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“Wow,” I comment, throwing my cup into the sink and rinsing it out, taking out my frustration by really scrubbing the crap out of it with the sponge. “And just when I thought you were better than all the others. Just when I thought you were actually being kind to me.”
“It’s not like that, Molly,” he replies. “I can’t just—”
“You can’t just what?” I snap. “You can’t just stand up to him? You’re the one with the muscles and the weapons. You’re the one who could actually do something about it. And you expect me to try to stand up for myself when you won’t even stand up for me?”
Hogwild blinks, looking almost wounded. A flicker of rage crosses his face, but that’s all it is—a flicker. He takes a deep breath and resets himself before continuing.
“Look, Molly. I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately. You’ve been getting’ mouthy. You’ve been pushing him in ways I haven’t seen you push before. And just because I’m loyal to my Prez don’t mean I like seeing him beat on you.”
In my mind, I scream at the top of my lungs: “Then fuckingdo something about it!”
But in real life, I just sigh. I shake my head. And the words that come out aren’t a rage-filled roar, but a low mumble. “I’m sorry.”
I hate this. I hate feeling so weak, and I hate myself for letting myself feel so weak. I hate Hammerhead for making me feel that way, I hate Hogwild for letting it continue to happen, and I hate that every time I think I can muster up the courage to really stand up for myself, I end up crumpling.
I’ll never get out at this rate.
“Look, Molly…” he starts, as if unsure of what he’s going to say. “I know this is a shitty situation for you. But, well… maybe things will be changin’ in the not-too-distant future.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
He gives me a wan smile then turns and walks out, leaving me alone with my thoughts. The idea that Hawk might replace Hammerhead as Prez of the Howlers is intriguing—and by replace, I assume that means putting a bullet in his brain and leaving him to rot. It’s exciting, really. That I could finally be out from under his thumb breathes a little life into that spark of hope inside of me.
The one thing that worries me though is the way Hogwild was talking. More specifically, his tone. To me, it sounds like he’s already counting on being the one to slide into the big chair. It almost sounded like he was prepping me to become his woman once Hammerhead was deposed. Like nothing about my life will change other than who’s wearing the boot that will be on my neck.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m misreading or misunderstanding his tone. But I fear that I’m not. And it makes the blood in my veins run colder than ice.
CHAPTERELEVEN
After we left his clubhouse, I had Hammerhead run me through the supply lines, introduce me to some of his distributors, and give me the lay of the land around Phoenix. We took a lot on faith with this guy—I took a lot on faith with this guy—and I wanted to know the inner workings of his operation. And frankly, I’m not feeling a lot of confidence in what I’ve been seeing so far.
His guys, the few I got to meet, are not very bright. They don’t know what they’re doing. They didn’t seem to know that we, the Kings, are the bosses in this arrangement. They’re way too deferential to Hammerhead for my liking. I understand the need for club members to follow the orders of the hierarchy, but these guys are more like lackeys than members.
A good Prez and Vice Prez have the unquestioned say at the end of the day, but they also should allow their members to speak their piece, to have their own opinions. It’s the job of a leader to consult with his members and do what’s best for the club, not just rule with an iron fist the way Hammerhead does. As the new VP of the Ruthless Kings, that’s a lesson I’ve had to take to heart.
I don’t know that I’ll ever be Prez. Not that I mind that. Reaper and I are young. We have many more years, decades even, that we’ll be running the show out in Vegas. I’m honored that he chose me as his VP for when Old Grim finally hangs it up for good. It’s almost done now—I’ve been basically operating as the VP for the last couple months anyway, and I already got the patch on my cut.
But I also know this is still an audition. Nothing is set in stone yet. If I screw this up, Reaper and his father both will have my cut. I’m grateful for the trust that’s been placed in me for this opportunity. This is my first major mission as VP, and I can’t afford to screw this up. It will reflect not only on my ability to maintain good business for the club but also on the Ruthless Kings’ ability to deal with other clubs. If word got out among the MC community that the Kings couldn’t handle a two-bit club like the Howlers—or worse, that we just rolled over and let them take advantage of us—that could result in a severe blow to our rep. And with the reigns being handed over from Old Grim to Reaper, that’s the absolute last thing we need right now.
Which brings me back to what the hell we’re going to do to keep this turf open. I’m not at all impressed by the Howlers. I don’t know what’s happened in the last few years, but I obviously can’t trust these guys. Which is a problem. I need to be able to trust and rely on the guys watching our pipeline. And our product.
Of course, I need to trust the guy at the top the most. I need to be able to rely on his judgment and his integrity. I’ve only been here a day and I already know I can’t trust Hammerhead’s judgment. I can already see he’s lacking in integrity. He’s definitely not the same guy I got to know when I vouched for him. And it’s pissing me off.
I point to a bar that’s up ahead of us. It’s been a long day, it’s warm, and I’m parched. We rumble into the parking lot and shut off our bikes. I take off my brain bucket, gloves, and road glasses and tuck them all into my saddlebag. We walk into the bar, and I lead us over to a booth in the back of the place. The bar is dimly lit, probably to cover up all the dirt in the joint. But hell, it may as well be a gourmet restaurant compared to the clubhouse. The walls are all painted a dark blue, somehow making the place look smaller and darker.
There’s a long bar on the left side of the place and half the stools are taken up by what I assume are the regular patrons. A row of tables runs down the middle of the place and booths line the wall on the right. As we slide into the booth, a waitress stops by. She’s in her mid-twenties with blonde hair that came straight out of a bottle that falls to her shoulders, bright green eyes, and a perky smile. The skirt she’s wearing is short. Extremely short. And she definitely knows it. By the way the eyes are following her all around the room, she’ll be fetching some handsome tips for sure. But I don’t even really notice. She’s pretty I guess, but all I can think of is Molly.
I don’t know why—it’s not like there’s anything between us—but I can’t stop thinking about her. I can’t help but want to get her out of this horrible situation. And I can’t help but want to take a shot with her. Is that crazy? I don’t know. I barely know her.
“What can I get you fellas?” the waitress asks.
“Couple of beers and shots of tequila,” I tell her.
“Comin’ right up.”
Hammerhead looks at me, an expression of uncertainty on his face. He tries to cover it with a smarmy grin though.
“Tryin’ to get me drunk so you can diddle me, Hawk?”
