“I’m gonna hold a meet to talk about voting her in,” I say. His body tenses even worse, and he shakes his head, but a tiny smile forms at the corner of his mouth. It’s just for a second, and then it’s gone.
“The club told you to back off—what would you do?”
“Depends on the reason,” I say. We rarely ever discuss anything as deep as this. I mean, why the fuck would we? Typically, we’re both perfectly fine just fucking around. But then everything started to change. Finally getting Nic into bed after all these years meant something more than finally fucking my high school crush. Then this shit with Princess, and my head’s not been right in a damn long time.
“Say Nic did what Cub did,” he says. His knuckles are gripping the counter so tight I think he might crack the fucking thing off.
“Shit like that ain’t easy to forget. Bitches in this life—they snort shit, suck dicks, and fuck around, and we don’t give a fuck about that shit as long as they keep their mouths shut about club business. Princess was miserable, sure. I get that, dude. But she broke the one fucking rule we got—the only fucking thing that makes this work: our silence.”
“You think I don’t know that?” His voice booms, and his head shoots up. His gray eyes shoot daggers at me. “You really think I ain’t thought about this—that my dick’s the only thing that matters?”
“Then what does matter?” I ask quietly. In all the years I’ve known this mother fucker he’s never opened up like this. Even when we were kids and he’d get hurt, all he’d do is start kicking the ground and throwing a fit. Didn’t matter if he’d fucked up his knee or broke his arm—he was pissed and kicking the dirt. “What is it about this chick that’s got your dick in knots?”
“She thanked me,” he says lowly. “The trip back from Brooklyn, we’re all standing around listening to Pop ramble the fuck on. She’s got to be scared as fuck, but she looks at me and fucking thanks me. Nobody ever thanks me.”
“You’re ready to lose your patch because Princess has manners?” I ask, almost incredulous.
“Fuck,” he shouts in frustration. He lifts the empty beer bottle from the counter, and throws it against the back wall. I force myself to keep a steady eye as he kicks at the floor three times and then slams his fist into the counter.
“Say you go against Grady and the club votes you down. He’s barely tolerating her being in Pop’s house as it is. You lose your patch for her and that crazy bitch is gonna follow you wherever you go.”
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. He’s taking a chance by talking to me. I know that shit’s not easy.
“Problem is, Bro—you lose your patch and ride off into the sunset, and what happens when Mancuso finds you? Way I see it, the only thing keeping her alive is this club. You can’t do that shit on your own.”
“Tell me what to do,” he says in a plea. I bite my tongue to stop myself from cracking a joke. Trigger’s not one to give up control easily, and he pretty much never asks for help. I consider ribbing him about it, but if I tried that, he’d probably self-destruct from trying to sort this shit out on his own. I love the dude, but he’s not really a thinker.
“Let her go,” I say and take another pull of my beer. “You care way too much about her to let her get hurt, so the only thing you can do is to just let her go. At least then she’ll be safe.”
“She’s fucking relentless,” he says.
“Then make her understand that this isn’t going to happen and why,” I say.
“Yeah,” is all he says as he walks slow and defeated to his room, slamming the door behind him.
I can’t really be happy for Trigger right now. It’s not like he’s got his shit sorted and everything’s gravy. Still, seeing him this fucked up over a broad—and Princess of all people—makes this shit almost worth it. Trigger isn’t the kind of guy who gives a damn about women or how they feel, so whatever he feels for Princess must fucking mean something. And I don’t think it’s going to go away. He’s always been a company man, and going against the club to keep her close is news that’s bothering even the Nevada charter. With any luck, he’ll figure out how to turn her off enough to put an end to this shit.
I’m done, I think. I don’t want to think about this shit anymore. I need food and a comfortable bed to pass the fuck out on. Without thinking twice about it, I pull my phone from my pocket and hit the number nine, then wait for her to answer. But she doesn’t. It’s fucking typical. The phone rings and rings until the voice mail message picks up.