She hmphs and says, “Traitor,” then the line goes dead.
In my left ear, Ma says, “Thanks, Punk,” and hangs up the phone. Tossing Chel’s cell at her and shoving mine back in my pocket, I look down at my half-hard dick.
“Girl trouble?” she asks, smirking and resuming her position. The thought of discussing Alex with her makes my dick want to deflate.
“No, now blow,” I say, pointing at my dick.
“Fine, don’t talk. It’s not like word hasn’t spread around the club anyway,” she says, reaching into my boxers and cupping my balls. I close my eyes once more and try to drown out the subtle judgment in her tone. The shit that’s been flying around here hasn’t come from me, but between the Lost Girls and my brothers, word has spread. I wasn’t exactly subtle that night I fucked Alex and sent her packing. Half our charter was in the room when she walked out, looking so fucking used. It’s not like I knew anybody was there, but even if I had, what did she expect me to do? Escort her to the door? Pop made it pretty fucking clear at Church last time that Alex was off-limits to the club. It’s one thing to fuck her—my brothers won’t rat on me for that—but it’s another to claim her.
It takes me longer to come than I’d like, but when I do, I come down quick. Before Chel can even finishing swallowing, I’m zipping up my pants and I’m out the door. When I make it to the end of the hall and into the chapel, all of our members in good-standing are in the room. The long, rectangular table stretches out over ten feet in length. At the very back of the room, Pop sits at the head of the table with our Sergeant at Arms, Grady, to his left, and Wyatt, our Vice President, to his right. Next to Grady is Ian, our treasurer, and across from him is Duke, our secretary.
I cross the room and sit in my seat beside Ian and across from our patched members who don’t hold officer positions—Diesel and Bear. Chief and Fish sit next to me and at the end, respectively. Over all, we’re a fairly young charter. We have to be, for the shit we do. As members age, they tend to uproot for Nevada or Oregon, maybe Arizona. The oldest of the old usually put themselves out to pasture like Rage has, in the Nevada desert. But out here, in the middle of Mendocino County, where we grow the finest fucking bud on the planet, we need the younger guys—more for their brawn than their brains.
Tall comes to the doors and shuts them, closing himself off from the patched members of the club, and Pop thunks down the gavel as Church begins. He starts off by going over old business, getting up to date on our grow houses, and making sure we’re set up for runs into Wilks as scheduled. Then we finally get to the important part of Church: Cub.
“Ruby got a hold of Gloria last night, found out a few of Mancuso’s guys left a few days ago. Low ranking,” Pop says.
“Not a problem,” Grady grunts out from Pop’s side. But Pop waves a dismissive hand in the air.
“There is a problem,” he says. “Ruby’s boy is with them.”
“Fuck,” I grit out and slam my fist down into the solid wood table. I knew about the phone call with Ma and Gloria, but not about Michael.
“Where do we stand on the boy?” Grady asks.
“Same rules apply as with Cub. Can’t touch him,” Pop says. Wyatt shakes his head and leans his elbows on the table, looking around the table for our reactions. My body vibrates with anger at this turn of events.
“We don’t know what side of the fence the boy falls on. Don’t think we can risk finding out,” Wyatt says. While I’m inclined to agree, the boy belongs to Ma. If the club votes him dead, I can’t be the one to do it. Neither can Ian. Even though they’ve never met, they’re bonded by blood. Pop sure as fuck can’t carry that burden with him. Looking around the table, I don’t know who can. Each one of these bastards loves Ma like she’s his own, and for some of them—like me—she’s the only mother they’ve ever had.
Ian’s steel-toed boots tap into the concrete floor to my right. His frame is hunched over the table, his elbows resting on the edge, his arms steepled, and his forehead resting on his fists. He can’t be the one to say it, or our brothers will give him shit about loyalty. Fuck it, I’m already on their shit lists.
“We can’t touch him,” I say. The entire table turns to look at me. Ian turns his face just slightly, giving me an appreciative glance. “Not if we don’t have to.”
“And if he hurts Princess? You willing to risk that, Trigger?” Duke asks, speaking up for the first time.