Page 8 of Blackbeard
Blackbeard sucked in a hissing breath through his teeth and pushed away. I sagged against the wall at the surprising loss of physical contact, the cool air that swept over me where his body heat had been sweltering a moment ago.
Then he flicked the light on, blinding me.
I squinted in the searing glare, putting up a hand to shield my eyes.
“Jesus, that’s fucking bright,” I grumbled.
Peeling one eye open, I saw Blackbeard standing before me, all rigid angles of indignation, anddark—thick dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, dark stubble, dark eyes, and dark ink on his hands, twining up to disappear into the cuffs of his sleeves.
God, even if I wasn’t drunk off my ass, I’d gladly climb him like a tree, right here and now.
“What kind of deal are we talking?” he demanded.
“That’s club business. To be discussed in Church only.”
He scrubbed a hand over his mouth as he deliberated. I was close to breaking him—so damn close. At last, he pointed my pistol at me.
“Fine. Call your Pops. We’re going to Church.”
An hour later, I found myself in the meeting room at the Blackjacks clubhouse, a large, spacious area, with dim lighting, no decoration, and a long table surrounded by chairs at the center of the room.
Along one side of the table sat the Blackjacks. On the opposite side of the table sat the Forsaken. An uneasy silence filled the air as no one spoke, shuffling their feet, shifting in their chairs.
All weapons and cell phones had been removed upon arrival, piled in a basket on a table near the door. The entrance was flanked by the Enforcers for both clubs, to ensure the meeting remained civil and on equal footing.
Dimitri “Vlad” Volkov represented the Blackjacks—a massive mountain of a man, with a scowl that would turn anyone’s bowels into liquid.
And Gerard “Cajun” Lafayette, for the Forsaken—a bayou-born gator hunter, who didn’t flinch at man-eating critters with big teeth.
Since I wasn’t officially a member, I couldn’t cast my vote in club business, couldn’t sit at the table with everyone else. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t even be allowed into this room.
Instead, I stood behind my father’s chair, leaning back against the wall, desperately hoping the coffee I’d guzzled a minute ago would kick in and clear the cobwebs from my head.
Halfway down the table, a Blackjack rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn. I mentally tabulated the research I'd done, fitting a face to the name.
Clint "Tex" Atwood. Raised on a small farm in Texas. Moved up here to Montana, helping an uncle establish his ranch. A proper cowboy. Married to a small town girl, and they had a son, about five years old by now.
“Would anyone care to tell me what the hell we’re doing, calling a meeting at two o’clock in the morning?” Tex demanded.
Kingpin and my father sat at the head of the table, side by side. Apart from my father’s brief visit to this same clubhouse last October, Blackjacks and Forsaken had never been under the same roof.
And the tension in the air was thick as mud.
Another Blackjack—Zayne "Spike" Gendry, the playboy—propped his elbows on the table with an impatient gesture.
“I was enjoying myself with two of the prettiest little bunnies before Big G announced an emergency Church session. Can’t say that I’m thrilled about the change of scenery. Staring at the ugly mugs of these Forsaken bastards is not putting me in a good mood.”
Torch flipped him off.
“Don’t worry, asshole. The feeling is mutual.”
“Quiet,” Popeye warned in a firm voice. “We didn’t come here to pick a fight.”
“Could have fooled me,” Blackbeard said, rubbing his right shoulder.
I noticed he’d been doing that for a while. He winced occasionally, too, despite his best attempts to hide it. An old injury acting up, maybe?
Towards the opposite end of the table, a Blackjack was clearly injured from the shootout earlier—Nico "Hot Shot" Marini, the garage owner. His olive-toned skin was an unnaturally gray color, his lips pressed into a thin, white line of pain. He leaned to one side in his chair, favoring his bandaged right leg.
