AK—Sergeant-at-Arms, high-tower, long brown hair, goatee, late twenties, could hit any mark perfect, ex-marine sniper—lifted his chin.
“Got a contact within the Chechens. They may be interested. They’re at war with the Reds. Could be perfect revenge. We tell ’em what the Russians are packing. They’ll wanna match it. We supply it, sends a message to the red fuckers never to undercut us again.”
I nodded, a sliver of relief settling in my bones.
Set it up, I ordered in ASL, and the brothers all around the table seemed to relax.
Flame—crazy faux-hawked motherfucker, twenty-five, orange flame tattoos up his neck, with scars and piercings covering half his body—got to his feet, snarling, pacing the room, slapping his arms one after the other. He’d spent most of his life in and out of the nut house, total anger issues, then got out and went killing scum for kicks. Some real messed-up shit. Couple’a years later, he found us. We recruited him. He helped us in the Mexican war, proved a hundred percent club loyalty. We patched him in. Now we let him loose on those who deserve a completely fucked-up way to die. Crazy bastard gets real inventive.
Flame grabbed my knife from the wall, lifted it to cut a slice on the underside of his arm, then groaned like some slut was sucking on his dick. Blood ran to the floor. He hissed in pleasure, wired eyes closing. Shit, the dude was built. He’d be pretty damn good-looking if he didn’t have death permanently in his eyes. Bitches were right to stay the fuck away from the psycho. If any of them touched him, he’d fuckin’ rip out their hearts with one hand.
Ky rolled his eyes at me. I got what he was saying. Flame needed a release. He’d get one soon enough. We all would. War was coming. I could fuckin’ feel it in my bones.
“You good, brother?” Ky asked Flame. We all just stared at him, fuckin’ bloodletting, his hard dick straining in his leathers.
Flame walked toward me, presenting me with my bloodied knife. His black eyes blazed. “Need blood spilt. Snitch needs teaching a lesson. I got revenge burning in me, Styx. Got venom stirring my veins.”
“Brother, when we get a lead, you’re up,” Ky assured Flame as I nodded in agreement.
Flame smiled, his white teeth shining, his black, tattooed scripted gums reading Pain silhouetted against pink flesh. “Fuck yeah!”
Facing the rest of the brothers, I scanned for twitches or signs of fear.
Still nothing.
Not one. Fuckin’. Thing.
As I shifted in my chair, I signed. My VP read out loud, “Any other business?”
A wave of shaking heads answered the question. I grabbed the gavel, slamming it down on the hard wood.
Turning to the brothers, Ky flashed his winning smile. “Now, don’t know ’bout y’all, but I’m getting me some pussy.”
I rose from my chair and the brothers fled to pick their slut-for-the-night, each one silent and clearly pissed. Ky stayed behind.
Fuckin’ Kyler Willis; twenty-seven, model-perfect looks, tall, lean, straight blond hair that had bitch pussy creamin’. My oldest friend. His old man was VP to my old man. After they both met the boatman in the Mexican war last year, I was voted Prez, Ky VP—only the best for the mother chapter Hangmen. We lived, breathed, and bled for Hades. When our old men died, I tried to shake the vote. Who the hell wanted a stammering, fuckin’ mute as a leader? But the brothers voted unanimous. Hades Hangmen would stay with the rightful historic line. At the age of twenty-six, I found myself Prez of the most notoriously lethal MC in all the States.
No fuckin’ pressure.
Yeah fuckin’ right!
Ky put his hand on my shoulder. “We’ll get ’em. No one crosses us, Styx. Everyone knows how we run things ’round Texas. Fuckers just signed their own death warrant.”
I huffed a laugh and ran my hand over my unshaven cheeks. “M-me and y-you gonna sort this quick. R-right?” I winced as my stutter came into full effect, the liquor only able to give me a fuckin’ few moments before the python’s vise took back its hold. I’d grown to fuckin’ hate signing, but for some messed-up reason, I could only talk to Ky. Now my old man had gone to Hades, I could only talk to one person.
He smiled that damn cheesy smile. “Right.”
Sighing, I said, “F-F-F-FUCK! Y-you… you sh-should be P-P-Prez, K-Ky.”
Ky went nose-to-nose with me. “Should I fuck! You can’t speak for shit; I get that. But you use your hands as your words. You lead by example, brother. You’re always there at the front line, taking and delivering the first round of fire. You are the Hangmen’s Prez, so shut the fuck up! Your old man always meant for you to follow him, just like his old man before him. Yeah, it may have come a few years early, but you’ve been taking names ’round these parts for years. Age ain’t nothing but a damn number in this life. It’s all about fuckin’ guts and you got that shit in spades! Christ, Styx, you’re the infamous Hangmen Mute!”
Stepping back, Ky rubbed his hands together, smiling wide. “Plus, I’m too damn pretty to be in charge. I get on just fine with being your mouthpiece. Don’t y’all know I fuckin’ love the sound of my own voice!”
Hell, he had that right. Sometimes I wondered what the hell he was doing wasting his life in this club. His looks, his personality giving him what he needed to succeed elsewhere. But like me, it’s all we know. We’re lifers—born and bred to wear a cut.
No way out.
Didn’t want out neither.
Ky threw an arm around my shoulders. “So now you’ve quit being a weeping pussy, you gonna get Lois to relieve some stress?”
“Y-yeah.”
“Cool. I got dibs on Tiff and Jules. You wanna see them licking on each other, man. Fuckin’ makes me blow every time. Even better when it’s in one of their tight asses. Crackin’ view…” He waited for my response. “You get it… crackin’… ’cause of the ass…”