Page 23 of Kingpin (Blackjacks MC #1)

Chapter fifteen

Kingpin

Emerging from the courthouse into the bright afternoon sunlight, I met Big G on the stairs. He fell into step beside me as we headed for our bikes.

“Credence took off about a minute ago,” he said. “Got a lead on Barber’s location. Blackbeard and Gatling went with him. Hot Shot and Spike are on call, in case they need back up. Tex had a family emergency—nothing serious—so Spike is taking his place.”

I nodded.

“Good. Give Vlad a heads up, just in case. Barber might go ape shit once he realizes we’re hunting him down.”

Big G pulled his phone out and started texting. I retrieved my helmet from my bike and strapped it on, thinking about Hattie’s fading taste on my tongue.

Now that she’d given her testimony in court, she didn’t need to stay in Brightwater any longer. She might stick around until the trial was over, just to see what the verdict was.

On the other hand, she might be eager to get back to Seattle. Put this whole thing behind her…

I’m glad you were here.

No, Hattie wasn’t leaving me again. Not this time. I could feel it.

Big G and I made our way back to the clubhouse.

This late in the afternoon, activity had picked up, with customers lining the bar.

Nearly every table was taken. Crash was behind the bar, slinging drinks as fast as he could.

Since we were in between bartenders at the moment, we shared the responsibility of serving drinks among the club.

That didn’t mean Crash was one of us. Like Big G said, the kid didn’t say no.

For the most part, the clubhouse was primarily for Blackjack use. But opening up the bar to the public brought in money, and we could always use some extra cash in our pocket.

“Get me a whiskey, would you?” I said to Big G. “I’m taking a leak.”

“Sure.” He rapped his knuckles on the bar to get Crash’s attention. “Hey, kid. Two shots of whiskey.”

“Get it yourself, I’m busy,” Crash shot back.

I glanced at Big G, raising my eyebrows. He let out a low whistle as he slid behind the bar.

“Sounds like someone is developing an attitude. A Prospect doesn’t talk to his superiors like that.”

“But I’m not your Prospect. You’re just jerking me around for shits and giggles.”

“As I recall, you’re the one who keeps hoping you’ll get a different answer if you’re obnoxious enough about it,” Big G pointed out.

“Fine,” Crash grumbled. “I’m gone.”

He stormed out of the bar, shoved the door open, and vanished into the bright sunlight.

Good riddance, I thought.

As I made my way down the corridor and into the men’s room, I couldn’t help feeling bad for the poor kid though. Hattie had told me to give him a chance, let him join.

I shook my head as I stepped into the men’s room. I’d think about that later.

The cold muzzle of a pistol pressed against the base of my skull.

“Say one fucking word and I’ll blow your head off.”

My gaze flicked to the line of mirrors above the sinks.

I caught the reflection of a man standing next to me, dressed head to toe in black—hoodie, jeans, boots, and baseball cap pulled low over his face.

A slim build, wiry with muscle, like a long-distance runner.

But I didn’t need to identify him to figure out who I was talking to.

“You must be Anderson Barber,” I said.

“And you must be the asshole who killed Cooley,” Barber replied.

He lifted my cut and yanked out the pistol I kept tucked into the back of my jeans. He tossed it in a nearby toilet.

“His first mistake was putting hands on my wife. His second mistake was getting caught.”

Barber bared his teeth with a hiss, digging the pistol deeper into my skin. I stifled a growl.

“Do you know what happens when you fuck up a man’s brain stem? He turns into a drooling vegetable. Pisses himself. Sucks his meals out of a goddamn tube. Can’t fight back. Can’t screw his pretty wife either.”

I went rigid, envisioning beating Barber’s head against the tile wall until he stopped moving, stopped running his mouth.

He leaned in, bringing a cloud of sour breath and cigarette smoke with him.

“A big, tough guy like you would hate it. Reduced to nothing but a useless sack of shit in a hospital bed. Meanwhile, I’ll torture your wife right in front of your eyes, the way you tortured Cooley. Hell, just for the fun of it, I might do even more than that while you watch—”

I rammed my elbow into his nose. Barber yelped as blood cascaded down his mouth and chin. The gun went off—a deafening explosion in the enclosed space. The bullet bit into the plaster wall inches above my right shoulder.

I couldn’t hear a damn thing through the ringing in my ears. But I lunged at Barber anyway.

He drove his fist into my ribs. Pain lanced up my torso, seizing the air from my lungs. I grabbed for the gun, slamming Barber’s hand against the wall—once, twice.

The gun hit the floor and skidded across the tile.

A moment later, the door burst open. Big G took a step forward, prepared to jump in.

“He’s mine,” I gritted out.

I pinned Barber to the floor, cocked my fist back. A flash of fear crossed his face.

“Wait—wait!”

“Your first mistake was threatening me on my turf,” I said. “Your second mistake was threatening my wife.”

I hit him. Again and again. The crunch of bone and the sickening sound of colliding flesh filled the room. Blood splattered the tiles. A broken tooth pinged against the floor.

“That’s enough.”

Big G’s voice cut through the red haze that filled my mind. He hooked his hands under my arms and hauled me to my feet.

Chest heaving, ribs still aching, I surveyed the pulpy mess of Barber’s face.

“No one fucking touches my wife,” I rasped.

I turned away to the sink, blood coating my hand up to my wrist. Bits of flesh and hair stuck to my knuckles. I flexed my fingers open and closed.

As long as I lived, I would never forget the look of horror on Hattie’s face when I came home bloodied. It wasn’t the first time. But I’d managed to pull it off in the middle of the night before, scrubbing myself down, getting rid of my clothes before she saw anything.

She wanted a loving, doting, gentle husband. She wanted a home in the suburbs. She wanted kids, for Christ’s sake.

How could I give that kind of a life to her when this was all I knew? Broken bones. Bloodshed. Bruises. Violence. I loved her the only way I knew how—by killing to protect her. And I was terrified that would never be enough when she deserved so much more.

As I bent over the sink and turned the faucet on, my phone rang. I ignored it, watching the water swirl from clear to red as I washed the blood off my hands.

Then Big G’s phone rang.

“Hey, Hattie. Yeah, he’s right here.”

He passed his phone to me. I took it, blood and water dripping down my wrist.

“Is everything okay, baby?”

“It’s fine. I was just…um…could we talk? I want to come back to Brightwater.”

I closed my eyes as relief flooded through me. Thirteen years of waiting was finally over.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes, sweetheart.”

Hattie stood on Connie’s porch and crossed her arms. She’d changed out of her blouse and skirt, for a regular T-shirt and jeans.

“You know I hate that thing.”

I chuckled and patted the pillion seat.

“Come on, baby. Try it just once. You might like it.”

She frowned, but I could see the gleam of interest in her eyes as she looked over the bike.

Reluctantly, she marched down the driveway and came to stand beside me.

I curved my hand over her hip, pulling her closer.

My knuckles were bruised a vicious purple, scraped raw from beating Barber’s face in.

“I will never understand what you have against a regular car with seat belts and airbags,” she retorted.

“It’s boring,” I replied. “I know for a fact boring men do not make that pretty pussy of yours a sopping mess.”

She swatted my shoulder.

“Don’t be crude. And what happened to your hand?”

I looped my arm around Hattie’s waist, tugging her against me.

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

She pressed her lips together with disapproval, but she didn’t push.

“We need to talk,” she said firmly. “Like, really talk. No sex.”

“Whatever you want, baby. We can go for a ride, grab an early dinner.”

Removing my helmet, I settled it on her head, clipping the straps under her chin.

“What about you?” she said.

“Left my spare at home,” I replied. “We won’t go too far. I’ll be careful.”

She snorted.

“You’ve never been careful in your life.”

Then Hattie sighed and cast a dubious glance at the back seat of my bike.

“Can’t believe I’m doing this,” she muttered.

Gripping my shoulder for stability, she climbed on and straddled my bike.

I tugged her arms around my middle until she was pressed against my back.

Slowly, I rolled out of the driveway and onto the road.

I avoided the highway—too busy, too fast and noisy—choosing quieter back roads with a scenic view.

Hattie clutched me tight, burying her face between my shoulder blades. After a few minutes, I felt the tension ease out of her. She slotted her chin over my shoulder, and a smile teased at her lips.

That’s my girl.

She tapped my arm and pointed to the sign for Riverstone Café, indicating where she wanted to stop for food. I sailed right by it without slowing.

“Are you kidnapping me?” she yelled over the wind and the engine.

I laughed and shook my head. Five minutes later, I pulled to a stop and parked in the driveway of our home. Hattie’s gaze roamed over it, taking in every detail.

“You didn’t sell the house?” she whispered, incredulous.

I unclipped her helmet, guiding her off the bike.

“Couldn’t bring myself to part with it,” I replied. “Sometimes, I swear I can still smell your perfume in there. Come on, I’ll make you something to eat.”

Hattie slipped her hand in mine as we headed up the sidewalk.

“Don’t tell me you learned how to cook while I was gone.”