Page 9 of Pink Poison (The Butchers MC #1)

Chapter five

Stone

My phone vibrates inside my cut as Stevie storms out of the locker room.

Perfect timing. Blowing out a slow breath, I fish the device out, noting that it’s Graves’ name on the caller ID.

Shit. I slide a finger over the screen to accept the call, and with the reminder of my sense, I click the speakerphone icon.

There’s not a chance in hell that he isn’t pissed with me for leaving The Deli so abruptly when we had a prior engagement planned.

“Where the fuck are you, shithead?” he barks over a rumble of voices. “We’re at Memento and my Sergeant-at-Arms isn’t with me. You tryin’ to get me killed or somethin’?”

“We both know you can handle yourself, and you have Mack with you,” I snort, inclining my head to rest against the wall. “Mo called. The old hag said she had something to show me. ”

The background noise of Memento muffles, as if Jameson separated himself from whatever business he was handling. Clearing his throat, he demands, “Continue.”

“Imagine my surprise when I walked in and saw a gorgeous, blonde doll with the biggest tits I’ve seen in my thirty-four years, going by the name Stevie on the damn stage,” I say.

“Fuck!” he bellows, followed by a loud crash that sounds an awful lot like a bike hitting asphalt. Dumbass. “We don’t have time for this shit, brother.”

He’s not wrong. We don’t have time for a lot of shit, much less a little brat with a serious fucking attitude problem.

“I know, man. I told her she needed to leave, but she’s hellbent on staying.”

“Of fucking course she is.” He sighs tiredly. “She’s always been a stubborn ass woman. Don’t fuckin’ say anything to Mack, we’ll figure this out quietly.”

Groaning, I scrub the shaved side of my head, letting the comfort of familiar raised scars settle my nerves.

Not telling Mack is a bad fucking call—but telling him would turn this into a whole different shitshow that we aren’t prepared to handle.

We’re damned if we do, damned if we don’t.

The only reason I’d even consider this shit is because Mack’s grudge against her goes bone fucking deep.

I don’t know what started it, but I remember how livid he was with Jameson for sleeping with her the night he drove her out of the city.

Fuck my life, that was a mess. “Yeah, alright. We’ll keep it quiet for now,” I concede.

“Good. Now get the fuck over here. We have a meeting with another suit,” he snaps, back to his usual self.

“Roger that. See you in a few.”

Ending the call, I pocket the device and move to step towards the door when a glimpse of pink stops me.

Frowning, I glance down at the pastel pink ribbon heels lying on the floor.

Bending low, I snatch both shoes and chuck them in the trash can beside the lockers.

I meant what I said to Stevie, I hate those fucking shoes.

Even if she looked like a walking wet dream in them.

Walking out of the locker room, the scent of stale cigarettes and artificial cherry greets me like a swift kick to the balls.

A petite woman with flowing, fiery red hair stands, topless, in front of the door with her hands on her hips.

“Did you do something to Stevie?” she asks with accusation lacing her words.

I brush past her without a second thought, refusing to acknowledge why my dick decided it’s not interested in her naked body. “Hey! I asked you a question, dickwad.”

I check the exit to find my second hand waiting by the door. “Let’s roll, Kash!” I holler, catching his attention.

Pain. Knee bucking pain radiates like a fucking electric shock down my back.

I whip around to see the cherry-scented bitch with her fist still extended.

Red that rivals the color of her hair bleeds over my vision, obscuring everything but her fist. Before logic can override my irrational reaction, I snap my hand over her face and grip it in a punishing hold.

Her soft cheeks dimple easily, giving my fingers all the more reason to press in harder.

“Don’t. Ever. Attack. A. Butcher,” I bite before tossing her head to the side.

“Come on, man. We need to get out before we get our asses handed to us.” Kash’s voice breaks through the haze enough for me to turn away.

Gritting my teeth, I follow his lead and jog out of Mo’s.

Rolling into the chapel’s driveway, I kill the switch on my bike.

Memento . The bar hasn’t been around long, but it’s the best place to hold business and keep it away from The Deli.

After shit went down and we lost our old heads, Jameson made a promise to protect what peace we had left while making the moves to get our revenge.

Sometimes that means rubbing elbows with some shitty people to make them feel important.

Reality is, we just need them to cut a check, or in most cases, turn a blind eye.

As I yank my helmet off, Kash trots up to me like a damn puppy. “You good, brother?” he asks.

Fuck no. I just pissed off one of Mo’s dancers, which will most assuredly piss Mo off once she hears about it.

The ol’ bitch is already more forgiving than she should be, and I all but spit in her face by reacting the way I did.

Fuck me. I’m not that kinda guy who goes around putting hands on a woman out of anger—never was.

She caught me with a solid punch where most of my nerve damage is, though.

I could have sworn it was a fuckin’ man that hit me, that’s how bad it hurt.

“Yeah, man. I’ll deal with the fallout of later,” I grumble.

He lifts his blond brow in disbelief. “If you say so.” I lift mine back, silently challenging him to question me again. Chuckling, he tosses his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll go in and let Prez know we’re here.”

Good choice, asshat .

I watch him take off before kicking the stand down on my Sportster.

Once my ride is secure, I slowly—so fucking slowly, lift from the seat.

My teeth grind hard as the debilitating soreness in my aching muscles intensifies.

Over five years of fighting and a brush with the Reaper under my belt did some damage, damage that I just can’t recover from.

Tossing my leg over the seat, I limp away from my bike and walk off the discomfort until I reach the pristine, white doors of Memento.

Here goes nothin’.

Pulling the ornate handle, I’m engulfed by muffled chatter and clinking glasses.

No one dares to break their conversation to see who entered; no one ever does.

That’s why we like this place. There’s a level of neutrality to the establishment—as long as everyone behaves, we can discuss whatever we’d like without consequence.

“Jesus fuck, brother,” Mack growls as I approach our usual table. “We’ve been waiting on your sorry ass all night.”

I clap my Vice President on the shoulder, offering him a harsh squeeze before sliding down the pew-esque booth across from him. “Had to deal with some shit,” I grunt. More like I was busy eating out his stepsister, but I’ll be taking that to my grave. “It’s taken care of.”

Nodding, he turns his attention to the wiry guest at our table. “Stone, this is Darien. He’s the investor we talked about earlier,” he introduces diplomatically.

My eyes narrow as I hold Darien’s stare.

Sweat gathers at his hairline, forcing his straw-like hair to cling to his forehead.

Pussy. Smiling, I stretch my hand across the table.

His beady, green eyes flit between my face and my outstretched hand before his bony fingers clasp around it.

“It’s good to meet you, Darien,” I greet.

“L-Likewise, Mr. Stone,” he stutters, pulling his hand away too quickly for my liking. “W-We were just discussing f-finances. ”

“Perfect. That’s my area of expertise.” I smirk.

What’s that quote, all brawn and no brains?

I’m walking, talking proof that anyone can be both.

Everyone assumes that I lack intelligence for becoming the muscle in a motorcycle club.

What they don’t know is that I majored in mathematics.

Reclining against the booth, I blow out a heavy exhale and will my body to relax.

I want this slimeball suit to see that I’m not worried about him or his wallet.

“We’re not asking for much, Darien. We are simply asking for seven percent more than your original offer,” I say.

“I can offer t-two percent. Seven is t-too much,” he blurts, looking at each club member seated around the table.

Too much? Seven percent would barely put a dent in this fuck wipe’s account. We lowballed him for a fucking reason. This was supposed to be an easy in, easy out meeting.

Where the fuck is Graves?

Ask for the Devil, and he shall appear. As if he heard his name being called, Graves walks around the booth wearing a smug as fuck grin.

“That’s not going to work for us, Darien.

” He pulls a chair from the table next to our booth.

Spinning the chair around, he straddles it.

“Seven is the magic number—the only number we’re walking away with tonight. ”

Each member nods in confirmation, adding an air of intimidation. While not planned, it does exactly as we hoped it would. Darien’s face pales, solidifying my earlier thought that this suit is a puss.

“Seven p-percent isn’t p-possible, gentlemen,” he stammers.

“Make it possible, suit,” Mack snaps.

“I c-can’t—”

Graves leans forward, steepling his fingers underneath his chin. “If you don’t, your company will go down once we leak what we have on you, Darien.”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I fight to keep my lips from pulling upwards. Darien Crawford, investor by day, piece of shit sex-trafficker by night. The MC had Kash follow the cocksucker for a month, gathering all the evidence we could need to drive him into the dirt if he didn’t come to heel.

Darien tosses each of us a worried look before opening his mouth, as if he’s about to spew chunks on the table. “I d-don’t! I didn’t—”

“Save it,” I snap. “You did, and we have the proof. You’re only getting away with your life and your side hobby if you give us what we want.”

“O-Okay! Seven p-percent,” he concedes.

Graves knocks his fist against the table, triggering a roar of excitement from the crew. Those closest to the slimeball suit jostle his shoulders while the others raise their drinks in celebration. “To seven percent, gentlemen,” Graves announces, standing from his chair.

Following his lead, Mack and I drag ourselves from the booth. We toss our heads to the side, signaling for the rest of the crew to join us. Like good soldiers, they take the hint and move themselves from their seats, leaving Darien behind.

“Hey guys,” Kash greets suddenly from behind me. “I got the shitbag’s car rigged up.”

Smirking, I turn to face the newest brother in our ranks. “Good. You’re on babysitting duty for the suit.”

“On it, boss.” He fucking beams like a kid stuck inside a candy shop. “I’ll see y’all tomorrow. Don’t overdo it, Stone. You need to rest or some shit.”

Rolling my eyes, I toss a weak punch at his shoulder. The guy is almost as bad as a woman when looking after us. “See you tomorrow, brother.”

“Leaving so soon, boys?” an airy voice asks.

Locking eyes on the bar, I take notice of a burgundy-haired woman standing behind the counter polishing a cocktail glass. “Yeah,” I drawl. “The meeting was a success, so we’re gonna head back home to celebrate.”

“Congratulations…” She smiles. As nice of a smile as it is, it does absolutely nothing for me. What the hell is wrong with me tonight? A throaty laugh pierces through my thoughts, snapping me back to the unfamiliar woman. “Sorry, I’m new around here. What’s your name?”

“Stone,” I say, giving a small nod of acknowledgement before walking away. I don’t bother to ask for hers. We’re not here to make friends with anyone, not when we have another issue to address with Stevie being back.

The warm midnight breeze blows over my face, wicking away the moisture gathered over my shaved head.

Reaching into my cut, I pull out the nearly empty pack of cigarettes.

I take one out without much thought, noting it’s the lucky I flipped a few days ago.

Pinching the tube of nicotine between my lips, I pat the sides of my jeans in search of a lighter.

Goddamnit, Mack.

“Here,” Graves grunts as he offers his shitty Bic.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

My thumb snaps over the wheel, sparking a low flame against the paper tube.

Inhaling deeply, I suck down the smoke like I need it to live.

At this rate, I probably do. I shouldn’t even be here, living this life.

The Butchers saved my ass and made me stronger; they made me into a goddamn machine.

Unfortunately, the hit busted this machine to high hell shortly after the pretty doll, whose pleasure still lingers on my tongue, left.

Fucking Priests.

Those rat bastards took me down and set the entire fucking club on fire.

They succeeded in their mission, too. It was a massacre that only left the new patches and the prospects—though most of them pussied out before they patched in.

If it weren’t for Mack and Graves, I’d have been buried six feet deep with a sad little cross as a headstone.

It’s taken us just as long to rebuild, but we did that shit.

We’re better than ever, damn near unstoppable with someone like Kash in our ranks now.

He may be younger than us, but the little asshole knows his shit.

Then again, I suppose being a fan of explosives helps him in that department.

“–id you hear me?” Graves asks, breaking my thoughts.

“Fuck no.” I huff a laugh as I blow out a ring of smoke. “Lost in my head again.”

He nudges my shoulder. “You good?”

Frowning, I look my friend in the eye. Concern draws over his features, pulling at the fragile strings of my heart.

“All good, I’m just—”

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Shawn.” He snubs his cigarette on the sole of his boot before tossing it somewhere in the dark parking lot. “You can talk to me, brother.”

Clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth, I flip him off. “Don’t first name me, man,” I snort. “I was going to say I’m just happy to be here—alive.”

“Me too, brother.” His voice cracks with more emotion than I’ve heard from him in years. “Me too.”

Shaking my head, I toss my burnt out cigarette to the ground and stomp on it for good measure. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.” I jerk my head towards our bikes. “Kash has it handled.”