With one flick of a finger, Hook indicates for me to jump and, being in the position I’m in, I walk forward in a silent acceptance of how high. I barely catch the door before it shuts. Straight would lead me to the kitchen, but I hike up the stairs.
The second floor holds a dormitory-type room with cots for any club member to crash, whether he belongs to this chapter or another. Farther down the hall are a few individual rooms for our more important guests or for couples who prefer privacy instead of doing their thing in public. Where I’m headed is the door on the right: Church.
Church, for the club, is a reverent room. It doesn’t contain pictures of dead saints or candles in red glasses, and there’s no cross nailed to an altar. What is hammered into the wall is a huge black banner with a skull in the dead center, fire dripping from the sky and flames blazing out of the eyes. The white words Reign of Terror race across the top.
I follow Hook in and let the door close behind me. This isn’t my debut visit in Church and hopefully it won’t be the last, but to each man in here, this should be my first time. No one comes in here without permission. Chevy and I snuck in here a few times as kids. Cyrus caught us the last time at eight and he wore the skin of our asses out for it. I learned my lesson, though. Respect the rules. Respect the club.
Church is set up like any conference room with a long table and chairs, but the men in here are more serious than any CEO. Each member would die for their brothers or this club. That’s what membership requires.
It’s hard not to look in Dad’s direction. He’s the business manager and has been a member since he was eighteen. Dad taught me from an early age that I’m my own man when it pertains to the club. I’m his son, but these are his brothers. I must earn their and his respect.
I fasten my thumbs in the pockets of my jeans and hang next to the wall while everyone sits. Cyrus claims the seat at the head of the table. He’s the motherfucking chief of the tribe. Eli and I are the only ones left standing.
Eli curls his fingers around the back of his chair and focuses on the mahogany wood in front of him. His knuckles are red and swollen. Two of them have been sliced open and are scabbed over with dried blood. He’s been in a brawl recently. Not a bruise on his face so that means he was the one doing the hitting.
“You’re not a member, Oz,” he says. “You’re a guest in this room and guest alone, and guest in this context does not mean welcomed or privileged.”
I nod to Eli, because I haven’t been granted permission to speak. Because of Eli’s past and the club’s bylaws, he can’t be a board member. While I don’t know the details, I do know that when Eli returned home after a long stint of being away, the club had a special meeting, a vote was taken and they allowed an exception to the rules in his case.
While Eli may never be an official board member, he is part owner of the security company, and, besides Cyrus, the most respected man in our club. As Cyrus explained once, while Eli will never vote, he’s part of the board as a consultant and when he talks, people listen.
My eyes sweep the room. The five other men eyeball me like we’ve never met. Eli’s words become a gathering storm in my mind and my gut twists. I’m a guest here. Not welcomed—no privileges.
In this club, a member can’t hurt another member. You throw a punch on a brother then you’re out. But I didn’t make prospect last night, so there’s nothing stopping any of them from nailing me. If Eli swung at me now, Dad wouldn’t stop it. The patch is thicker than blood.
“Want to tell me what happened at my daughter’s motel last night?”
Best way to handle this? Short and to the point. “I fell asleep.”
Eli’s nostrils flare. “Do you have any idea what would have happened to Emily if you hadn’t woken up?”
The imagined possibilities cause a coldness to creep along my bloodstream. “No.”
Eli lifts his gaze and meets my father’s stare. “Walk me through this, Oz. I need to know exactly what happened.”
I work hard to school my expression though everything’s unraveling inside me as I explain—from waking, seeing the guys from the Riot, driving to the other side of the building and then pulling Emily into the crevice by the vending machine. All of it.
When I finish, Eli rocks the chair back on its legs and continues to glare at Dad—not at me. Never at me. In the seven years I’ve known him, Eli’s never ignored me.
I risk speaking out of turn. “What’s going on?”
“We drove north for a while last night and found a member of the Riot.” Cyrus strokes the length of his beard. “We chatted and after some persuasion he told us that the Riot had heard a rumor that Eli had a daughter and they came to check it out.”
“We have a rat,” says Eli.
“Until last night, Emily’s pictures were all over Olivia’s house,” says Dad. “She’s not the highly guarded secret you think she is.”
“Baby pictures,” Eli argues. “Nothing over the age of two. Hell, there were Reign of Terror members who’ve been patched in for over ten years who had no idea who Emily was yesterday.”