Or did I? I told Sally everything I had to say. I bled and ached behind bars to forget her, and it was only slightly harder having her get in my face.
I could live without her, go on doing the same shit I'd always done since I put on this patch. I'd done it for almost two years.
Serving this brotherhood the best way I knew how was all that mattered. Pussy came and went. The patch was forever.
Easy words. Harder to believe them.
No matter how much I drank, pumped iron, and fucked the closest whore I could grab with golden locks, I couldn't make myself believe shit. Sally haunted my fucking head.
I had to forget. Again.
I told myself I'd get the fuck over it, make her fade like a phantom. Enough time could do anything.
Then I saw her face at night in my dreams, her perfect body, remembering the way she rode my cock and turned my nerves to steel, the fever hit me like a junkie missing his dope.
Yeah, I'd cut Sally outta my life like a cancer. But I'd suffer first, rage and sweat and bellow, the same way an addict does when he's lost a hit that sends him up to heaven.
Next week, Blackjack ordered us to start our runs, the latest patrols in the endless cartel war, now threatening to bite us on our own turf. Prez split the crew in half. He must've sensed Sally's reluctance to let me on her land – or maybe the bitch said something to him herself – who the fuck knew.
Regardless, the Prez had other plans for me. I rode with him, Brass, Asphalt, and a couple prospects out to the old warehouse, while the rest of the crew took care of playing guard dog at the Jennings' farm.
We had a bigger prize waiting for us inside the run down place where we got our intel. It had been a heavy industrial complex back in the day, now it was more like a ghostly slaughterhouse. We'd skinned more than a few sorry bastards alive and paved their carcasses with concrete here, and now there was one more pig on the docket.
“Start talking, Alejandro. That's your name, isn't it?” Cool and collected as always, Blackjack eyed the beat up cartel goon strapped to the chair, slowly lighting a cigarette and taking a long pull.
Fucker sat there like a bulldog. He was a bit older than most of the sloppy thugs we normally brought in, scrawny kids too young to drink, but old enough to kill for their border spanning mafia.
Those shitheads begged for their lives when they realized we were gonna snuff out their short lives of sin. Not one ever got their wish.
Our new buddy, Alejandro, just stared in silence, giving the Prez the evil eye. Asphalt shot me a wide eyed look as I took a step forward, my fists balled into mallets.
These hands were fucking hungry. Since prison, I couldn't shake the overwhelming desire to feel a man's bones snap, crackle, and bleed beneath these knuckles, and Sally's shit last week made the need twice as strong.
“Let's not bullshit. We both know you're here to die, boy,” Blackjack said, breathing smoke in his face. “We're giving you one final choice – the kindest choice this world ever offers anybody in our biz. You cooperate, answer a few questions, and you'll go out of this world quick and clean. Feed us more bullshit, and we'll make sure you choke on your screams before the bear opens his mouth and drags you down to hell. Understand?”
Alejandro didn't even flinch. Gotta admit, the fucker had balls. Blackjack's always been an imposing SOB. He'd been a natural Enforcer in the old days. As Prez, he commanded our respect – no ifs, ands, or buts about it.
I saw the Prez's lips twitch with frustration. He pulled out his smoke, dropped it to the floor, and ground it into the concrete with his boot.
“Who's the rat? We know you've got one embedded in my club.” Pausing, the Prez locked eyes with the prisoner, drowning him in an icy stare. “You can't save yourself, boy, but it's not too late to save your friends. The sooner we shut this thing down, the quicker we stop killing each other. Your friends don't have to end up buried beneath ten feet of concrete too. Flapping your gums just might save a few lives.”
For a second, the bastard's eyes lit up. I wanted to believe he'd talk, but they were never so altruistic. The average cartel soldier was a selfish, violent little shit. They didn't have a code like the average MC. It was all business to them, and their whole damned enterprise was killing.
Besides, I didn't like the energy going on there, especially the way he looked at the Prez like he was doing him some great favor.
Sweet terms never mattered to these fucks. Nobody's ever happy about going to their grave. They either scream for a mercy we'll never give 'em, or fight us 'til the bitter end.
No compromise.
The Mexican squirmed in his restraints, making some noise like he was about to talk. Blackjack leaned down, holding his ear closer to the asshole's face.
Shit, I didn't fucking like this. Two steps forward, and Asphalt started shaking his head, warning me to back the fuck off before the Prez found out I was treating him like a goddamned idiot.