“Do we?” he parrots, leaning in. His jaw is locked, his eyes wild. My blood boils, my muscles tense, and my chest strains. I lean in, meeting his stance with my own and gritting my teeth. I force myself to take one deep breath after another so I’m calm enough that I can speak. I’m fucking sick of this shit. So fucking sick of him getting in my business. Doesn’t he think—doesn’t he know—if I could force myself to not care, that I would?
He lifts his right hand to my face, pointer finger nearly touching my nose. He’s way too close for comfort. I remember this shit from when I was a kid. Less than half the size I am now, he’d crouch down, let his weight rest on the balls of his feet, and he’d clasp his hands together. He’d make sure I was sitting and then he’d lecture me. Every explanation he could come up with as to how I fucked up this time—grades, attendance, attitude, drinking, drugs, bitches, fights. Anything he could think of, he’d rail me for it. Until I was a teenager, he’d ask me if I wanted him to hit me, like I had a fucking choice. If I didn’t like pussy so much, I’d consider putting a bullet between my ears just so that I could make one decision he didn’t have a chance to disapprove of first. I thought this motherfucker owned me back when I was a kid, but I had no fucking clue what wearing the same cut as him would do.
“Whatever you got going on in your head about this bitch, shut it down,” he hisses. I fight the angry jerk of my limbs, forcing myself to stay still. If Ma could hear this shit right now, I wouldn’t have a chance to lay him out. She’d do it for me.
“Any other sage advice you got for me, Mr. President?” I ask, smirking. Because if I don’t do something, I’m going to slam his face into the pavement.
“You’re unfocused—you’re missing shit. You’re going to get yourself killed over pussy you won’t want in a week anyway. Your brothers can’t trust you if they can’t trust your woman. This family has worked too long and too hard, and sacrificed too much, to let this cunt destroy that.”
Something in me snaps. Maybe it’s the word cunt. Maybe it’s my own fucking father calling Alex a bitch one too many times. Maybe I’m just pissed off that he’s right, and I’m looking for a fight. Maybe he’s just frustrated and looking to piss me off so I can start a fight. Fuck if I know what it is, but I lose focus for a brief second before his face becomes crystal clear.
Like a missile, my right hand clenches into a fist, rears back, and slams into the side of his jaw. His right arm grabs me by the back of my neck while my left grasps at his throat. Toe to toe, nose to nose, we’re locked in place. Neither of us is going to give before we’re ready.
“Call her a cunt again,” I sneer, tightening my grip. His hand on my neck clamps down, violently pushing in on my nerves in a painful way. I welcome the pain. This needs to happen, and I need to feel it.
“This is what I’m talking about,” he rasps out, sucking in as much air as he can. “I love Alex like she was my own, but this is about the club.” Pop’s a tough mother fucker, I’ll give him that. I’ve seen men’s necks snap under less pressure than I’m giving. His words register, but they don’t faze me. For all his talk and bluster, he’s no different than I am. He’s no less immune to feeling shit he doesn’t want, no matter how fucked up he gets.
“You want to put it to a vote, put it to a fucking vote,” I scream. With one last squeeze of his throat, I shove him off, watching him stumble half a step. The brothers have gathered around us in silence. Each one takes a fighting stance, ready to throw down or break it up. I avoid meeting their eyes as I walk to my bike, strap on my helmet, and pop up her kick-stand. Walking her backward, I find they’re all focused on me. Part of me feels like I should tell them all to go fuck themselves. Since when do we give a shit where a brother sticks his dick? It’s fucking juvenile. The other part of me wants to get off my bike and throw my fist into the nearest fucking face. But I don’t, because I’ve got shit to do. Instead, I start her up and peel away once Tall opens the gate.
Making a quick stop by my place to grab a few changes of clothes and some other personal things, I debate on whether or not I should be packing the condoms. For a strange moment I find myself in an unfamiliar place, worried that I might somehow offend a chick just because I brought condoms with me. Like it fucking matters what she thinks and if she’s worried all I want to do is fuck her. There’s nothing wrong with fucking and not feeling shit after. Angrily, I shoved a few rows in the bag before zipping it up and getting back on my bike.