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Compass shot Stretch a warning glance, his expression stern. “I think it’s best if you just keep your mouth shut,” he advised tersely.
Stretch responded with a defiant gesture, flipping Compass off. “Sit and spin,” he retorted with a smirk, clearly unimpressed with Compass’s caution.
I smacked Stretch’s hand down and shot him a look. “Knock it the fuck off,” I growled, my patience wearing thin. “Swear to god you guys are like a bunch of ten-year-olds.”
Before Stretch could offer a retort, Russ returned to the room, accompanied by two men. The first, Boone, was an older gentleman with graying hair dressed in a dark blue suit with a red tie. He exuded the polished exterior of a seasoned politician. The second man, Gibbs, appeared to be in his mid-forties; his balding head shone in the light, and he was wearing a black suit and a garish yellow tie.
Both men had an air of arrogance about them, and their presence only served to fuel my growing frustration. Boone wore a slick smirk on his lips while Gibbs looked around anxiously, clearly out of his element with a bunch of bikers even though his claim to fame was taking down the notorious Kilmore Gang.
As Boone positioned himself at the head of the table, his gaze swept over our group with a calculating glint. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting,” he remarked, his tone oozing with false cordiality.
I nodded in acknowledgment, offering him a sardonic smile. “Yeah, I don’t think we have, but that hasn’t stopped you from trying to kill me,” I shot back, my words laced with bitterness.
Boone chuckled dismissively as if my accusation were nothing more than a joke. “You must have me confused with someone else. I don’t even know your name,” he countered, his tone dripping with condescension.
The audacity of his denial ignited a simmering anger within me. “I’m Yarder, President of the Iron Fiends MC,” I declared, my voice edged with steel. “The club you’re trying to take out. Ring any bells?”
Boone wagged his finger in mock admonition, his smirk widening. “You know, that does ring a bell,” he conceded, his tone laced with mockery. “Gibbs was talking about your club on the way over here. He’s been working on cleaning up the streets.”
The smugness in Boone’s demeanor grated on my nerves, and the temptation to wipe the smirk off his face was almost overwhelming.
“Maybe you should be looking at some other streets to be cleaning up,” I suggested, my tone heavy with frustration and defiance.
Boone chuckled dismissively, his demeanor exuding arrogance. “Well, being the US attorney general, I think all the streets in America are my concern,” he retorted smoothly. “Have to start somewhere, right?”
His smug response grated on my nerves, fueling my growing anger. I couldn’t sit idly by any longer. With a surge of determination, I shot up from my chair and leaned toward Boone, fixing him with a steely glare. “Leave my club alone,” I demanded, my voice laced with intensity. “We’re not hurting anyone. I can give you a fucking list of clubs that break ten laws a day. The Iron Fiends are on the up and up, and need to get off of your radar.”
Boone raised an eyebrow in amusement, his expression one of thinly veiled disdain. “But that’s exactly why you are on my radar,” he countered, his tone dripping with malice. “Can you imagine the story when they find out the Iron Fiends are not only drug dealers but also murderers? Everyone thinks you guys are upstanding citizens and stars of a new reality show,” he sneered. “But we know you’re not.”
His words were like a slap in the face, a blatant distortion of the truth that only served to stoke the flames of my anger. “You’re fucking setting us up,” I accused, my voice seething with indignation.
Boone turned to Gibbs, his expression one of feigned concern. “You’re not doing that, are you?” he asked, casting a dubious glance in Gibbs’s direction.
Gibbs raised his hands in a placating gesture and shook his head vehemently. “I would never do something like that,” he insisted, his tone dripping with false sincerity. “I’m just holding up the law and cleaning up the streets.”
The sheer audacity of his statement left me speechless. It was clear that Boone and Gibbs were playing a dangerous game, one in which they held all the cards. But I refused to back down. “Find some other patties to take down, and leave us the fuck alone,” I growled, my voice dripping with defiance.
Boone’s smirk only widened, his gaze locking with mine in a silent challenge. “Or what?” he taunted, his tone laced with contempt. “What are you going to do? I don’t think you did your homework before coming here. I have the upper hand and I call the shots.”
I squared my shoulders, meeting Boone’s gaze with unwavering determination. “Did you really do your homework on me and my club?” I demanded, my voice steady despite the anger simmering beneath the surface. “Do you know what tree you’re barking up?”
Boone’s lips curled into a patronizing smirk as he regarded me with thinly veiled contempt. “Do you think I’m stupid?” he retorted, his tone dripping with disdain. “Of course, we did our homework. We know exactly who you are, Yarder McCrane. A runaway at the age of fifteen after his parents died, living on the streets, and finally climbed the ranks in the Iron Fiends. You’re scum. A scab on the town of Mt. Pleasant,” he sneered, his words laced with venom. “You and your club are just a stepping stone for Gibbs to take over. You’ll be quick to fold.”
His arrogance grated on my nerves, but I refused to let it shake me. The Iron Fiends were no strangers to adversity, and we didn’t back down from a fight. Stepping closer until we were practically nose to nose, I locked eyes with Boone, my gaze unwavering. “You’re wrong, Boone,” I growled, my voice low and menacing. “You think you know me, but let me clue you in on something you don’t know.”
Boone’s expression remained impassive, but I could see a flicker of curiosity in his eyes as he studied me intently. “And what might that be?” he inquired, his tone laced with skepticism.
“I was a runaway. I was homeless. I had nothing. You got that all right,” I admitted, my voice tinged with bitterness. “But then I found the IFMC, climbed the ranks, and became president. You know what that did? What that gave me?”
Boone’s lips twitched with amusement. “A crusty leather vest?” he quipped, his tone mocking.
I couldn’t help but chuckle at his attempt to belittle me. “No,” I countered, my voice firm. “It gave me something to live for. It gave me my family.” I locked eyes with Boone, daring him to challenge me. “You got a family, Boone?”
His facade cracked for a moment, revealing a flash of vulnerability before he quickly masked it with a cold indifference. “Divorced,” he admitted gruffly, his voice tinged with bitterness.
I shook my head in mock sympathy. “Ol’ Lauren didn’t want you after eleven years, did she?” I remarked, a hint of amusement coloring my tone. I did my homework, too.
Boone’s jaw clenched visibly; his nostrils flared with suppressed anger. “Watch your fucking mouth,” he warned, his voice low and menacing.
