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And the fucker knew it.
Rafe took every opportunity to remind me that I wasn’t free, and I owed him. As long as he was club Pres I would constantly look over my shoulder . . .
But the asshole better look over his too because I was only biding my time.
Sooner or later I’d be able to seek justice for his betrayal and lies. Someday I’d get my answers.
That thought brought me back to the warehouse and those last minutes with Akando. He knew something, and I intended to find out exactly what it was. Too many secrets were anchored in my past and for once I just wanted the goddamn truth.
Lost in my anger and frustration, I didn’t see Rafe until it was too late. My back was slammed into the wall, just feet from my bedroom in the main hall, conveniently around the corner from the loud and drunken party not far away. Rafe’s hands were fisted around the neck of my shirt as he attempted to cut off my airway.
Dumb fucker.
“I heard you were looking for answers again Edge.”
His sneer was unmistakable along with the hatred and loathing in his voice. There was no love lost between us. Our arrangement was born of necessity, not respect. Keep your friends close . . . and your enemies closer.
I smiled lazily, ignoring the urge to cough or choke. Without warning, I leaned forward and headbutted him as hard as I could, right on the nose. He dropped his hands from my shirt but ended up pummeling my gut a few times as we staggered. I blocked one of the hits and swung my fist in a perfectly timed left hook.
Old southpaw.
I’d trained hard to be able to hit like that, with just enough accuracy, speed, and strength to take someone down but not inflict permanent damage. Rafe was a fool to try to take me on now. I’d trained faster and harder than most guys too and I seemed a natural. Now that I thought about it, I wasn’t the only one. Most of my MC brothers were decent boxers. We could brawl with the best and take hits that would knock a normal guy out cold. And we’re strong, resilient, tough fighters.
All except Rafe. Maybe if he stayed sober long enough, he could train and clean his act up, but I doubted it. Stupid fucker. I pulled my punch a little so I didn’t hurt him too much but enough so he knew I meant business. Don’t get me wrong I wanted to see this asshole get what he deserved but it wasn’t the right time.
For now, I had to protect myself.
Rafe laughed and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his shirt, blood coursing down the front as he sniffed, “You’re getting better, quicker. Good for you Edge.”
I didn’t acknowledge his words but kept my fight stance, ready for more. Don’t ever let your guard down. I learned that shit the hard way. Those first few years were brutal teachers and the scars on my body proved my endurance and stamina as well as my ability to adapt.
“No more tonight. You did good kid so go get some pussy and celebrate. We’ll pick this up tomorrow.”
I didn’t doubt this would involve some serious shit later. Rafe didn’t like it when I tried to dig into the MC’s past and the connection to the Outlaws. Too bad. He didn’t have a choice because I was going to do whatever the fuck I wanted anyway.
“Bro, where you been?”
R.J. clapped his hand on my shoulder and I smiled, breathing slowly through my nose until I was calm.
“Had a little talk with Rafe.”
He frowned but didn’t ask what it was about. Good. I hate explanations, “Let’s get out of here. Ghost wants to see if he pick up some chicks at the bar. Valan and Jake are getting antsy. They think GQ will snag all the ladies.”
I snorted, “He probably will. Pretty fucker.”
R.J. laughed as he pulled me from the clubhouse, swinging his fist into my side and we wrestled like we did when we were kids, knocking each other into walls on the way out. Both of us out of breath and grinning like fools, we straddled our hogs. Seconds later the loud heavy roar of our bikes filled the air as we headed to our favorite bar, Crazy Eights.
You’d think it was a hardcore biker bar, but it wasn’t. That’s why we liked it.
The front doors were made of heavy wood and scraped the rough, uneven floor when you entered. Loud music and the sound of dozens of voices met you instantly as well as the smell. Like licorice and fried food. The main focal point was a large rectangular carved bar that wrapped around the room and was shaped like the number eight. Bartenders stood in the two circles, passing out drinks, and taking orders.
A large kitchen sat at the northern end, serving up appetizer type foods like fries and chicken wings. About sixteen pool tables were scattered around the outskirts of the room while wooden tables and chairs hovered in the center. Everything was in multiples of eight. Interesting concept.
No live band tonight but the jukebox was loudly blaring out tunes. A stage had been set up on the far end, but it wasn’t large. Entertainment was usually only Thursday through Saturday nights. A dance area, really nothi
ng more than a huge tiled square floor occupied the space in front of the stage, and off to the right was equipment set up for a D.J. Strobe lights dangled from above the dance floor, where it would be lit up as the gyrating bodies pressed close together to the beat of the music.
I could see how this place appealed to both the normal and biker crowd. People were milling about all over the room, shooting pool, drinking beers, smoking cigarettes, and hanging around the jukebox making selections.
