Page 23 of Pink Poison (The Butchers MC #1)

Chapter fifteen

Stone

Bending over, I grunt my discomfort as I lace my boots.

The cheap shot that Mack took last night is now a well-rounded bruise in the shape of his kneecap.

I’d say it was worth taking a few hits to mend the bridge between us, but I’m seriously reconsidering that line of thought now that the ache of being hit has set in.

“You sound like you’re dying,” Graves snorts from my doorway.

“Ah, you fuckin’ prick,” I startle, wrapping my arm around my torso.

He laughs. “How’s your side feeling?”

I flip him the bird with my free hand before returning to the grueling task of lacing my boot. “Hurts like a bitch. Not that you had to ask since you already know how hard Mack hits.”

“Ain't that a fucking fact. ”

The conversation between us stalls quickly.

Out of the guys, Graves and I are the least likely to talk our shit out.

Mack will drink himself stupid until truths spill from his lips.

Kash is an open book, always talking about how he feels.

We may give him shit for being a few screws short of a toolbox, but he is the most emotionally intact one out of us.

I prefer to work my shit out at the gym.

There's no risk of killing someone when I'm busy beating the shit out of a punching bag instead of a face. Graves, however. That fucker will bottle it all and cork it until he explodes. Which he will, sooner than fucking later at this rate. I know him well enough to say that he has some sort of twisted idea that because he’s our president, he can’t talk about his problems because he shouldn’t have them.

Not personal ones, anyway.

“So,” I cough, breaking the awkward tension between us. “Mack jizzed on my phone.”

That's not quite how I wanted to break the ice, but it seemingly does the trick. “Run that by me one more time,” he chokes out.

“Yeah,” I drawl. “I came lookin’ for my phone after all the bullshit. He said he had it on his bed and I almost grabbed a handful of jizz.”

His expression changes, rapid firing from shock, disgust, and concern, to biting the inside of his cheek to rein in his smile.

I huff a laugh, triggering him to do the same until we’re both struggling to breathe.

It's enough to make me forget why what comes out of my mouth next is a terrible fucking move.

“Best part? He was definitely getting off to that picture of Stevie.”

And just like that, his laugh is replaced with a silent, deadly rage. Fuck my life.

Groaning, I swipe my palm over my chin, feeling the coarse stubble scratch across it. “Sorry, man.”

“It’s fine.” His words are terse, strained to the point he's about to snap, like he's barely clinging onto his sanity. “ Who and what Max uses to get his rocks off isn't any of my business. ”

"Are you sure about that?" I ask.

We both know that it's eating at him to know that Stevie is back and that we all have our eyes on her.

Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if he's more pissed that Mack touched her last night than he was to hear that I fucked her or that Kash marked her as his.

His and Mack's strife with that woman goes beyond anything that me or Kash could do.

I wasn’t lying when I told her that she was poison. She's in all of our veins, in our lungs with every breath that she allows us to take. Fuck. She altered my damn DNA with a sexy dance, her wicked smile, and the venom that laced her tongue.

Stevie Waters is dangerous—more than we give her credit for.

His stare hardens, clearly pissed that I questioned him. "I said it's fine."

"It doesn't sound fine," I counter.

Jaw tense, his nostrils flare as he speaks. "Why are you pushing me on this?”

I shrug. “No reason.”

Uncrossing his arms, he slowly steps past the threshold before closing my door behind him. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Pot meet kettle, fucker.

“Fuck off,” I snort.

“Shawn!” he barks, using the tone he reserves for when one of us is fucking up.

I stand from the edge of my bed and limp towards my ensuite before I say something that I'll regret. He can deny it all he wants, but nothing about this is fine. Opening my medicine cabinet, I glance over the vast collection of orange bottles I've acquired over the years. Painkillers. Muscle relaxers. Hypnotics. I grasp the first one I see that won’t dull my senses and pop the lid. Shaking out two of the familiar, white pills, I toss them in my mouth and swallow them down dry. It’s not much, but it’s a step above any over-the-counter pain relief .

Blowing a breath, I limp my ass back into my room. Graves sits on my bed with his jaw set tight, making the veins in his neck bulge. "You have thirty seconds to spit out why you're being a punk ass bitch before I give you a matching bruise on the other side of your ribs, brother," he grits.

" I'm being a punk ass bitch?" I laugh. "How about you nut the fuck up and admit that you're pissed."

He stares at me like I've lost my goddamn mind. Shit, maybe I have. "Is that what it'll take to get you off my dick, to hear that I'm pissed off?" His knuckles pop as he flexes his hands into fists, fists that I hold no doubt he wants to swing on me. "Yeah, Shawn. I'm fucking pissed. Happy?"

Not even a little bit. Now that my pain is ebbing all I feel is shitty .

Shitty that I stuck my tongue and dick where it didn’t belong.

Shitty that I was an asshole about it to Mack last night, then went and lied to his fucking face when I said that she won't be a problem.

More than that, I feel shittier for being a colossal dickhead to Graves.

I guess it's true what they say: misery loves company, and I'm fucking miserable.

With a groan, I scrub my palms over my face while I gather a semblance of my shit together. "Sorry, man. I'm not thinking straight today."

"No shit," he deadpans. "Now, am I gonna have to beat your ass for you to tell me what's going on, or are you gonna nut the fuck up and do it yourself?"

I deserved that, having my words thrown back at me.

“Mack asked if I was going to stay away from Stevie last night.” I sigh. "I told him I would if it was an order. Then, like the walking dildo he is, he said, "And if it's not? "

His brows raise in question. “And? What did you say?”

“I told him she wouldn't be a problem.” My jaw clenches with the lie on my tongue, tasting more bitter the second time around. "I lied. She is a problem. She's under my fucking skin, and it's driving me insane. "

He barks a humorless laugh. “She has that effect on people. I'm pretty sure she could convince a saint to become a sinner.”

"I don't plan on staying away from her, Graves," I admit.

"That's good, because I need someone to babysit her pretty little ass.

" I frown, confused as hell. With a nod, he continues, "Stevie Waters did not come back after five years of excommunication and isolation to make friends and wet dick.

That woman is scorned, and hell hath no fury.

She is doing exactly what she set out to do. "

"You want me to find out what she's up to," I muse.

He nods again. "That, and look out for her. Discreetly. Kash was right, she needs protection, especially while in Lennon and Hill's sights. He just went about it in a way that makes me want to break his nose again."

I snort. “You're an asshole, man.”

"Never said I wasn't." He cracks a smile, bleeding the tension from his frame. "So, are you in?"

Smirking, I shuffle close enough to clap my hand over his shoulder. “Yeah, I suppose I can manage that.”

"Dickhead." Standing from my bed, he laughs. "Come on. I have a day full of waiting to hear back from my contact before we make any more moves on the board.”

“Huh,” I muse. “Maybe add working shit out with Kash, too.”

His mouth quirks, our tension long forgotten. “Yeah, I overreacted last night, didn’t I?”

A raspy vibration builds in my chest at his words.

Overreaction is an understatement. Kash may have jumped the gun last night, but he took hits that he never should have had to take.

Not when, at the root of it, he had good intentions.

Better than any of us, anyways. I suppose the saying is true: the path to hell is paved with them.

“You think?” I eye him like it's fucking obvious, because it is. “Go patch things up with him. You know he’s going to be a sour ass until you do.”

He walks to my door with a groan. “He’s worse than Mack when he gets like that.”

I laugh, trailing behind him. “Good luck with that, Prez.”

“You’re an asshole,” he snarks.

“You love me.”