Page 11 of Pen Me

I didn’t just hear him, my blood turned to ice water and every fiber in my being sat up and took note.

“Are you saying–?” I finally found my voice.

“I said what the fuck I said,” Zig snapped, before shooting out of his chair and barking at the visiting desk, “Open that goddamn door. Now.”

Henny scrambled after him, holding his hands up apologetically at the gal behind the desk, while ol’ eagle eye darted toward them.

I numbly stared at my hands. They were covered in Dirty Savage ink. My knuckles were scarred from fighting the club’s many battles. I’d known what I wanted ever since I was a kid. I wanted to be feared and respected. As an adolescent, it became clear to me that there was one sure fire path to both.

The patch.

I’d lived and breathed for it ever since I had that epiphany.

Now I was out bad?

I slice one wrong throat and I’m out… just that quick.

I forced myself to get control of my spiraling anger. It was easy to see things that way, but I had to be real. The Double Nickel gang was one branch of a three-headed monster otherwise known as the Irish mafia.

I’d hurled my own blood brother and the club I loved into a war with one drunken mistake.

I couldn’t blame them for putting me out. Shit, I couldn’t blame them for putting me down if it came to that.

I was on my own and I had no one to blame but myself and that fucking temper of mine.

“Boy, for someone who was spitting all that bullshit earlier, you sure are quiet now,” the guard poked at me.

I blinked and realized my hands were no longer cuffed. The familiar confines of my protective custody cell were staring back at me. I turned to face the man, but I really didn’t know what to say.

“Shut the fuck up and get out.” I huffed, unable to fully find my voice or stop the tremble that shot down my arms and settled in my hands.

I was on my own and the Irish mafia and my own club both wanted me to pay. The door loudly locked and my knees buckled.

Chapter Six

Bribing the Sauce

Sammy

It was near the end of the business day when I finally secured a rental. It wasn’t an apartment, those required background checks and things that sounded like they’d take more time than I was willing to spend at my father’s house. Instead, I found a small home on a dead-end street next to a ball diamond.

I wasn’t sure if it was a city park, or some part of the community sporting center. As it stood, I didn’t care. It was clean and quiet.

The place was also cold now that the sun was going down. The hardwood floors made it seem more so, and I didn’t have any curtains or furniture to sit on.

“Shit.” I looked around at the bare, freshly dried walls.

This wasn’t a home; it was little more than a box to keep someone out of the elements. I just wanted to collapse and rest. I wanted to hide and lick my wounds, but life just would not let me.

I rubbed my fingers over my temple and tried to think.

Furniture store.

I whipped my phone out of my pocket and glared at the time.

Four in the afternoon. Everything would be closed in an hour. I locked the door behind me and sprinted several blocks to the warehouse furniture store. The place was known for beingfairly priced, and they had a delivery truck when my mother did business with them on my last leave.

I rubbed my shoulders and made quick work of selecting a bed, sofa, tables, and a kitchen set. The house had a refrigerator and stove that came with the rental, so I needn’t worry about that. However, I was a little disappointed to discover that while the furniture was still decently priced, rugs and curtains were not.

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