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“No, I don't want a mother fucking drink. I’ve been searching for ya all morning.”
“Well, you found me,” I clap my hands. “What can I do for you?” I bite back sarcastically.
“Not a lot seeing the state of ya.” He looks unimpressed as he takes out his phone and mouths angry words that I can’t hear over the music to whoever's on the other end of the line.
“I should have guessed you’d have something to do with this,” he calls over to Squealer when he notices him. He’s got a finger in one bitch and his dick in another, and I wish I could go back to the days where females never really mattered.
“We’re just checking everything’s up to standard,” he hollas back, and I lift up my glass to toast that shit.
Jessie snatches it off me before it makes it to my lips, and I scowl back at him.
At least I think I do.
“Don’t worry ‘bout it. Prez can take Nyx,” he shakes his head like he’s disappointed in me.
“Why don’t you go with him? You're always attached to his fuckin’ hip.” I shrug.
Jess takes me off guard when he launches forward and sticks his nose into my cheek.
“Because you're his fuckin’ Sergent,” he hisses at me.
“Don’t let him drink anymore,” he tells the girl behind the bar as he eases back down.
“I’ll have Storm come out here with a cage to pick you and your bike up,” he tells me, slamming his way out the door and I shrug, because I’m too buzzed to care.
“One for the road?” I turn my attention back to the girl behind the bar.
My buzz has well and truly worn off, and my head is banging when I wake up a few hours later. I’m back at the clubhouse now, and I can’t remember how the hell I got back here. When I turn my head, I’m greeted with a very unimpressed looking face.
“Where were you, Troj?” Prez asks me, looking both disappointed in me and angry as fuck.
“Ask your golden boy there,” I nod to Jessie, who’s standing behind him, arms folded over his chest and looking equally as pissed.
“I’m askin’ fuckin’ you.” He crouches closer. “I had an important meeting today, the kind of meeting I needed my Sergeant in Arms with me on.”
“Give me a break.” I scrub my face and attempt gettin’ up off the couch, but his huge hand pushes me back down. “All we seem to be doing these days is givin’ you a break. We gave you a break last week when you got four brothers into that brawl at Dillon's,” he reminds me.
“Somebody there knows what happened to Foster,” I raise my voice at him, why does everyone seem to want to get a reaction out of me?
“You’ve been going there every day for a month, you’ve scrutinized every fucker who drinks there, Troj, nobody knows shit.”
“Someone’s got to. Deputies don’t just get fucking murdered.” I force myself up from the leather couch.
“You’re gonna bring the whole club down with this shit, Troj. I know you're not getting what you want, but we got Roswell on it. Maddy too. We even got Vex’s contacts working on this.”
“I didn’t ask anyone to come with me to Dillon’s last week,” I point out, we’re all free men here.
“Brax got shot in his fucking shoulder,” Nyx hops into the conversation out of fucking nowhere. It was only a matter of time before that one got thrown in my face again.
“Jesus Christ, it was a scratch. It’s what we do for each other. How many fucking bullets have I taken for you since I’ve been your Sergeant?” I ask Prez, searching for another drink. My mouth feels too fuckin’ dry.
“And how many of them have been my fault?” he snarls back, huffing his disappointment as he storms out the bar and leaves the rest of the gang to stand and judge me.
“I get that you're hurting, Troj, and you know I don't give a shit about the bullet. But you gotta—” Brax starts but I don’t let him finish.
“You don’t have the first fucking clue on how I'm feeling. None of you do. Apart from him,” I point my finger at Skid, who’s sitting quiet at the bar by himself.
I barge my way through the small crowd gathered around me, swinging the door open and heading out to the yard. Then I take a seat on one of the chairs around the fire pit and search inside cut for my cigarettes.
