Page 41

King

Six months later, Diamond Creek, Nebraska,

“You sure about this, King?”

The night’s sky was pitch fucking black. Not even one motherfucking star visible. To make matters worse, there was no fucking moon. If it weren’t for the faint light coming from inside the clubhouse, I wouldn’t have been able to see shit. How my clubhouse got volunteered for this summit was beyond me, but when someone from out of the blue called me two nights ago and told me who I would be hosting tonight, I just prayed Colt had the club’s insurance premiums paid in full.

“Fuck no,” I growled as I stood on the front steps of my clubhouse. “Everyone close in case shit goes sideways?”

“Yeah,” Jingles whispered into the darkness. “All the girls are over at Beck’s place with Blade and the others.”

“Who’s on the gate?”

“Archie,” Jingles informed. “Told the prospect no IDs tonight. To just let whoever shows up right on in.”

Huffing, I looked around the area, and I spotted two headlights off in the distance.

“And our other guests?”

“Waiting patiently in the wings.”

Nodding, I sent up a quick prayer for patience, then steeled myself for what was about to happen as I watched the gate automatically open and two lone riders drive right on through. Parking off to one side, the riders cut their engines, removed their helmets, and stepped off their bikes. Refusing to move from my spot, I said nothing when the two men walked over to me. The one in the lead extending his hand.

“Asshole here yet?” Montana Stone, President of the Soulless Sinners MC, asked.

“No. You are the first to arrive.”

“I need a fucking whiskey.”

“Jingles, go with him,” I quickly instructed, then grinned when Montana growled at me. “Sorry, Montana, you know the rules. The hosting club runs point, and considering who will be in attendance tonight, I’m not leaving anything to chance. Now, you are more than welcome to my clubhouse. The bar is fully stocked, but Jingles has been instructed to monitor you the entire time you’re here.”

The moody bastard walked past and grumbled, “I’m not the one who needs a fucking babysitter.”

As Jingles followed Montana into my clubhouse, I noticed that Malice didn’t move an inch.

Curious, I asked, “You planning on staying out here with me?”

Malice was a big fucker and like most brothers in the biker world, we all knew about him. His reputation was almost as colorful as Sandman’s.

“Don’t want to be here.”

“Neither do I,” I replied, which was the God’s honest truth.

I wanted to be anywhere but here tonight.

Malice and I didn’t have to wait long before two more riders rolled past the gates, parking on the other side of my clubhouse. Standing my ground, I said nothing while I watched Reaper and Sandman get off their bikes and walk over to me.

“King.”

“Reaper.”

“Where’s fucknuts?”

“Getting drunk.”

“Fucker better not be drinking all the damn whiskey,” Reaper clipped as he strode past angrily, heading straight into my clubhouse.

“Don’t wanna be here,” Sandman grumbled when I looked at the man.

“Then you are in good company, ’cause Malice just said the same thing.”

Sandman turned to look at Malice, who just glared back. Neither man moved, nor blinked, for that matter, but when I heard them both growl, I yelled, “Someone wanna come out here and take care of these two before they break Nebraska?”

“GET THE FUCK IN HERE!” Montana and Reaper both shouted at the same time.

Huffing, the two men said nothing as they marched their cranky asses into my club.

Looking up at the night sky, I whispered, “Get me through tonight and I will never complain again.”

Heading into the clubhouse, I found Montana and Reaper both sitting at the table in the middle of the main room, which Jingles had set up for this meeting. On the table were three bottles of Hell’s Breath, which I had snagged from the Queen’s Diamond Bar in town. Figured if I was going to have two of the most powerful biker presidents in the underworld in my clubhouse, I might as well get them drunk on the good stuff.

Jingles stood behind the bar, keeping a watchful eye on Malice, who was sitting at one end eating an apple and reading a book, while at the other end, Sandman sat hunched over a juice box, while wearing a pair of sparkly pink headphones.

Looking at Jingles, my brother shrugged but said nothing as he stayed rooted to his spot.

Heading to the table, I barely sat my ass down when Montana spoke. “I want Vicious and Fury back.”

“Really?” Reaper scoffed, staring blankly at Montana. “That’s where you want to start? Remind me again who it was that failed to uphold their end of a blood pact, which damn near killed the old lady of one of my brothers?”

“They are my brothers too.”

“Vicious was mine first!”

Rolling my eyes, I placed my index finger and thumb into my mouth and whistled loudly, halting the bickering duo. With everything those two had been through in the last six months, I would have thought cooler heads would have prevailed, but I guessed that was hoping for too much, because the two idiots sitting before me were just as petty as ever.

“Okay,” I sighed, leaning back in my chair. “This is how this meet will go. I have been provided with a list of grievances that need to be thoroughly discussed and resolved before either of you are permitted to leave my clubhouse. I want to remind you both that there will be absolutely no yelling, complaining, or fighting of any kind permitted during this summit. If you throw punches, Jingles will step in and stop you.”

Malice and Sandman chuckled as both Montana and Reaper scowled, turning to look at the men.

“It has been made explicitly clear that neither of you can leave this clubhouse until you both reach a compromise that is acceptable to both parties involved. If you both fail to reach such a compromise, I’ve been ordered to inform you both that action will be taken to bring you both to heel.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Montana asked, looking at Reaper, who simply shrugged.

“Don’t ask me.” The president of the Golden Skulls smirked. “I hate this political shit. I prefer to fight it out until the last man is standing.”

Turning to me, Montana sneered, “Well?”

“They weren’t very forthcoming on that part.”

“What the fuck does that mean? Who demanded this summit?”

“I’m just telling you what I was told.”

“Bullshit,” Montana barked, reaching across the table for the papers I was given. Scanning them, he added, “The table doesn’t have the fucking authority to dictate what the Biker Federation does. We have our own council for that. The table’s reach is only for world matters that involve other organizations and shit.”

“Don’t know why they’re involved in our shit anyway,” Reaper muttered, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. “It’s not like we declared war against another organization. Wouldn’t even be here if you had just given me what I wanted.”

Groaning, Montana dropped his head and growled. “For the last motherfucking time, I will not grant Vicious dual membership.”

“Then he stays Golden.”

“He’s a Sinner.”

“He was Golden first, fucknuts.”

“And he will die a Sinner.”

“Fine, then I’m keeping Fury!”

Ignoring Reaper, Montana continued to read the papers when he stiffened. “Maxwell, how the hell do they know we’ve declared war on the table? We only made that decision two days ago.”

Frowning, Reaper sat up. “The fuck you say?”

Sliding the papers toward him, Montana glared at me. “Who the hell sent you these papers, King? Because I fucking know it wasn’t the damn table.”

“Never said the table ordered this summit.”

Both men stiffened, sat up straighter, and glared menacingly at me.

I fucking knew this damn summit was a bad idea. I should have told them no. Not that they really gave me a chance, but still, I wasn’t in their sphere. They should have asked someone else, someone with more clout who could instill the fear of God into these two hotheads. I got why they asked me, but Jesus fuck, these two men were going to kill me because I was the messenger!

“Montana, there’s more. They know what you did in Oklahoma with the Diamondbacks. They are demanding restitution.”

“They can suck my dick, ’cause that’s never gonna happen,” Montana snarked, ripping the papers out of Reaper’s hands. Pointing at something on the papers, he leaned toward Reaper and added, “Look at this shit. They also want a face-to-face meeting with your wife.”

Reaper threw his head back and laughed. “They can get fucked.”

“Don’t fucking care who called this fucking summit. I’m not doing shit.” Balling up the papers, Montana threw them over his shoulder, grabbed a bottle of Hell’s Breath, twisted off the cap, and chugged it.

“Me either,” Reaper growled, crossing his arms over his chest.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Max,” a firm gruff voice snarled from deep in the shadows.

I watched Reaper stiffen, sit up straighter and slowly look around.

“Same goes for you, mouth,” another voice seethed as Montana slowly lowered the bottle from his lips and gently placed it on the table, his eyes wide as he dared not move.

“Would you look at that? They do know how to shut up.” Someone chuckled as I leaned back in my seat and continued.

“Like I was saying, I was personally asked to hold this summit, because this petty war between the two of you has gone on long enough. I’m sorry if you were both brought here under false pretenses, but this shit has gotten out of control. Instead of fighting the enemy, your hatred for each other has spilled over into other clubs and is now causing a problem within the Biker Federation. So, the both of you are staying here until you work your shit out.”

“And if we don’t?” Reaper gulped, scanning the room.

“Then I will,” the firm gruff voice said. “Told you before, Max, nothing was ever what it seemed. Told you to look with better eyes.”

“I did.”

“No, Son, you didn’t.” A tall, robust older man with a weathered face and icy-blue eyes, almost identical to Reaper’s, walked out of the shadows, making himself known, along with several other faces long thought to be dead. “Because if you had, you would have seen us coming.”

The End