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“Honestly, I’m trying to live my life. Y’know, do for me instead of everyone else.” That was mostly the truth.Way to go, Eve! You didn’t lie straight to his face this time.
“Crap, Mom. You make it sound like you’re a prisoner or a maid here.”
“Son, sometimes I feel like both.”
“I didn’t know you felt like that.” He appeared taken aback.
Jeez, way to go and make him feel bad, Eve.“Don’t make more out of this, okay? I just want to be free to be me and do as I please.”
“Hell, you’re an adult. Do as you damn well please, Mom.” He stepped back. “I’ll see you later. And Mom?”
“Yes, Maddox.”
“You don’t owe anyone an explanation. Dad would want you to do whatever makes you happy.” He threw his hand up, stalking away, and opened the gate.
“Thank you, Maddox. I’ll see you later,” I shouted as I drove off the property, sicker to my stomach than before.
Why did I feel the penalty for lying to my children and my club family would be painful and devastating?
A shiver wiggled down my spine as I felt darkness descend upon me. I flicked my gaze in my review mirror to check my six. I half expected to see the Reaper on my ass with his scythe in hand.
But no, paranoia had gotten the better of me. Nothing wicked was amiss behind me, only a truck kicking up dirt about half a mile away.
21
Art
Hustler pounded into a gangbanger without stopping for a breath. He might be a treasurer like me, where our job kept us behind a desk most days, but the motherfucker outdid me at giving the dude a grade-A smackdown. He’d said back in Fargo that they mainly dealt with gangs and enjoyed fighting with their fists.
While Hustler beat the gang member to an inch of his life, I explained the ins and outs to the new prospects. “Don’t let up when an outsider crosses into your territory like him.” I jerked my chin to the bloodied, limp pile of shit. “Teach them a lesson they will never forget. Show no mercy. You want them to warn all their friends about the TC Vipers.”
Hustler switched to kicking the scumbag in the ribs, giving himself quite a workout. His hair hung in his sweaty, red face, strands of his dark locks were stuck to his cheeks.
I was glad Hustler had volunteered to demonstrate what a proper ass whipping looked like. If I fucked up my right hand, I would be devastated. I likened my hands to that of a surgeon’s. They were priceless, an absolute necessity for a gifted tattoo artist like myself.
The young prospects watched with wide eyes. A biker’s life was messy and violent, but we all got used to it. Years ago, when I was a prospect, I recalled feeling shellshocked during my first club war. But I got over it, desensitized to violence, and so would these guys.
Hustler grabbed the dude’s collar with one hand, swinging his other back, and laid him out with a right hook in the eye.
“Son of a bitch.” Hustler shook out his right hand. “I broke a little skin.” He smiled wryly.
“Is he dead?” one prospect asked.
“Nah.” Hustler waved him off as he paced in front of the group of prospects. He brushed his fingers through his hair to get it out of his eyes. “He’s just taking a little nap.” He winked. “Now, remember, it’s either you or the other guy. If you don’t want that to be you lying on the pavement in your own piss, you better learn how to get the upper hand.”
I smirked, having flashbacks to when Storm and Boxer had trained me. Prez had told me the same exact line about having the upper hand. I wondered if it was something all the Knights were taught.
“When should we kill the perp with our gun?” a stocky prospect asked, putting his hand on his holstered piece.
Hustler stopped and got in the kid’s face. “Is that all you’re here for? To kill people?”
“N, no.”
“You kill when your life is threatened or when your prez gives the order. You don’t kill just for the helluvit. Got it?”
Hustler turned toward me. “Snot-nosed kids.”
I laughed because they were young, not even twenty. “Any questions?”
