Page 30 of Pink Poison (The Butchers MC #1)

Chapter twenty

Stone

Standing from my bike, I stretch my back out before swinging my good leg over the seat. Fuck me, that hurts. I pushed it hard at the gym today, too hard . And it doesn’t help that my ribcage still burns like hell.

Thanks, Mack.

With a pained groan, I shake off the discomfort and limp towards Mo's doors.

It's wishful fucking thinking that she'd be willing to help us out with anything after the way we've all but pissed on her club over the years, but it sure as hell beats asking Lennon for any favors.

Worst case scenario, Mo tells me to go fuck myself.

Worst case with Lennon would undoubtedly end in a debt that I'd sooner take myself out over than repay.

“What the fuck are you doin’ here?” the red-head I snapped at the other day barks.

“Talkin’ with Mo,” I drawl. “Speaking of which, where is the ol’ bat?”

She flips her long, fiery waves over her shoulder, a mannerism I hold no doubt that Stevie picked up from her. “None ya business, Butcher .”

Fuck me. Another certainty about this chick—the way she spits our name with such vitriol without a doubt came from Stevie herself.

I limp to the bar and sit on a tattered stool. “I have some questions, and Mo has the answers. I need to talk to her—the sooner, the better.”

“If it’s about Stevie, you can kiss my peachy, white ass, you piece of sh—”

I hold my hand up, stopping little red before she can finish her sentence. Her nose scrunches, showing me every ounce of her disdain as she flips me off.

“It’s not about Stevie. It’s business.” I sigh.

“Shawn,” Mama Mo croaks from behind me. “It’s been too long, boy.”

I look over my shoulder, hawk-eying the aging woman as she shuffles from the locker room. “I was just here the other day.”

Her gravelly laugh fills the empty bar before a coughing fit takes over. Jesus. This woman needs to lay off the coffin nails before she loses whatever lung capacity she has left. “You boys used to be here every night before that other club cropped up.”

“Memento,” I supply, biting back a laugh. I swear, this woman gets feistier with age. “And it's for the best, ya old bat. The people we handle business with aren’t like us—gotta wine and dine ‘em.”

Stevie’s friend lets out an irritated cough, dragging my attention back to her. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t kick your ass out of here after your last visit .”

A lump forms in the back of my throat as I remember my less-than-ideal reaction.

I have never raised my hand at a woman. Never.

That is not the kind of man I will ever be, but I crossed a line when she punched me.

My reaction was too close to an unforgivable violence, and I regretted it the moment I realized how badly I fucked up .

“There isn't a good reason,” I admit. And it's true. There isn't, and there never will be. “But, if you’re willing to hear me out, I’d like to explain why I reacted that way.”

Her stare narrows and I prepare for her to tell me to fuck off. Instead, she surprises me by clicking her tongue with a nod. “Make it count, dickhead .”

My fingers gravitate to the shaved side of my head.

“Was that supposed to be a bald joke?” She lifts her brows while rolling her eyes, refusing to confirm or deny my question.

Blowing out a slow breath, I start, “‘Bout five or so years ago, the club was hit, as the whole city knows. But, only few know that I was in there—hanging on by a damn prayer.”

“I heard about the attack, but I thought that was before you patched,” she says.

I shake my head. “I was only patched for a handful of months when it happened.” Waving my hand, I brush that information away as irrelevant.

“Anyway, the crew got wind of a high-stakes match and popped my name on the list. It was a damn good fight, I went six and oh undefeated before the final round. The next thing I knew, I was getting my shit rocked left and right while the crew was being taken out one by one. Before I went down cold, someone took a knife to my back—the same spot that you punched. The nerves there are tender— doctors say it’s phantom pain or something.

Whatever it is, it fucks with me every day, some days worse than others. ”

A warm hand gently wraps around my bicep, startling me from the memories of that night. Mama Mo stands in my peripheral, wearing a kind smile and watery eyes. “I’ll never forget gettin’ that call. I prayed for you boys—asked the big man to keep ya safe.”

“I-I didn’t know,” little red whispers.

“You caught me good, that's for sure.” I smirk. “There was no way you could have known. It was my responsibility to control my reaction, and I chose poorly. That's on me. ”

“Dammit,” she snarks, lacking the heat she had minutes ago. “Now I just look like a bitch.”

I wave her off. “Nah. No harm, no foul.”

“Lemme at least fix you a drink.” She reaches underneath the bar where the beer cooler sits. “On the house, obviously.”

“I’ll take ya up on that.” I rap my knuckles over the bar top. “Knowing your name might be nice, too.”

Her green eyes flash with mischief, turning the energy around us into something better suited for what I originally came here for. “You mean to tell me that Stevie didn’t share my name when y’all were gettin’ down and dirty?”

“Nop-e,” I pop. “The only name I wanna hear from her is mine when we’re together.”

“Good man.” She laughs. “Teegan Lorraine, but you can call me Tee. Everyone else does.”

She slides a bottle of beer over the counter for me. I take a complimentary swig of the bitter liquid before returning it to the counter. “I’ve been calling you little red in my head, I think it’ll stick. Maybe. I’ll have to run it by Kash, he’s the name guru or something.”

“Now that you two have made right with each other,” Mama Mo rasps. “What did you need to talk to me about? Folks will start comin’ in for business soon—can’t have them pokin’ their noses.”

Teegan gives us both a nod before excusing herself. I wait until I hear the front door close before turning my attention back to the graying woman next to me. “I need to know if you have any information on some new associates.”

“I might.” She hacks a damn lung. “Gimme their names.”

“Atticus Lennon and Creed Hill,” I say quietly.

A moment of silence stretches before Mo eases herself onto the stool beside me.

A knot forms in the pit of my stomach, twisting everything in me until bile creeps up my throat as I wait for her answer.

Something tells me that Mo knows more than we anticipated, and we aren’t going to like the answers she has.

“I know of the men,” she finally rasps. “I practically sent Barbie to Atticus. I told her to get some experience and find a place in his club. I didn’t know jack shit about him back then—just that the girls who worked there made good money.”

“What do you know about him now ?”

“He’s not a good man…gives me the creeps.

” She shudders, and I can't blame her. Everything we know about the slimy fuck makes my skin crawl, too. “Met him once four, five, years ago. He came here askin’ if I knew anything about what happened at his club, lookin' for two girls. A blonde and a dark haired one, said something about the blonde being shot—that I'd know her if I saw her. I told him anyone from his neck of the woods wouldn’t be findin’ themselves here.”

Nodding, I pocket that information for later. It’ll be good for the club to know that Atticus has been here before. “What about Creed Hill?”

“The last name, Hill. That family is nothin’ but trouble, ya hear me?” she hisses. “They are a plague that walks this Earth and teaches our youth. Do not get into business with anyone who goes by that name.”

“I’ll pass the message along to Graves,” I assure her.

The wrinkles on her forehead soften as the anger fades from her face.

I can count on one hand the times I’ve seen Mama Mo well and truly pissed.

Whoever the Hill family is must have done something to her personally for her to get this worked up over it.

“Good.” She sighs. “It’s not easy being the man in charge, but I’ve seen the good in him. He’ll do right by you boys.”

“Yes he will.” I smirk.

“Is that all you needed, boy?” she asks with a wobble in her voice .

Smiling, I bob my head before taking another sip of my now warm beer. “That’s all, for now. You know how Graves can get when he’s on a mission, he might have more questions soon.”

She snorts as she smacks my arm. “Finish that beer and get outta my club. You’ll scare customers away.”

“Yes ma’am.” I laugh as she scoots herself off the stool and shuffles away.

The sound of my phone ringing steals my attention. Sliding it from my pocket, Kash’s name flashes on the screen. Odd. We never call unless it’s an emergency. “Kash?” I answer.

“I need you to get to Le Papillon,” he hisses urgently.

My brows furrow. As far as emergencies go, unless he's about to lose a limb or his life, this doesn't really qualify. “Why?”

“It’s Stevie. Creed has her here.”

Fuck!

I stand from my seat, abandoning my drink. Stevie. She qualifies as an emergency above all others, especially when shit fuck Creed Hill is involved. “I thought we told him to leave her alone?”

A steady hum of club-esque music passes through the speaker before he replies. “We did. He chose not to listen.”

Of-fucking-course he didn’t. The man must have a fucking death wish, or given his preferences for clubs, a fucking death fetish. He just signed and sealed his death certificate with this stunt, and I'm happy to help deliver it.

“I’m on my way.”

Ending the call, I fight against the stiffness in my joints and book it out of Mo’s. The ache it causes is nothing compared to the fire burning in my chest at the implication that Stevie is in more trouble than we can get her out of.