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“Seeing as how you’re creeping around outside my house I think it is.”
“It’s not your house man. It’s my wife’s.”
His wife?
What in the fuck?
“You’re married to Rory?” I ask, and I don’t bother keeping the surprise out of my voice.
Has she been playing me all this time?
Jesus, when in the hell will I learn with these bitches?
“I am,” he says and fuck if those two words don’t feel like they’re burning in my gut.
“Then why are you looking through her window and not knocking on the damn door? Or better yet, using your key to let yourself in?” I ask for the fuck of it. I don’t know why all of this is hitting me wrong—but it is.
“What I do or don’t do when it comes to Rory is my business, chump. Why don’t you just move along. This is none of your concern,” the man says.
“Chump? Jesus.”
“We going to have problems?” he asks, and his thick northern accent rings even thicker.
I’m telling myself to get in my truck and drive away. I’ve had enough drama in my life and all of it has centered around women.
“Fuck this shit,” I growl, walking to my vehicle.
“That’s it, walk away like the chump you are,” he says.
It’s been a long time. I’ve been through a lot of shit in my life and my son has always been the one thing that has come first with me. I led a club and I had the men’s lives on my mind at all times and when you do that, you can’t afford to react first. You always have to think and weigh the consequences. That’s the man I’ve become and the man I’ve been for a fuck of a long time.
But I left my club.
I left my club and Ryan is at school and this fucker needs a lesson. If I’m more than truthful, he needs a lesson and I need an excuse just to beat the shit out of something. For years I’ve had this rage in me.
Fucking years.
It started with Vicki selling our boy and trying to come back. It deepened with each attempt and then the mess with Violet. A mess in which I thought I had a good woman and that woman turned out to be a lying whore who infiltrated my club to steal my boy and who knows what else… Then for years, I sat on that. I sat on the river of bitterness building inside of me. I sat on it even when it became clear that one of my own was probably involved. I sat on it until it forced me away from Crusher, Devil, Fury and all the boys who had become not only my brothers, but my family. I did what I had to do to protect my son. I thought through all my choices. I weighed the consequences of each choice and…
I did what I had to do.
Now is fucking now and I’m tired of weighing choices and options. I’m tired of worrying about consequences and most of all I’m damn tired of little cockroaches like this motherfucker talking out of their ass. So, I don’t think. I don’t do anything but react.
I charge at the motherfucker. He might be bigger, but that just means he’ll fall harder. I keep a piece of 2x4 in the back of my truck. I could lie and say I do it because I’ve been working on shit, but that’s not it. I don’t keep my gun out in the open with Ryan around and I take great pains never to scare him. That 2x4 is there because of all the shit that we’ve gone through. If I’m going to get waylaid again, I need something quick I can grab for defense.
I grab it on my way to this fucker, but not for defense. I grab it to knock his legs out from under him. It’s not fair, but someone needs to teach this asshole that fighting fair is just another way to die.
I see the moment he knows what’s up. His eyes go as round as motherfucking saucers, but it’s too late for him to plan his escape or a defense. I swing wide and strike against the shithead’s knees. I don’t do it light. I have years of anger inside of me and I let that bleed through the entire swing. He lets out a scream that will probably bring the neighbors alert and get my ass thrown in the slammer, but right now I do not give a fuck.
No consequences.
Once I have him down, I hit him one more time and not because I needed to. It was simply because it felt good. Then I toss the wood to the side and introduce my fists to his face. He swings and gets in some decent shots, but he’s too caught up in his pain for it to do anything more than piss me off more. I stop seeing his face. I start seeing all of the shit that has been swirling around me, stalking my child and I strike it over and over—which is to say, I fucking strike him over and over—to the point that my knuckles are raw, but I don’t give a fuck.
