Page 32 of Blackout

Chapter Eleven

BLACKIE

Stepping into the garage, my gaze sweeps over the six restaurant tables that have been pushed together and the meat mallet that sits at the end of the last one. After Jack got the ink blacked out on his shoulder, he smashed Cain’s beloved table into pieces. Deuce gave me the heads up on the matter and I called Riggs. He recently made a deal with a restaurant supplier in Queens and informed me he had a couple of tables on hand. Without asking him too many questions, like why the fuck he was making deals with restaurant suppliers, I hung up with him and ordered Deuce and Stryker to grab them from his basement.

“What’s all this?” Bas questions beside me.

“We needed to replace Cain’s table,” I tell him, pulling out my chair.

“And this is the best you could do?”

Flipping it around, I sink into it and lift my narrowed eyes to him, watching as he waves a hand and gestures to the tables.

“If you can do better than, by all means, grab your hammer,” I dare. “Riggs went to a lot of trouble to grab these for us.”

“If you call knocking off a restaurant supply warehouse in Flushing a lot of trouble,” Pipe interjects, taking his seat across from mine. Meeting my gaze, his face remains expressionless. He didn’t so much as say three words to me at Jack’s house, making it clear he was still fucking pissed at me.

“Anything is better than the cursed piece of shit that was here before,” Stryker volleys

I think it’s safe to say we all agree with him. That fucking thing brought nothing but doom to our lives. If Jack didn’t break the thing, we’d still be gathered around it and it would serve as a reminder of Cain’s indiscretions. It wouldn’t be long before Jack lost his shit with or without his meds.

Speak of the Devil and he shall appear.

Emerging from the office, Jack makes his way to the table and takes his rightful place at the head. I lean forward, just as I’ve done numerous times, and slide the meat mallet in front of him.

The Nomads gave me that mallet after the clubhouse exploded and the original gavel was lost in the debris. Jack was out of commission with his temporary hearing loss and I was running the show. It was my first time leading our club on the road to vengeance and my brothers gifted me with the kitchen utensil. The fucking thing had the Bed, Bath and Beyond sticker on it when they placed it in my hand and even now, after all this time, it still does. What started as a joke, has now become a staple in the history of this charter of the Satan’s Knights and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me when I handed it to Jack after he recovered.

That shit still stings as he takes it from my hand.

“Are we ever going to take the Bed, Bath and Beyond sticker off this fucking thing?” he asks as he lifts it in the air.

Not if I have a say in the matter, we won’t. That fucking mallet is perfect just the way it is.

“It gives it character,” I snap, tipping my chin toward the kitchen gadget. “Go on, Parrish, do your thing.”

Slam my fucking mallet.

Hesitating for a moment, Jack slams the flat surface against the grain and brings our meeting to order.

“If anyone wants to know what to buy me for Christmas, a wooden gavel is on top of the list.”

The fucking man is fucked.

He can’t even appreciate a quality utensil.

“I’ll make sure to write good ol’ Saint Nick and give him the heads up,” Pipe offers, leaning back in his chair. Shoving a cigarette into his mouth, he tosses the pack onto the table and swipes the lighter next to it.

“If Pipe is done cracking jokes, we’ll start,” Jack says, crossing his arms against his chest. He’s about to continue when his phone starts ringing. “Jesus, fuck.”

“That’s grounds for the naughty list,” Pipe teases, blowing a ring of smoke into the air. Flipping our sergeant at arms the bird, Jack pulls his phone out of his pocket and shoves it at Blackie.

“What’s happening? Why is Riggs’ mug showing up on my phone?”

Rolling my eyes, I shake my head and snatch the phone from him. The man can call me twenty fucking times a day, but he has yet to master the fine art of FaceTiming. Fuck going to Apple and dropping seven hundred on a phone. The next time Lacey wants to buy her father a gift, we’re going to the fucking thrift store. Maybe we’ll find him a precious wooden gavel amongst the secondhand finds.

“He’s FaceTiming you, Parrish,” I hiss, my voice dripping with annoyance as I swipe my thumb across the screen and accept the call.

“Gotta love technology,” Cobra mutters.

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