Page 24 of Sac-rifice (RBMC: Cleveland, Ohio Chapter #7)

DON’T POINT GUNS AT BALLS

SAC

“I ’m on my way now, Brother,” I reassured Wiley, giving him my ETA.

Captain Pink’s V.P., Odin, had kept his word, and things had gone smoothly at the border.

However, Monty clearing out his club hadn’t gone as well.

Wiley texted to let me know the plans had changed and instead of texting back, I called.

The time was bumped up two hours to clean out Cat Call.

Apparently, there was one guy refusing to leave.

I was supposed to meet Wiley at Gran’s but I trusted Wiley, taking his words at face value.

We could sort out the specifics once I got there.

“Hurry up,” Wiley instructed in a hoarse voice.

He must be getting sick. That was quick, though.

I didn’t recognize anything being off with this voice yesterday.

If that fucker gave me the flu or something, I was going to kick his ass.

I hated being sick. If I came down with anything, I planned to climb into his bed and let him deal with the mess he made, and I didn’t simply get the flu.

I got what a lot of women referred to as “the man flu”.

Though it was a rare occurrence that I actually got sick, when I did, the symptoms were ten-fold of what a normal person would have.

“Don’t worry, Tiny. I’ll get the boxes off the top shelf for you soon,” I reassured him, taking the opportunity to give him shit.

I waited for him to snap back at me for the size comment, but he just said “yeah” before ending the call.

It wasn’t like Wiley to not say something quick-witted back.

Typically, he was the first in line to go round for round with me, trying to put me in my place.

Of course, he was anal-retentive when it came to punctuality, so that may have been what he was preoccupied with.

Either that or I was right, and the fucker had the flu. Maybe both.

The drive to Monty’s was quick. As soon as the parking lot was visible, my eyes were scanning the parking lot and outside of the building for anything out of place. I was being paranoid, but it came naturally to me. The call with Wiley did nothing but add to my paranoia.

A red Corvette was parked off the side of the building, taking up two parking spots, a ’76 or ’77 model.

From this distance, making out the emblem to distinguish which was impossible.

Both ‘Vettes were good years in my opinion, though. Their engines packed the same punch, but I was a fan of the older one personally. I’d never had enough money for both a Vette and my Harley.

It was a one or other type of situation.

Neither of those shits were cheap. However, a motorcycle was kind of needed to be in a Motorcycle Club, so when I decided that was going to be my future, I kissed my dream car goodbye.

“C’mon, Dove,” I said to Cor, squinting as the sun practically blinded me.

Bringing her along was less than ideal; in fact, I fucking hated having her riding shotgun but leaving her by herself wasn’t an option right now—especially with the coward texting her.

If I ever got my hands on them, the fucker would pay with his or her life.

The person responsible was probably a male; it fit the profile in my mind, but honestly, I had no fucking clue what gender the sender was.

“Why are we at a strip club?” She gave the place a fast once over while her eyebrows pulled together with her heavy judgment.

“Yeah. I have to get in there, and you staying out here isn’t an option. Take this.” I pulled the pocket pistol out of my boot and wrapped her hands around it. “Do you remember how to shoot?” I waited for her to answer, hoping she at least retained the basics from when we were teens.

She barely nodded, pinching the handle between her thumb and pointer finger, dangling the gun backward, the barrel flipping to point directly at my junk.

“Watch where you point that fuckin’ thing!” I shouted in a hurry, snatching the pistol from her, and then helped her find a comfortable hold on the gun.

“Eek! Sorry about that. You know I hate guns,” she said, baring her teeth as she spoke.

“I know. It’s just in case.”

“Since when do strip clubs require guns? Strippers take money not lives, Shane.” She glared at me, tucking my gun into the purse that rested on her hip. It was one of the kinds where the strap went across the body, so the risk of her accidentally losing her purse and the gun going off was slim.

I laughed, probably a little too hard at what she’d said. The last part sounded like a bumper sticker any one of us Bastards would have slapped onto our bumper. “They don’t normally, but I don’t trust the owner one fuckin’ bit, and something was up with Wiley.”

Her head tilted to the side.

“Wiley?”

“Tiny.”

“Oh, okay. Sooo?”

“So, if anything, and I mean anything pops off, shoot first, ask questions later. Got it?” I knew what I was asking of her, just like I knew the exact reason she hated guns, but this was a necessary evil.

When we were kids and I swore I’d always protect her, neither of us had any idea what that would end up meaning.

It wasn’t always chasing the darkness away.

Sometimes it meant becoming the villain.

Other times, like now, it meant pulling her into the shadows with me, praying we both found our way to the light again.

She stared blankly at me.

“You’ve got this. You’re strong.” I kissed her cheek, hoping I was being overdramatic by taking extra precautions, and as soon as we walked inside, Wiley would ride my ass for going in there guns first.

“I’m not scared, Shane.” She tightened her shoelaces as she spoke.

“You aren’t?”

“Nuh uh.”

“How the hell are you not?”

She shrugged. “Dunno. I’m just not, I guess,” she said in an uneven voice, nervously chewing on her bottom lip.

“You’re a damned liar, Corinne. Always have been,” I called her out.

“Agree to disagree.” A broad fake smile spread across her face, and then her cheeks puffed out as she blew out a breath.