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But I know that’ll just open an avalanche of shit on her as soon as I leave. I can’t do that. All I can do is hope that when he cleans his shit up, he becomes a better person too. I’m not holding my breath, though. I’ll have to keep a close eye on things.
Hammerhead blows out a long breath. “Fine,” he says, his tone filled with disgust. “I’ll clean up my shit. I’ll start goin’ to meetings and shit. Whatever.”
“Hey, if you’re not into it, we can walk away right now,” I tell him. “Just say the word and I’m out of here, and the Kings will make other arrangements.”
“No, it’s cool. I get it,” he insists. “I just don’t like you comin’ down here and tellin’ me how to run my life or my club.”
I shrug. “I wouldn’t have to if you were handling your business. Our business. You take our money, you follow our rules. It’s as simple as that,” I tell him. “And if you aren’t into it—”
“I said I’d do it, didn’t I?” he snaps.
“You did say that,” I admit. “We’ll see if you follow through with it.”
“Man, fuck you.”
“You’re not my type,” I crack. “Don’t take it personally, man. I don’t take anybody’s word for anything. I always keep tabs on shit.”
“You need to learn to loosen up, man. Life shouldn’t be so serious.”
“Maybe. But I’m here to do a job. Not party,” I tell him. “And I’m only here because your failures have made me look like a real asshole in front of my club. And I don’t like looking like an asshole in front of my club. So, if you think about it, my being here, climbing up your ass like I am, is your own doing.”
“I get it, okay? I fucked up,” he replies. “Jesus, are you going to keep beating this dead fucking horse?”
“I’m going to beat it as long as I need to.”
“I get your point, Hawk. I get it.”
“We’ll see,” I reply. “For now, I want you to clean up your clubhouse. Air it out, for fuck’s sake. And set up a room for me. I’m going to be sticking around for a little bit.”
“How long?”
“Until I feel comfortable leaving you in charge.”
He sighs and rolls his eyes again, reminding me of a teenager. But he apparently has visions of that bag of cash I’m carrying in his head because he finally nods, agreeing to my terms.
“Fine. I’ll get it done,” he relents.
“Take some pride in your club. Take some pride in yourself, man,” I say. “You never know, having a little pride might help you out of his rough patch you keep talking about.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he mutters.
He slides out of the booth then turns back and grabs his beer, draining the glass in one swallow. He sets the glass down harder than necessary and looks up at me.
“Guess I’ll see you ‘round the clubhouse,” he says darkly.
“Looks that way.”
With a frown on his face, he turns and walks out of the bar, leaving me to finish my beer in silence. It’s the first good and smart thing he’s done since I got here. Outside, I hear him fire up his bike. I listen to its throaty growl speeding off into the distance. He’s said the right things—or at least the things he thinks I want to hear—but I still have my doubts. A lot of doubts.
CHAPTERTWELVE
Iwipe the sweat off my brow and blow out a long breath. But as I look around the clubhouse, I smile softly to myself, finding a sense of pride in a job well done. Why I feel proud about cleaning up this dump, I have no idea. I hate being here and shouldn’t feel the least bit of pride in what I’m doing here. Maybe I’ve got Stockholm Syndrome or something like that. I don’t know.
What I do know is that I’ve always been a hard worker. Even back in school, my part-time job at the ice cream shop, or whatever, I always tried to do the best I could at whatever task I was given. I am surprised to find that work ethic is still inside of me, even under these circumstances. In this place.
It only came out today when Hammerhead ordered me to clean the clubhouse and air it out. And I think I only did it because he said Hawk is going to be spending a little time here. After he told me that, I bit back all my arguments and got to work. The first thing I did was open up all the windows and let the stink out. Or as much of it as I could. This is the first time in months it hasn’t smelled like an overflowing septic tank.
After that, I performed a minor miracle in getting the rest of the clubhouse nearly sparkling. I mean, I still wouldn’t eat off the floors or anything, but I swept, dusted, mopped, and polished everything. There are still holes in the walls, spray-painted graffiti, and an assortment of other things I can’t do anything about, but I’ve made those parts of the clubhouse I can control, shine. It’s not exactly fresh but it’s clean. Which is kind of like putting lipstick on a pig, to be honest.
