Page 9 of Psycho

“But this is my fight—”

“This is our fight, not yours.” He bumped his fist against the patches on my chest. “As a member of this club, a threat to you is a threat to all of us. You aren't going anywhere until you sort out your shit and get your head on straight anyway. It's nothing personal," he added apologetically.

I clamped my mouth shut, seething. Arguing with the President would only dig my grave deeper. He gave an order, and I was expected to follow it. End of story.

“Bruiser can babysit you,” Pretty Boy added with a smirk.

I groaned.

“Come on. Don’t do that to me.”

Bruiser spoke up from a table in the corner, with a club bunny snuggled under his arm.

“You sent those grimy little gremlins after me earlier. And now it's my turn to get you back. Pick your poison—old-school swirly? Or a classic wedgie?”

“You’re a goddamn child,” I said.

He chuckled.

Resentment burned in the back of my throat as I watched Pretty Boy leave. I should be going with him. I hated just waiting around, doing nothing.

A few years ago, The Filthy Rebels had planned a grab for our territory. Hillbilly’s snitch warned us in advance, giving us a chance to prepare, so we weren’t caught off guard and blindsided.

I didn’t know her name, or what she looked like. She maintained minimal contact with the club, and for a while, she didn’t speak to anyone else except Hillbilly.

But if she had information, I wanted to hear it first hand.

I scrubbed at a pockmark in the bar’s countertop with my thumb as an idea began to take shape. Bruiser whispered something in the club bunny’s ear. She giggled, sneaking her hand up his shirt.

He wasn’t paying any attention to me.

Holding my breath, I slid behind the bar, moving toward the kitchen, where I could easily slip into the alley, undetected.

Bruiser didn’t glance in my direction. Not even once.

A motorcycle roared outside, signaling Pretty Boy's departure. If I intended to follow him, I had to move. Now.

Just as I reached for the kitchen door—so close to freedom—a giant hand grabbed the back of my neck.

“How stupid do you think I am?” Bruiser growled.

I snorted.

“You don’t want me to answer that.”

“Very funny, smartass.”

I shrugged off his grip and turned to face him.

“What would you do if you were in my shoes?”

Bruiser grunted and crossed his arms.

“If I was in your shoes, the bastard who stabbed me would be dead. You were too soft on him.”

I spread my hands with exasperation.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? Pointing out the mistake I made years ago?”