“The fuck it doesn’t!” the vice president of the club roared. “Are you really willing to start a war over him? Because that’s exactly what the fuck you’ll be doing if they find out!”
“What the fuck are you talking about, Popeye?” George roared.
Popeye took a deep breath, glared at George, and simply said, “You know exactly what the fuck I’m talking about, and unlessyou want to inform everyone right now, you need to back the fuck away from this shit fast.”
The room fell silent. The weight of Popeye’s cryptic words hung heavy in the air. George Stone’s face contorted with rage, his eyes darting between his VP and the other club brothers who had gathered in defiance, eager to learn what they didn’t know. “You dare challenge me?” he spat, his voice shaking with fury. “I am the president of this motherfucking club! I make the fucking rules!”
The tension in the room was palpable; the air was thick with anticipation. Stone’s hand tightened around the knife, his knuckles white, as he took a menacing step toward Popeye. “You think I care what those fucking bastards do? I’m not scared of them.”
“You should be,” Popeye sneered as George got in his face.
“I built this fucking club with my own two hands, and I’ll be damned if I let some snot-nosed brat piss it all away!”
“This isn’t the way, Prez,” Snoopy interjected, his voice steady and commanding. “And it certainly wasn’t with the blood of innocent people and the betrayal of your brothers. You may be president, but you forgot the very principles we stand for.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“YOU BETRAYED A BROTHER!” Popeye roared, grabbing George’s cut as he slammed him against the wall.
George Stone’s eyes widened, his face a mask of shock and fury. He sputtered, his mouth working soundlessly as he struggled to form a response. The other club brothers, those loyal to Popeye, their faces grim, closed in around him, their eyes hard and unyielding. Truth, his glacial demeanor wavered as he took a cautious step back, his usual aura of menace diminishing in the face of a divided front.
Popeye, his voice steady and resolute, laid out the accusation. “I know what you did, George. You think I wouldn’t find out.You planted that bitch in his path. You knew he’d try to protect her, and you used that against him. You betrayed a club brother for your own gain.” The weight of Popeye’s words hung heavy in the air, the truth undeniable. “You set this shit in motion, so you only have yourself to blame.”
Stone’s eyes darted wildly, his gaze landing on each of the brothers in turn, searching for an ally, but finding none. His hand clenched around the knife, his knuckles white, as he shoved Popeye away, his breath coming in short, sharp rasps. “You’re all traitors,” he hissed. “You turn on me now, after all I’ve done for this club? I built it from nothing! I made you all!”
“Come on, Prez,” Happy cautiously tried to reason. “There’s always another way.”
“Fuck this shit.” George grinned. “You want the fucking brat. Fine. Then he’s yours, and good luck with what comes next.”
With that, the fucker stormed out of the mailroom.
When Truth went to follow, Malice held up a hand and stopped him as he growled, “You stay.”
“August?”
“Get the fuck out of here,” I groaned as I watched Montana enter my room at the clubhouse, closing the door behind him.
“We need to talk.”
“I’ve got nothing to say to you anymore. You’re dead to me.”
“Then shut up and listen, because I’ve got plenty to fucking say.”
Ignoring the fucker, I turned my head as he spoke.
“You are not the only one my father screwed over the years. Information has come to light that not only marks the club but every fucking brother in it. Yourself included.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about my old man putting this club on a war footing, and I need your fucking help to stop it.”
“Don’t know if you’ve noticed, asshole, but I’m in no condition to do shit. I’m pissing blood because of your fucking dad. So fuck off.”
Montana growled and grabbed my face, forcing me to look at him. “Listen up, you cranky son of a bitch. I couldn’t say shit until I had the fucking numbers. If you’d been around more instead of having your fucking head in a goddamned book, I would have told you what I was planning.”
Slapping his hand away, I seethed, “Well, congratulations, Montana. You’ve got yourself a fucking club. I hope you fucking choke on it.”
“Oh, I’m gonna be doing a lot more than that, and so will you.”