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Projecting what I have to say for all members to hear, I set my own rules: “I cannot be bought — by any of you.” I draw out the pause after my opening statement. Using the flashes of colorful lights that circulate around the room, I spare a moment of focus on each guy before continuing. “I refuse your money. I keep my job, my schedule, my hobbies. But I am also here for you. Hell for Leather property—”
I almost tack on the words no questions asked but catch myself. I will get answers; those are now far more valuable to me than they were before.
“I give Kal what he wants but not at the expense of what I already have.”
My dreams, for instance. Like the fact that I will be leaving this all behind come Sunday, carrying learned secrets with me packed away tightly in my trunk.
With every silent, internal addition to the monologue, my anger seethes.
“I am too proud to cower in front of the barrel of a gun, much less ink on a flimsy piece of paper. If my terms are unacceptable, kill me. I mean it. Because controlling me would be taking my life anyway.”
Kal forgets that this — our — dysfunctional family started the moment I brought him out of his head, fucking him to clarity when he was at his lowest and just starting the club. If “fucking” is what you can even call something so beautiful.
Coty was next.
Then Kio.
Baylor.
Chaz.
Vincent.
Brodi.
…Now Zane.
What they fail to realize is that my “siren song,” as Coty likes to call it, stole their souls one by one; the members of Hell for Leather were my property well before I became theirs.
