Page 55 of Blackbeard
Club rules stated that meetings in Church required respect and focus. No interruptions. No phone calls from wives or girlfriends. No sexting under the table when club business was being discussed.
Which meant that we left our phones in that basket by the door. After the meeting was over, we would get them back.
The buzzing continued. Kingpin’s gaze flicked toward it.
He had a wife at home. A pregnant wife. The club was important, but if Hattie went into premature labor, the meeting would have to wait.
“Vlad,” he said, tipping his head toward the door. “Take a look, would you?”
Pushing his chair back, Vlad rose, crossed the room to the basket, and peered inside. He frowned and dumped the basket in the middle of our table.
The same text marked every man’s phone screen. From Hattie.
SOS.
“Go,” Kingpin said.
In the blink of an eye, the club moved like one entity—streaming out of the room without jostling or bumping against each other.
Something was wrong. Very wrong. And we could all sense it.
If Hattie had a concern or a problem with her pregnancy, she would have contacted Kingpin, or her sister. But she texted that distress signal to all of us, and Hattie was too practical to cry wolf. She wouldn’t raise the alarm like this unless she had a good reason.
Crash emerged from the bathrooms, wearing yellow rubber gloves up to his elbows, carrying a bucket of soapy water and a sponge—part of his six-month sentence to scrub the toilets until they gleamed.
“Hey, what are you guys doing? I thought you were having a meeting.”
“Hold down the fort, kid,” Big G called back. “Hattie needs help. We’ll let you know when we find out more.”
Crash stood there, watching us leave.
“Okay,” he said in a small voice. “I hope she’s all right...”
Within one minute, we were on the road, speeding toward Hattie and Kingpin’s house. The neighborhood was quiet, and the quaint little cottage they lived in didn’t seem to have anything outwardly amiss. It appeared to be a perfectly ordinary late afternoon.
Until Kingpin shoved the door open and stepped inside. I was close on his heels, with Big G and Vlad right behind me.
Seated at Kingpin’s kitchen table was Popeye, sloppily chewing a piece of steak. A member of the Forsaken flanked him on either side, standing as still and silent as statues.
Hattie lingered near the stove, wearing yoga pants and a maternity white blouse, one hand resting on her swollen stomach protectively. When she glanced in our direction, she was calm though wary and uncertain. She had enough experience with club life that it wasn’t unusual for her house to be full of bikers like this, so she knew how to handle it.
“Good afternoon, brother,” Popeye said brightly. “Thank you for joining us.”
Kingpin moved to Hattie’s side instantly and slipped an arm around her waist.
“I’m okay,” she whispered. “He said you were expecting him, but…”
She saw right through that lie. Kingpin would never invite the Forsaken to his private home, especially when he wasn’t there to be by his wife’s side.
Popeye continued to carve into his steak with a knife. The anchor tattoo on his forearm flexed and twitched with every movement. He stabbed a bite of meat and waved his fork at Kingpin.
“Your lovely wife informed me that these steaks were dropped off by a member of your club,” he said, gesturing to the plate of meat at the center of the table. “My compliments to the chef, whoever you are.”
“That would be me,” Tex said through gritted teeth.
He had a wife and a son of his own at home. It must have killed him to see the food he’d prepared specifically for an expecting mother to be greedily taken by a Forsaken.
Popeye ignored him, acting like he didn’t even hear Tex speak at all.
