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That, more than anything, is probably why the purge happened. I’ve got a feeling Hammerhead ran away everybody who wouldn’t pledge their fealty and kiss his ring. That’s something else I’m going to have to factor into my decision while I’m here. Can Hammerhead rebound? Can he be an effective leader? Or is he simply all about himself? Right now, I don’t see any reason to believe Hammerhead can pull it together. But I’m willing to give him a shot. It wouldn’t be the first time I was wrong about somebody. And the threat of losing everything can be a powerful motivator.
“Well? Do you or don’t you?” Deadbolt presses, still waiting for an answer. “Cat got your tongue or somethin’, boy?”
“Well… yeah,” I reply. “Your story is absolute bullshit.”
“You don’t know dick about me, bro,” he growls.
He looks at me and I finally glare at him, not really liking his attitude. The guy is like a loaded gun, cocked and ready to go off at the slightest movement. But I don’t get the sense that he’s really a fighter. Oh sure, he can talk a good game and get himself all puffed up. But when it comes to actually throwing down, I don’t know if he’s got the stones. I see him as more of somebody who would sneak up behind you and stab you in the back. But squaring up and slugging it out? I fuckin’ doubt it.
“You’re right, I don’t know you,” I reply. “But I know bullshit when I hear it. And that’s all I hear coming out of your mouth. So, I tune you out.”
“You should watch your fuckin’ mouth, man,” he snaps. “You keep goin’ and soon enough you’ll find my fist in it.”
“Yeah? Think so?”
“I know so,” he snaps.
“I’m ready when you are. Let’s go outside and settle this. What do you say?”
Deadbolt cuts a look at the other two then returns his eyes to me. I can see the quiver in his lip and know he feels trapped. I think he’d expected me to back down. Maybe defer to him since this isn’t my clubhouse and I’m just a guest in theirs. But because he doesn’t know me and has made certain assumptions, he doesn’t know that I don’t back down. Not when I’m challenged. And I can always back my shit up.
“Whatever, man,” he snaps, trying to save face. “You don’t know shit.”
I shrug. “I know enough to know that you talk a big game. But when it’s time to throw down, you pussy your way out the back door.”
“Oooooooh,” Hogwild and Jammer both say, like kids watching a fight on the playground. That only deepens the flush in Deadbolt’s face and he looks away. Before things can get out of hand though, the rumble of a bike draws closer. I spot Hammerhead’s bike pulling into the parking lot and a moment later, he cuts the engine and dismounts. Hogwild pulls a fresh beer out of the cooler, pops the cap, and holds it up.
“Prez,” he greets him. “Somethin’ to wash the road dust out?”
Hammerhead walks over and grabs the bottle, swallowing half of it down. He glances at me and judging by the frown, I’m assuming he went to his first meeting today.
“Where you been, Prez?” Jammer asks.
“Out.”
“Out where?” Deadbolt presses.
“Out takin’ care of my shit,” he snaps. “What, are you writin’ a fuckin’ book?”
Hammerhead’s irritation casts a chill over the room and his guys draw into themselves a bit. Jammer and Deadbolt turn to their beer bottles, biting back any questions they might have, not wanting to poke the bear with a spoon any more than they already have. His irritability tells me he’s sober—and isn’t too crazy about it. I don’t know when the last time his veins weren’t flowing with meth but it’s good to see him sober, pissed off or not.
“Everything okay?” Hogwild asks quietly and calmly.
“Yeah, everything’s just great,” he growls.
He casts a glare at me, letting me know that everything is pretty far from great. As if I couldn’t interpret that from his tone. But whatever. As long as he stays clean, he can be as pissed off at me as he wants. I really don’t give a shit.
“What did I miss here?” he asks.
“Your boy here got your old lady hurt,” Deadbolt pipes up.
I look at him in surprise and let out a laugh. I knew the man was a coward, but to blatantly lie like that, hoping somebody else would fight his battle for him, that’s a low I didn’t expect. Not even from a piece of shit like him. I guess I’m going to have to revise my opinion of him even further downward. Hammerhead rounds on me, his eyes narrowed and shining with fire.
“What the fuck did you do to her?” he demands.
“Despite what your Sergeant-at-Arms over there says, I didn’t get Molly hurt.”
He stands there huffing and puffing, his face red and his nostrils flaring. He’s projecting like he cares about her but I know it’s all for show. He doesn’t care about Molly any more than he cares about the bottle of beer in his hand. They’re just possessions to him. Things he can use—the beer to get drunk, the girl to get off. I’ve got zero illusions about how things are around here, no matter how he tries to front.
