Page 6 of Filthy Love

If his own madness was any different to that of having an old lady and being happy.

It dictated the mind like a goddamn disease, as far as he could tell.

And now he was pissed at himself. He furrowed his brow, leaned over his clasped hands and let the sounds of the Austin chapter MC filter back into his brain to replace the noise of something he had no business thinking about.

He sounded like a damn weak-spined bastard with all the idiot nonsense.

Really.Fuck.

Being in Austin was messing his head up.

The steak Hawk ate only an hour ago started to clutch in his belly. Throwing grease and nervous energy through his system like he was a fucking ice dancer standing on unsteady blades. He hated the feeling, loathed any emotion that sneaked under his barriers.

Around him men shuffled back and forth. Going in and out of their clubhouse with their absurd racket and smells of coffee wafting by his seat at the bar.

Hawk chose to have his back to the room, not that he trusted any of these men, he just didn’t want to give any opening to a conversation. Some arrived for work in the body shop attached to the compound, it did good business and he helped a few days a week if they were backlogged with repairs, otherwise he kept to himself.

Hawk listened to prospects getting their orders. He still hadn’t decided if he wanted to bribe any of the young ones to spy for him. Maybe follow Rex when he couldn’t.

Club came first.

Club wasalwaysfirst.

So, for Rex, the mega dipshit ex-president to be in touch with the new enemy in Armado Springs back home it was the ultimate betrayal. Sure, Rider had ousted his uncle fair and square more than a decade ago when it was clear Rex was running the MC into the ground with his lazy attitude. But to turn against not only his own nephew but the club oath.

Fucking insult.

Hawk wanted to bury the man.

“Anything I can get you, son?” He heard. Head lifted he watched an older member amble his way out of one of the back rooms, his shoulder catching the doorframe. He was around a thousand years old from his bandy legs and his left leg favored limp and craggy skin hanging off skinny bones.

Carrying a tray too fucking big for him and overflowing with glasses and cups, Hawk cursed, slipped off his stool to grab it from Krusher’s arthritic tattooed hands before he face planted the floor. “You shouldn’t be carrying this shit, old man.” He spoke for the first time that day. He turned his nasty eyes on a pair of prospects who froze on the spot to be singled out from the out of town killer.

Hawk’s reputation preceded him.

Everyone knew of him and his bloodthirsty skills here.

“You two numbnuts watched him carry this thing and did nothing. Get the fuck over here.”

“I got it, son.” Krusher asserted, trying to straighten his back, offended to even be offered help. Hawk waved him off and kept his glare going until both boys scurried over. “Sorry, sir. I was—”

“Don’t fucking care how you were thumbing your own asses. Grab this.” He shoved it into a chest. The boy grunted but managed to catch it before it crashed to the floor. “Where do you want it, old man?”

“I can do it.”

“Where?” Hawk contended.

The two younger men watching him closely like a frightened game of tennis.

Krusher sighed and rubbed his hands together. “You can take it to the kitchen, boys.”

Hawk went on. “Anything else you need from ‘em?”

“I was about to bring through the case of beers for tonight, but I can—”

“You heard him, shitheads, get to it.” Hawk directed.

Both boys scurried away as fast as they could.

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