Page 8 of Life Or Death

“That’s right.” I keep my tone steady as I fight the urge to ball my fists. “I wrote a check the day after she was admitted and told the people down at the registrar that I would cover all her medical expenses.”

Mr. Reeves steps forward, tapping his clipboard with a pen. “Yes, we have that on file.” His eyes don’t lift from the clipboard he’s holding, and that irks me. “However, the check you wrote doesn’t cover the current balance.”

I stare at him. “Come again?”

“Between the ICU stay, the ventilator, the medications, the burn unit resources . . .” His voice trails as he flips the page on top of the clipboard. “The account is in the negative. We can’t proceed with the surgery until the balance is brought current.”

I wrote a check for fifty grand. Cleared out my fucking savings, and this prick bastard is telling me it’s all gone.

“How much?” My voice sounds dangerously low even to my own ears, and I watch Reeves’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“The current balance is negative twelve thousand, four hundred and thirty-seven dollars. The surgical excision, plus the anticipated skin grafts and post-op care, will bring the total projected cost to⁠—”

“Give me the fucking number.”

He flips another page. “Roughly eighty to ninety thousand for the first procedure alone, and that is a conservative projection.”

Tori makes a sound beside me, but I don’t look at her. I can’t. I need to think. I don’t have ninety thousand lying around. I’m gonna have to tap into the club’s funds. It’s the only way to get the money quickly.

My gaze bounces between Reeves and Jess’s doctor. “I need a couple of hours to get the money. In the meantime, prep her for surgery.”

Reeves scoffs. “It doesn’t work like that.”

The little bit of control I was hanging onto snaps, and I take a step toward the pencil-pushing prick. “I don’t really give a fuck how it works for everyone else in this place, but my wife is going to get that surgery before the day is over. You’ll get your fucking money. Just put her on the fucking list or whatever it is that you people do.” My gaze cuts to the doctor. “And as for you . . . you better pray to whatever God you believe in that those hands of yours are worth every penny I’m about to give you because if anything happens to my wife, I will end you.”

CHAPTER THREE

LUCIFER

The clubhouse smells like stale beer, gunpowder, and the faintest trace of weed when I shove through the front door. My gaze shoots toward the large bar that takes up the length of the right wall in the common area, and I spot Dread, the secretary of the club, perched on a stool all the way at the end. A glass of whiskey sits untouched in front of him, the amber liquid catching the light from the neon Budweiser sign that hangs crooked above the mirror behind the bar. He’s got a joint pinched between his fingers, smoke curling lazily above him as he offers it to Homeboy—the prospect who has been trying to earn his colors for the last two months.

Homeboy reaches to pluck the joint from Dread’s fingers, but he’s too slow for our secretary, and as Dread snatches the joint out of his reach, his gaze turns in my direction.

“Mammon here?”

Dread takes a pull, holding the smoke in his lungs, and exhales through his nose before answering. “Trailer.”

I turn and head back out the door, crossing the gravel lot to where the trailer that acts as the club’s office sits on the compound. The aluminum steps groan under my boots as I take them two at a time. My hand wraps around the doorknob, and I shove it open so hard it slams against the interior wall with a bang, nearly taking the flimsy thing off the fucking hinges.

The whole trailer rattles from the impact, and Mammon’s head snaps up from behind the desk. As soon as his eyes land on me, he leans back in his chair and lets out a low whistle.

“Jesus, Prez, what did the door ever do to you?”

I don’t bother answering him. There’s no time for pleasantries, and even if there were, I’m all out of patience. My boots hit the cheap linoleum as I close the distance between us in three strides, planting my palms flat on the desk as I lean in. My gaze flits across it, noticing the open ledgers and the bottle of Jack that’s holding down a stack of invoices. Seems like I caught him at the right time.

“How much cash we got in reserves?”

Mammon stares at me for a beat, his mouth curling at the corners as if I’ve just told him a joke he hasn’t decided is funny yet.

“Is that a trick question?”

“Take a good look at me, Mammon. Do I look like I’m in the mood for fucking games? Answer the goddamn question.”

The smirk dies on his face, and he clears his throat, his gaze dropping to the books in front of him. “We’re tapped out, Prez. We’re lucky if we got about ten grand at our disposal right now, which is going to be a real problem if we decide to rebuild Rodeo Roundup.”

That gives me pause. My fingers curl against the desk’s edge. “What do you mean? What about the insurance?”

Mammon’s mouth twists into a grimace. “I filed a claim, but I wouldn’t bank on them covering anything considering it was arson. They’re going to drag their feet, investigate, and eventually deny the claim.” Tapping his pen against the ledger, his gaze slides back to me. “It might be in the club’s best interest to just cut our losses. You can bring it to the table, and we’ll take a vote on it, but I don’t see a viable path forward.”