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14
“Two in the morning and no sign of Saint. We are not twenty-four hours out from an attack, and he’s nowhere to be seen.” I growl, sitting in church with Conor. It’s the one part of the clubhouse no one comes to unless we have to, making it the ideal place to talk. The members agree that Saint’s ideals will demolish everything the Westmoreland and McCullough families have built over the past thirty years.
“We should be here, together, but he’s catting around. I thought he was ready. He’s not.” I huff. Had I known that he would restructure like this, I wouldn’t have let him move up. I am a Westmoreland too. I am an heir.
“Calan, you gotta calm down. You may have gone too far this time.” Conor insists.
“Too far?” I shake my head. If he only knew just how far I have gone or am willing to go. “He needs to be brought for a vote. This—” I stop as the door opens, and in walks Bridget.
“Where is my son?” She demands. I haven’t seen her since her revelation about Saint and his true parentage through me. I put her out of my house and have stayed away to keep my temper in check.
“Woman, who the fuck do you think you are with that tone?”
“I am the woman that bore the President of the Gatekeepers. I'm the woman that began this crazy train before you even knew how to jump on. Kellan and I birthed this club, and you all seem to forget that. I am the last McCullough.”
I laugh. “You are a whore, that runs whores because it’s all you know.”
“You liked my cunt when it was wrapped around your cock all these years. I haven’t changed. You have-you’ve become a sniveling fag—”
I grab her by the throat, slamming her to the table. She gags, her talons digging into my wrists. “Your mouth needs to be silenced,” I growl, my hard cock pressing against her core. “Does that feel like a fags cock against you?” I rip her skirt up, flipping her and tearing down her panties before unzipping my fly. “You want to be mine? You want to be a Westmorland fuck toy? That’s fine by me.”
“Calan, I’ll fucking kill you.” She snarls, spitting and sputtering.
“Cal, stop.” Conor barks, grabbing my arm. I hold Bridget down and pull my gun, pointing it at him.
“Touch me again.” Conor puts up his hands. “Now make yourself useful and gag this dirty cunt, or I’ll skull fuck you too.”
Conor grabs her and pulls her across the table. She whimpers as I spit on my hand, slick my cock, and pounder her until her juices have me slick enough to slam her tight star. She cries and bucks against me. Kicking-trying to get me off, which actually gets me off. I pull out and rip her from Conor’s hand, cuming on her face and blouse. “Now that’s how you service a lying whore.”
She spits in my face. “Fuck you!”
I wipe the saliva from my cheek and smile. “No, fuck you.” I pull the trigger and watch the light drain from her eyes.
Conor grabs me, “You fucking killed her!” He hisses. “Saint is going to—”
“Do nothing. Give me your knife.” I put out my hand. He hands it over, and I take the blade cutting my face. “She came at me, understand? This was self-defense.” Conor nods, looking at the crumpled body on the table. “So much for loyalty amongst thieves.”
