Page 223 of Ruptured

“Prez,” Mortician rushed out, but his eyes were panicked, “it ain’t bad. Digger and Meggie got into an argument over Bunny.”

There was more to it, but they’d paid enough money to the hospital administrators and security team to buy the footage to scrap all the recent fuckery caught on camera. Val glanced up and down the hallway, saw no one, and stepped closer. “Digger still on Meggie No-Kill list, Outlaw.”

“You sure she ain’t burned that motherfucker?”

“Meggie’s still Meggie,” Stretch protested.

“My Megan hidin’,” Christopher barked. “But Ima smoke her out one way or the other.” He should’ve quit while he was ahead the other night. When she’d been sobbing so pitifully like his Sweet Angel. He just hadn’t been able to believe Rule jumped out of a window. Now, he couldn’t fucking believe Megan would go through with her hysterectomy. “If I ignore her the way she ignorin’ me, she ain’t gonna like it. I ain’t even goin’ to try to enter our bedroom. Ima eat at the club.”

“That might fuckin’ backfire, Outlaw,” Val said. “It might just piss her off more.”

“Val’s right,” Stretch said. “When Fee told her what the Triplets did, Meggie’s response was they should’ve sewn Cash’s stupid lips shut.”

Fuck.

“Meggie girl right,” Mortician said grimly. “Payback for his fucking vote.”

“We got a meetin’ with Derby,” he said, another idea coming to him. “Hopefully, Diesel will get home in a day or two.”

“Why?” Val asked suspiciously.

“Cuz,” he whispered. “Ima have him and his friends bring Cash and Johnnie to the meatshack. Stretch, you go with them and call Megan. Ima be at home and she’s gonna have to come to me to beg for their lives.”

“What if she doesn’t?” Stretch asked, his fear hard to miss.

“We’ll let them go,” Christopher said, satisfied with his plan.

“Uh, Prez, an apology is simpler and can do the same thing all your schemingmight,” Mort pointed out.

“Yeah, but only temporarily. This shit Megan doin’ gotta stop. I’m about to lose my goddamn mind. If I gotta put another kid in her, ignore the fuck out of her, or fuck up half the world so she’ll beg me to stop, Ima win this war she wagin’ no matter what the fuck I gotta do.” If Megan treated him the same way, he wouldn’t give a fuck. He’d let her be Hell Goddess, but he wouldn’t sit idly by and lose his fucking wife. “Let’s ride.”

Derby’s clubhouse was in northwest Portland bordered by miles of forest, a few streets, and the Willamette. With some of the money the Burning Hounds earned as a Dweller supportclub, Derby had upgraded security and fencing installed and renovated the clubhouse, making the stage for their strippers the focal point.

The Hounds’ girls earned money by dancing and whoring, although the club took most of the profits. Christopher had never agreed with that, but it wasn’t his club, so he shut the fuck up. However, what annoyed him most of all about Derby was the motherfucker always trying to tempt Christopher into fucking over Megan.

Even after Christopher killed those two bitches Derby tried to set him up with, the motherfucker didn’t learn his lesson and sent a horde of blondes over the moment Christopher and his boys sat.

All Megan needed to do was smell another woman’s perfume on him and he was fucking done for. She hated when he visited Derby’s clubhouse, but usually she had common sense. Unreasonable little motherfucker that she currently was, she’d believe Christopher fucked one of the girls.

HisMegan saw the good and believed in people. She excused unacceptable behavior and listened to explanations. She valued life and love, and protected both at all costs.ThisMegan seized on the bad and trusted no one. She didn’t want explanations. She wanted blood.

Instead of making a big deal out of the women at the table, Christopher ordered a set-up, tipped each of them, and sent them on their way. He ignored the naked girls on the stage, each performing acrobats on the pole, and showing their pussies to anyone who cared to look. The music, a cross between goth and porn background tunes, gave him a fucking headache. His hard cock didn’t fucking help.

“Why we here again, Prez?” Mort asked irritably when the song ended and the three girls started fucking, encouraged bythe hoots and hollers of some Hounds. He rested his arms on the table and averted his head away from the stage.

“Derby asked for the meeting,” Christopher answered, glancing over his shoulder toward the bar, so crowded with motherfuckers, he couldn’t see the bartender. “He ain’t here, so maybe I missed him.”

“Hey, boys,” Gypsy greeted, inserting herself between Christopher and Mortician and smiling at them. “I heard you were dropping in. I hung around to say hi.”

“Back with the motherfucker again, huh, babe?” Christopher shook his head. “He don’t deserve you.”

She forced a smile, but it didn’t help the misery so clear in her expression. “So I’ve been told.” She kissed Christopher’s cheek, then Mortician’s, and waved at the other three.

She’d been quite pretty when she was younger. Christopher never slept with her but, if he remembered correctly, Johnnie and Mortician had.

Squeals and moans floated to them, and she frowned, remembered her charade, and grinned again. “How’s Meggie?”

Christopher grunted.