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Grant’s fingers flew across the screen. “Brody is heading over with Andy.”
My jaw tightened. With Caroline Bates still on my mind, it returned to the memory of her firing a shot at Chips. The stitches he’d escaped with were nothing special or new, but it was the fact that she had harmed almost every club member. If I closed my eyes, I could still see Jackson beaten half to death, barely saved by Brody’s magic doctor hands.
It couldn’t continue. She had to be stopped. If her father couldn’t be taken out, maybe she could.
Gabriel turned to me, prepped to pester an answer out of me, but Brody’s bike roared as it emerged from the gloomy road, then cut short. I barely made out him swinging his leg over and helping Andy off. The gravel path crunched under their boots as they mounted the porch. Rowdy greetings were exchanged while Andy was welcomed with light razzing. Beers were handed out, asses plopped into seats, and the flames had two more faces to illuminate.
Andy shivered, holding her beer can in both hands like it was hot chocolate. Brody draped the blanket Sam had left over her thin shoulders—not so thin as before. She’d come a long way since Brody freed her from that strip joint. She’d filled out, finally looking healthy, not a single rib showing.
“Where are the future mamas?” she asked, looking around as if expecting Sam and Elouise to appear. “We didn’t miss them, did we?”
“Sorry, Andy,” Grant said, scrolling on his phone when the group chat started going off. “They left. Everyone else is on their way.”
Brody pressed a lingering kiss to her temple, looping an arm around her shoulders. I caught Gabriel and Grant wrinkling their noses at the PDA. None of us were strangers to the coupled members’ gestures of affection, but somehow, it was more awkward watching the little things rather than knowing they’d all fucked each other’s brains out. Motorcycle clubs like ours treated their women right.
I just snorted. I’d long sworn off relationships after my inability to keep them in the first place—the lack of desire to attach a single string. Hookups were fun, but I was just fine on my own. Let the others be all mushy.
“It’s past midnight, baby,” Brody said. “They’re probably passed the fuck out.”
“Or demanding some ridiculous snack,” Gabriel said wryly. “Suzie and Carrie will cheer you up.”
Andy brightened at that.
Minutes later, the rest of the club rode up and joined them—Jameson and Carrie and Mason and Suzie. More beers were tossed into eager hands, and the girls clustered together while Jameson and Mason clasped hands with me, Grant, and Gabriel.
“Sorry for the late arrival,” Tex said around a cigarette.
Mason popped his tab. “I’m not.”
Suzie swatted his shoulder.
“What?” he asked indignantly. “None of these bastards have manners. Why should I?”
The VP’s eyes suddenly flicked to me. “You look more brooding than usual, Royal Flush. Like you’re itching for a fight.”
Gabriel leaned forward and braced his forearms on his thighs. “Knife or gun? Either way, I’m there beside you, buddy.”
My jaw ticked in annoyance. Why the fuck was I getting interrogated? Though I couldn’t deny, hefting a weapon, even just to hold it, sounded pretty appealing. Anything to distract from this suspended place in time before Wolverine-shaped shit inevitably hit the fan.
“First,” I growled, jabbing a finger toward Gabriel. “Don’t talk to me drunk. Second,” I continued, glaring between Grant and Mason. “Fuck off.”
The girls all gave me a questioning look, confused by my sudden lashing out. I rolled my shoulders and tried not to be bogged down by the judgment, dropping my gaze to the fire like it held the answers. Really, it was my own guilt curdling in my stomach at the thought of betraying Jackson’s trust, going to that poker game.
“As your VP?—”
I crushed my can in my fist and snapped, “I can’t stand this waiting around. The Wolverines are planning something, and I know it’s coming for us.”
My club brothers gave almost identical concerned looks.
“What is?” Mason asked.
I took a steadying breath, then looked up. “The end. The end of this damn war.”
CHAPTER 2
CAROLINE
The clubhouse—at least, that was what my father wanted everyone to call it—smelled like blood, shit, and men. They were as disgusting as the floor of the abandoned warehouse the Wolverines now called home. It was dingy, damp, and depressing, and I swore the seemingly ceaseless cigar smoke was making rats die in the walls.