I raised my hand, cutting her off.
Outside, a motorcycle rumbled. Not one of ours. Brass and Asphalt were up with their hands on their pieces before I could blink.
“Stay put, dammit. Go upstairs. We've got shit to take care of.” I didn't wait to see if she listened.
I pounded out behind the boys, feeling adrenaline hit me like a shot to the heart as soon as I got in the open garage. Stryker killed his bike and ripped off his helmet, wincing as he flexed his fucked up bicep, still wrapped in a dirty looking tourniquet.
“What's going on, brothers?”
“I told you we're supposed to meet at the clubhouse,” Brass said coldly, stopping at the edge of my garage. Asphalt and I were right behind him.
“Yeah, I already talked to Wisp. He said you were all gathering here, and the crew was light, keeping an eye on the girls. Just came by to see if you could use a hand trading shifts, or whatever.”
We were close to him now. Stryker swallowed. I watched his hand carefully, making sure he wasn't going for anything dangerous strapped to his body, waiting for the Veep to make the first move.
“We've got ourselves a problem, brother,” Brass said, only inches from his face.
“Yeah, the cartel –“
“Bullshit. I'm talking about your failure to follow a direct order, besides the shit you've been keeping to yourself, playing dumb.”
The lean kid blinked, anger and confusion crossing his face. “Dumb? What the fuck are you –“
Brass grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him down. I helped, smashing his face into his bike's seat, so fucking hard I could've shattered his nose right there.
“You fucking asshole! Did you really think we wouldn't figure it out? Did you really think you could rat on this club and get away with it, cartel piece of shit?” The Veep exploded, snarling as he twisted Stryker's wrists back, just short of snapping.
Behind me, I heard Caleb wail in Sally's arms, and a new kinda anger flared in my gut.
XI: Blinders Off (Sally)
I should've listened to him. I never should've wandered outside, even when Stryker started screaming, and the men circled him like sharks, knocking the wind out of him with savage blows to his stomach.
I wasn't the only old lady who came running to see the commotion. Missy and Christa stepped in front of me, the better to cover Caleb, urging me inside. But they were also there to sneak a peek firsthand at the chaos.
I stopped in the doorway and watched as two men dragged Stryker up, blood trickling through his teeth.
“Get in the fucking truck, asshole,” Brass growled. “We're going for a ride. You know the club likes things neat, but we will slit your throat right here and mop up the mess if you make one wrong move. You try to fuck with them, and we'll do a lot worse than that.”
The VP pointed a furious finger our way. Then his brow furrowed deeper, rage throbbing in his temple, and he must've realized we'd defied a direct order.
“Goddamn it! What the fuck are they doing out here? Roman!” Brass ripped the injured man around by the shoulder, nodding to Asphalt holding the other side of him, and they pushed him toward Roman's truck.
My man spun around, took one look, and started coming toward us. “Shit! Get the fuck back inside – all of you!”
The two old ladies in front of me jumped in from the garage, brushing past me and Caleb. I waited for the inevitable punishment.
My heart raced like a freight train. The last time I'd been reminded what Roman really was, we were in bed, tangled together as he sent me straight to ecstasy. It was fantasy then, a heatwave rippling up my spine every time I brushed his chiseled body.
Fucking an outlaw made me shamefully wet. But seeing what they did to Stryker in the driveway – what wasn't even finished – reminded me there was nothing sexy about the harsh reality of their bloodletting.
“I told you to stay inside,” he said, his voice like ice. “Next time, you fucking listen, babe. This isn't social hour. These boys didn't drop by and sit with me all morning because we wanted to play cards. We're taking care of business, and there's no way we're letting any of our women get in the way.”
“Business,” I repeated, studying his stark mad face. “What kind of business involves beating a man with your own patch to a bloody pulp? Are you going to kill him, Roman?”
I wasn't sure why I asked the question. Did I really want to know?
“Club business,” he snapped.
God, I hated that phrase a little more every time I heard it. Each time it came out, it curdled the air, as if somebody took a sledgehammer and knocked a gaping hole into our happy life.
“Get upstairs. Don't come down 'til you hear from me or one of the boys. We'll send a few prospects around to check up on you later. I gotta deal with this, and I can't stand here all day waiting for you to listen.”