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“What?” Montana asked, looking at the both of them. “What aren’t you two saying?”

Vicious looked at our Prez and simply said, “You need to call Reaper sooner rather than later.”

Reaching for his phone, Montana laid it on the table before him and hit the call button. He didn’t have to wait long for the call to connect.

“Hang on, fucknuts.” I clearly heard Reaper right before he yelled, “I don’t give a fuck, Bullseye! Go pick a brother and find the motherfucker before he kills anyone else, and someone get me Hawk on the phone. I want my daughter found yesterday!”

“I can go with Bullseye, boss.”

Reaper snarled, “You step one foot out of this clubhouse, Massacre, and so help me God, I will slice off your fucking legs. Ghost, call Kansas and tell him to expect company soon.”

“Kansas ain’t gonna like us just popping into Diamondback country.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck!” Reaper shouted. “I wouldn’t even be going to that godforsaken place if your brother hadn’t lost his fucking temper! Just make it happen.”

With that, we all heard a door slam seconds before Reaper sighed. “You’ve got five minutes before I hang up. What the fuck do you want now?”

“Meredith Doherty.”

“Valhalla? What about her?”

“I’m going to hand the bitch over to Morpheus.”

Reaper growled and then threatened, “You really want to start a war with me you can’t finish, fucknuts?”

“She’s working with Dakota, Max. You remember him, don’t you? Wasn’t he the one kissing your wife? Or have you forgivenhim?” Montana grinned as Reaper growled again. “Speaking of brothers, why the fuck are you going to see my baby brother in Oklahoma?”

“Because his VP screwed up big time when he knocked up a child of the Trick Pony.”

“How is that a problem unless the girl was a minor at the time of conception?”

Dead. Motherfucking. Silence.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” Montana roared.

“Nope, and the statute of limitations in Oklahoma is twelve years. The kid is barely three. Pence is screwed and looking at doing time.” Reaper sighed and then added, “If that wasn’t bad enough, Slaughter has found himself on the receiving end of Shadow’s bad side, and Kansas needs Ghost to referee before Shadow reverts to his old ways. Plus, I need to talk to Kansas.”

“Why?”

Reaper roared with laughter, then quickly sobered. “That’s none of your fucking business, fucknuts. We are not BFFs. Unless you are feeling magnanimous and are officially giving me your Alabama club, that you technically owe me?”

Montana dropped his head to the table and banged it a few times, cursing as he tried to rein in his temper. Only Reaper could drive Montana to the brink and needle the fucker to death without pushing him over the edge.

Taking a deep breath, Montana lifted his head and sighed. “Fine. Vicious is a dual member, but Fury comes home!”

“Uh.” Fury cautiously lifted his hand. “Not taking my girls away from Linsey, asshole. Or have you forgotten she is their aunt?”

“Hold up,” Vicious jumped into the conversation. “Does anyone care what I think?”

“NO!” Montana and Reaper both said in unison, then Reaper added, “Now, let’s talk about the Alabama club. You know, to pay restitution for your club’s failure to uphold its end of a marker.”

Montana groaned, banging his head on the table once more.

I couldn’t with these two anymore. No one could! They could easily drive anyone insane. The constant bitching and bickering were becoming tedious and childish. A knot of resentment tightened in my stomach. Part of me, the part that craved peace, the part that hated confrontation, whispered that I should just leave. Take Diana and disappear, vanish into the anonymity of another town, another life, and never hear their poisonous words again. It felt like the only sane option, a moral imperative to protect myself, to protect Diana from this toxic mire.

But then there was the other part. The part that remembered promises, the part that felt a lingering, almost foolish loyalty, the part that believed, against all evidence, that things could get better, that I could somehow fix them. This voice, a desperate, stubborn echo, argued that running away was cowardice. That abandoning them now, when they were at their most volatile, was a betrayal of some unspoken bond. It was a choice that gnawed at me, a stain on my conscience. Was I a man who abandoned his family when they were at their worst, or a man who endured, who tried to find a sliver of light in the suffocating darkness?

My muscles tensed, caught between the yearning for escape and the heavy anchor of obligation. I wanted to disappear, but I also wanted to be the person who could make a difference, who wasn’t so easily broken.