I follow his eyes and spot Pipe sitting on top of what’s left of the bar. Without hesitation, I nod to the three men new to our charter, ready and willing to ride to their death, and it becomes clear, whatever it takes, however it can be done, I will make it right. With a tip of my chin, I leave them behind to continue recovering whatever they can and I make my way to Pipe.
Lifting a silver flask to his lips he notices me standing close but says nothing. He tips his head back and guzzles the alcohol unfazed by presence. I know that look. I’ve seen it in the mirror a thousand times. I know everything Pipe’s feeling, the regret, the anger, the loss, the ache ripping through his heart. The dire need for revenge pulsing through your veins. I felt all of that and more after Christine died and there are days I still feel it.
“Found her body right there,” he slurs, using the tip of the flask to point to the end of the bar. “Her head hanging on by a thread.”
Shoving one hand into my pocket, I step closer to him and bow my head to collect my thoughts. We’re supposed to say we’re sorry, it’s what society deems right when someone loses one they love, but that shit don’t work. It’s not what you want to hear. You want to hear the voice of the one that’s left you broken and alone.
“Pipe, I’ve been where you at,” I start. “Felt everything you’re feeling, brother, and I ain’t going to give you my apologies because it won’t bring her back. It won’t fix you.”
He takes another gulp from his flask, dangling it over his mouth to catch the last drops before he tosses it into the rubble.
“Finally a piece of truth,” he mutters, lifting his beady eyes to mine. “You people all thought my marriage was a joke.”
“That ain’t true,” I argue. “We busted your balls but only a man who knows love could see how much you loved Oksana. I saw it.”
He swipes a hand over his face and I think he’s probably debating on whether I’m being sincere.
“The men who did this will pay,” I vow. “We will torture them with our bare fucking hands, Pipe.”
With a groan he stands.
“The Bulldog ain’t got his ears, and it’s my understanding he won’t be riding,” he says, settling me with a stare. “You got Wolf in ICU, Linc in a goddamn full body cast and two dead prospects. No fucking clubhouse and the only one who still has a bike is Riggs. Don’t be making promises, Black. This shit is over. The Satan’s Knights are done.”
“So, that’s it?” I question, watching as he moves to walk passed me. “We throw in our cuts and call it a day? Let the Bastards get away with murdering your wife? You disappoint me, Pipe.”
“Fuck you,” he hisses, grabbing the ends of my cut. “Don’t need the club to take care of what’s mine, Black.”
“You’re not doing anything without the club,” I warn.
“And who the fuck is going to stop me?”
“You really want me to answer that, brother?”
Stumbling backward, he releases my cut and narrows his eyes at me.
“You’re done, Black, accept that shit and move the fuck on. Be happy you got your life and your woman has hers,” he sneers, his boots crushing the debris as he stalks away from me.
I fist my hands at my sides, itching to punch a fucking wall but there aren’t any left standing. I glance over my shoulder at the nomads, sifting through the dust, maybe Pipe’s right.
“One of you stay with him and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid,” I order.
“Can you define stupid?” Deuce asks.
“Don’t let him fucking kill anyone,” I growl. “Including himself,” I add. Turning around to I stomp through the grit toward my truck. I pause mid step and divert my attention back to them. “Did you happen to find the table?”
“He’s kidding right?” Deuce asks absurdly.
“Smartass,” I sneer. “It’s there somewhere. Wolf was dragging it before he collapsed.”
“We’ll keep looking,” Cobra says.
I nod before continuing for my truck. Once I reach the car, I toss the flag into the passenger seat and stare at it for a moment, wishing the table was as indestructible as the red, white and blue cloth staring back at me, desperate for a sign that the club engrained into my soul wasn’t dead too.
Sitting still, lying low—it’s not me. But what choice do I have? If I want to hear that baby’s cry I need to heal and as much as revenge is a priority, hearing that baby means more. Seeing Reina through the last leg of her pregnancy, making sure she obeys her doctor’s orders and stays on bed rest—that’s my fucking job.
That doesn’t mean I will allow the Corrupt Bastards to reign over my city and it sure as shit doesn’t mean I will let them get away with fucking with my club. That tear drop sporting prick will pay for what he’s done. He will cry, bleed and wish his mother swallowed him.
Reina stands from the couch, jolting me away from the sadistic thoughts of revenge and how I will cut Charlie’s balls off and feed them to whatever whore is currently sucking his dick.
“Where are you going?”
“The bell rang,” she answers, loud enough for the neighbors to hear.