“Listen, man,” I calmly replied, “I didn’t know who he was. Hell, I still don’t know who he is. I seen him around, man, but… Look. He had his hands all over her. You drilled it in with us that that’s not cool. Hands off the dancers. I was just lookin’ out for your girl. I was doin’ my job. If that guy is so all-out important, you should’a given us a heads-up. Who is that guy?”
“I’m gonna let you in on a little secret here.” Joey leaned in. “That guy is Jonathan Fielding. You don’t know that name? Who are you, the goddamned fucking groundhog? Jonathan Fielding, son of Senator Fielding, ring any bells? Stupid fuck. He also happens to be my silent partner in this respectable establishment, so you effectively just beat up your own other boss. You have some serious ass kissing to do now, my friend. Lucky for you, you’re right. Unlucky for you, you are also wrong: the hands-off rule applies to the clientele. Jonathan Fielding is not the clientele.” Finally, he leaned back in his throne chair. “But since you didn’t know, I’m gonna go to bat for you and protect your sorry ass. This time. Just never let it happen again. There are no third chances here. Be fucking grateful for this second one.”
“Yeah, man.” I nodded, pretending gratitude. “I ’preciate it. A lot. Really, I just thought…”
“You didn’t think,” he snapped, cutting me off. “Get down there now, and get out of the building. I’ll talk to him, make it cool, but I’m pretty sure he ain’t gonna wanna see your face the rest of tonight. And just so we’re clear: you owe me now.” He looked really satisfied with that.
I stood up. “Yeah, man, thanks. I owe you. Got it.” And I turned and left his office, heading down the hall to the bathroom. I needed a minute to get my brain together.
Holy hell. Tonight had turned into a clusterfuck. I shook my head.
It shouldn’t have surprised me. This whole racket was a disaster. And the time was coming close to deal it out to the end with Mr. Ronn, and figure a way—once and for all—to get myself out of this shitstorm. Things were not cool within Storm, and I either had to find a way to break from my MC (fuck but that burned), or turn things around. Our newish president of just four months, Clav, had completely fucked us up and over, forcing this work with the prick porno boss, Joey Ronn, the murdering slime. And the Pres was out there acting like everything was going smooth as silk. I about couldn’t take it anymore.
But before I could go—or pull a gargantuan mutiny—I needed to make sure Ronn would pay for what he had done to Manny. Fucker’d killed my best friend. He had actually killed my best friend. That. Does. Not. Fly.
Aw, fuck. Manny. I missed him like mad. Great guy, great friend. Totally stand-up. The motherfucker had your back. The brother I could always count on, the guy who made you laugh so hard your gut hurt. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. He was six feet under, now.
And justice needed serving.
I still didn’t know the full story. But I did know this much: Joey Ronn had directly caused Manny’s death and then made sure all of us in Storm knew it, in order to “keep us in line” and show him “proper respect.” So, without question, I knew enough to be sure that Ronn had to go down, and go down hard.
My only hesitation came from the question of who had actually pulled the trigger: was it Ronn himself, or was it one of our MC brothers, at Ronn’s order? If it was a brother, things got really, really complicated, because then I would be going directly against my own. To actively work against the MC brotherhood was cause for an internal takedown. And I did not want my brotherhood after me; that’s a sure death sentence, and I had no death wish.
The thing was, ever since Clav had gotten us tied in to serving as Ronn’s freakin’ security service, it was like Storm was no longer a brotherhood. We had lost our purpose, and were basically just serving as muscle and protection to a sleazy porn king. Between running security at Club Hardcore and protecting Ronn’s shiny ass from the freakin’ mafia and cops and feds for all his illicit porno dealings, the MC barely ever had any time for our own anymore. No more “church” meetings (where we used to conference at least weekly, usually more, to hash out business and whatever issues might come up); no more parties, not even hanging out on the Storm compound. Fuck, we hadn’t even had a good ride together in ages. It was like we’d just been transferred into Ronn’s titty bar and porno world, and demoted to muscle without brains.
It was demoralizing, at best. And I, for one, had had it.