Page 25 of The Bane of a Sinner
“I’ll take care of Montana.”
Walking back into the hospital, I passed the nurses’ station and grabbed a chart. Opening it, I pretended to read it when I spotted George and a few others marching my way. Making a quick note in the chart, I turned to the nurse, handing her the chart and saying, “Schedule the patient in Room 2B for an MRI and additional blood work.”
“Yes, Dr. Lansing.” The woman nodded.
“And make sure she gets fresh bandages.”
“Right away, Doctor.”
The second the nurse walked away, I turned and smiled. “Hey, Prez. What brings you by today? You didn’t have to come down to the hospital for your checkup. I could have done it at the clubhouse.”
“Cut the crap, asshole,” George sneered. “Where the fuck is that Godless whore?”
“And which whore would that be, Prez?” I smirked, standing taller, my bravado a thin veneer over the churning anxiety in my gut.
He knew I knew.
He had to know I knew.
My fear wasn’t of his fists—I expected those—but of the consequences of my words, of the carefully constructed loyalty I’d built with him shattering like cheap glass. Loyalty born not of admiration, but of necessity; a desperate gamble to protect my family, my only remaining link to a life before this.
This life, this club, this... him.
“The one you knocked up three months ago and demanded I perform an emergency DNC, or the one you were fucking in your office last Friday when I left the clubhouse.” My words were sharp as a sword. Each syllable a betrayal, not just of the president, but of myself.
I’d sworn I’d never be a pawn in his games again, never compromise my principles. And yet here I was, using the dirt I possessed like a weapon, resorting to blackmail—a tactic as low and dirty as the man before me.
His punch landed—a brutal blow that sent me sprawling on the freshly polished floor. The pain was sharp, physical, but it was nothing compared to the shattered, fragile illusion of control I’d painstakingly crafted over the years.
I’d chosen this life, this darkness, to protect my family from the hold George had over me, but had I condemned myself to it instead? Had I become the very thing I despised?
The silence that followed the impact felt heavier than the president’s fist, a deafening weight of my own failure, of my complicity, of the terrible choice I’d made—a choice I knew I’d regret for the rest of my life.
My regret was a bitter fruit, far worse than the malice of my words.
George’s eyes narrowed, the fury in them a tangible force. “You’re a dead man, Lansing. No one talks to me like that and lives to tell the tale.”
I knew he was right. I’d just signed my death warrant, but it was a price I was willing to pay to buy Shame the time he needed to get Diana and my child to safety. I had to ensure her safety, even if it meant sacrificing my own. “Maybe so, Prez,” I replied, my voice steady despite the fear coursing through my veins. “But before you end me, I suggest you focus on the whores you can’t keep your dick out of and the bastard child you recently had me kill. Seems to me, you’ve got bigger problems than me.”
George’s face contorted with rage, his hand curling into a fist as he prepared to strike again.
“What the hell are you doing with my son?” a familiar voice rang out, cutting through the tension, and I watched George step back as he relaxed his face. “I asked you a fucking question, George Stone.”
Plastering on a fake smile, George greeted my mother. “It’s nothing, Julia. Just a simple misunderstanding.”
My mother narrowed her eyes as my dad, Albert Lansing, along with Barbara Stevens, rushed over to help me to my feet.
“My God, Auggie, are you okay?” Barb asked carefully, touching the red welt forming on my face.
“I’m fine, Barb. It doesn’t hurt,” I lied as she slowly turned toward George.
Standing to her full height, Barb marched right over to the president of the Soulless Sinners and slapped him hard across the face. “You ever touch him again, I will fucking kill you.”
Chapter Thirteen
August
We were all waiting for news regarding my sister Amy. The entire club had arrived, along with Virginia Stone, a woman carved from granite and grief, her face a mask of strained composure as she clung to her son Kansas, whispering words that seemed to evaporate before reaching their destination. As soon as a doctor gave Arizona and Dakota the all clear, George ordered Happy to take them to the clubhouse, which left only Montana, who was sitting next to me.
