that means?” There were five Wise Men, and as his gaze bounced between us, I had my suspicions. We were going to get “volunteered” for some shitty project.
“It’s going to need paint.”
“Why the fuck is it always us?” Slate moaned. “I paid my dues. I’m retired.”
I didn’t mind the manual labor, but I was with Slate on this one. I’d paid my dues to the club, and now, I was supposed to kick back and reap the rewards.
“I’ll volunteer,” Count chimed in.
“You’re thinking with your dick,” Pretty said, looking down at his notebook. “If Kelly shows up, she’ll be here at the clubhouse, and you’ll be painting. It’s a good thing those pants aren’t working for you.”
Count leaned over, looking down the table at Wreck. “I think I speak for everyone here when I say we don’t care. Fix him.”
An uneasiness settled around the table. Count was right. None of the brothers cared if Wreck claimed Pretty, but until they got their shit together, no one wanted to say anything they’d regret in fear Wreck would retaliate.
“Enough,” Sabre stepped in quickly to defuse the situation. He had been doing that a lot lately. If he had to choose, he would take Pretty’s side, opening a can of worms no one wanted to deal with. “I’ll ask for volunteers when we’re ready.”
“You just signed us up with Thunder.” Grizz laid his head back against his chair, closing his eyes. “For someone who couldn’t care less about the banquet center, my wife will be awfully bitchy if I try to get out of this.”
“I don’t mind,” I said, taking a sip of my coffee for something to do.
The roll call continued, but there wasn’t anything exciting. I tuned out. This wasn’t my problem. Count made sure we were all paid handsomely, and Sabre oversaw the entire operation with Grizz’s help.
“Any other club business we need to discuss?” Sabre asked, running a hand over his face. The room went silent, knowing this was the start of whatever bomb he was going to drop on us.