Page 24 of Domino
We both take a long swallow and settle back in our seats. The atmosphere in the clubhouse is gloomy. Oppressive. The air around us is crackling with tension, and Cosmo’s face is dark as he sits there staring at his bottle. I can see the gears in his mind spinning. Whatever was said behind that closed door is troubling him. Taking another drink, I keep my eyes on him, waiting for him to talk to me. He doesn’t, though. Doesn’t do anything other than sit there like the goddamn Sphinx, silent and mysterious.
“So, what’s going on? We going to war?” I finally ask.
He finally raises his eyes to mine. “Not if we can help it.”
“Prophet’s really pushing for it, huh?”
“Something like that. Hard to blame him for wanting to stick it to these assholes given what he went through.”
I nod. “Yeah, I suppose so.”
My mind flashes back to Prophet’s story about the mass grave and finding the little girl nailed to the cross. That’s a hard, ugly death, and no, I can’t really blame him for wanting to take his pound of flesh out of Zavala’s ass. In his place, I probably would, too. But we’ve all got our old ghosts to deal with.
If you’ve been in a combat unit and you’ve actually seen some action, the chances are good that you’ve seen some nasty shit. Some shit that just broke your heart. And if all of us went around trying to get vengeance on all of those people who deserve it for sticking us with a lifetime’s worth of nightmares, this world would be awash in blood and we’d be killing all day, every day.
“What’s he thinking then?” I ask.
“He’s thinking a lot of things, kid. And it’s not your place to ask. When he wants you to know somethin’, he’ll tell you.”
I nod, a little annoyed by the mild rebuke. I’m not a goddamn prospect anymore, and I deserve to know the direction he’s taking the club. If he’s planning to wage an all-out war with the cartel, that’s something he needs to discuss with us. He can’t just unilaterally decide something and expect us to fall in line. This is an MC, not a combat unit.
“Don’t worry. He’s not going to do anything rash, and somethin’ like goin’ to war requires a vote. You’ll get to have your say if it ever comes to that,” Cosmo says as if reading my mind. “And before you open that mouth of yours, I ain’t sayin’ it’ll come to that. I really doubt it will, so don’t get your panties in a fuckin’ knot.”
His reply makes me bite back the words sitting on the tip of my tongue. I’m glad to know I’ll get a voice in the matter if it comes to something as drastic as going to war. I came home from the shit and joined the MC never once thinking I’d end up right back in it again.
I rotated home thinking I’d never have to fight another war. Hearing Cosmo say he doubts it’ll come to that provides little solace. Prophet is a determined man, and I know that anger I see in his eyes. I know how that rage is like poison that is a constant drip in your veins, burning you from the inside out. And the only way to rid yourself of that poison, the only way to suck it out of your veins, is to kill the target of your rage. Prophet’s never going to get that venom out of his blood until he kills Zavala.
“What do you think about going to war with Zavala?” I ask.
“You know what I think. I think trying to take them head on is foolish. It’ll cost us a lot of lives and get a lot of innocents killed in the process. Prophet gets that. He’s pissed, but he’s not an idiot.”
“Never said he’s an idiot. But I know what it’s like when your blood is up and you just need to vent that rage.”
“We all do, kid. But he’s not going to put any of us in harm’s way unnecessarily. You should know that.”
“I do,” I reply.
“And you should also know there is more than one way to wage a war.”
I cock my head. “Meaning?”
He drains the last of his beer and signals to Derek for another one. As he rushes over with a pair of fresh bottles, Cosmo looks at me sitting there with a bottle that’s still half full.
“You want a fuckin’ nipple for that?” he asks.
“Dude, it’s like noon. I’m pacing myself.”
“As they say, it’s happy hour somewhere. Drink.”
I blow out a long breath and drain the last of my bottle, and he mockingly applauds me as I set the empty down. Derek snatches it up and sets the fresh one down before me before heading back to the bar.
“Hey, I’ve got a question for the new patch in the room,” Poe calls.
We all turn to him and I have to battle the feeling of being put on the spot. I start running through all of my club information in my head, suddenly feeling like a prospect all over again. But I’m not a prospect anymore, so they can’t ding me if I don’t recall the year we were founded and all that shit, but they can still make my life hell if I get the answers wrong.
It’s a lot like a fraternity in that, as a prospect, you’re expected to be able to answer questions about club history on demand. Get the answers wrong, in addition to being humiliated in front of the club, you’ll get stacks of shit work heaped on you in addition to your regular duties. While it’s not necessarily held against you when it comes to getting your patch or not, some of the club leadership will definitely factor it in, albeit discreetly, when they cast their vote. Their thinking is that if you can’t be bothered to learn about the club, you’re obviously not committed to it, and I suppose I can’t fault the logic.
“Who was the sexy little blonde who was tryin’ to kick your ass in the parking lot outside the Golden Gate this morning?” Poe calls out.
