Chapter Seven
Mac
“Move.” I kick Scribe’s boots, shoving his feet from the table so I can get by and sit down on the couch next to him in Pres’s office. It’s late afternoon, and I came right after leaving Vincent’s family’s house. I figure I might pull the Band-Aid off all in one day. I’m just not sure how the club is going to react, but it seems like babies are in right now. Savage has two little ones, and Pres’s wife isn't too far out from having her first.
Vincent’s family almost lost it with excitement. His mother and sisters helped ease some of my worries. I know we’ll have a lot of help, not to mention I always have Julie, Savage’s old lady, for help. We’ve always been close.
Vincent’s older sister just popped a kid out two weeks ago, and watching Vincent hold the little baby girl did all kinds of things to me that I don’t even know what to do with. I’m going to blame it on the hormones because I’ve never in my life gotten all gushy about a baby. Well, what it counted as gushy for me, anyway, but anyone else would have seen it as me standing back a few feet and just watching.
“What’s got you all pissy?” Scribe puts his laptop down on the table before propping his feet up again, leaning back and putting his hands behind his head. I don’t think I’m pissy. I’m more just anxious to see how everything plays out today. What’s going to happen to me and my brothers? I sure as shit can’t be running around with a giant belly, and I’m guessing it will be giant if I’m going off Vincent's size.
“Do you fuckin’ live here now or something?” I toss the chip bags he’s got lying next to him and an empty bottle of pop onto the table. Scribe can eat as much as I can, but he doesn’t run like I do. In fact, I don’t think he works out much at all, but his body doesn’t show that. He might be the club’s resident geek, handling anything we need when it comes to computers or getting into places we shouldn’t be, but he’s also the pretty one. The sweet butts tend to flock to him because of his looks and maybe because he often seems bored when they do, so they see him as a challenge. I used to scare them off by laying a few jokes on him and trying to embarrass him. Until I learned he got a kick out of it just as much as I did.
“Better than being at home,” he shoots back. I look over at him trying to read him. Scribe’s got more money than any of us. He was the one who taught us how to invest for when we got out of the service, so we’d have nice little nest eggs when we got home. He’d more than tripled our money. I can’t imagine what he’s done for himself, but his house shows he’s very well off. However, it’s a house he doesn’t seem to want to go home to.
I could see that. I’m used to being solo. Well, before Vincent, anyway. I’ve always been eyes in the sky, and sometimes that puts me out for days, all alone, sitting my ass in one spot. These guys, not so much. They were shoved up each other’s ass. Maybe Scribe’s not liking the change quite so much. He studies me back.
“You keep looking at me like Vincent's ass is gonna pop up from behind this couch.” Scribe actually pretends to try and look behind the couch pressed firmly against the wall. It makes me laugh. There he is. Out of everyone, I’ve probably been the closest to him. We have a nice teasing banter between us, and even when shit gets tense and I’m about to lose my shit, Scribe is always the first to get me to laugh.
Pres and Savage both walk in, and Pres walks over to his deck, leaning his ass against it. Savage takes his normal chair in the corner.
“Mixers called me today. Said we’re even,” Pres says, getting straight to the point like he always does. He’s always been our leader.
“I didn’t even do shit for them.”
“Not the point. You stuck your neck out for them, and something could've happened. That’s all that matters.”
I nod. The Mixers are a good club, but you never want to owe anyone favors. I’ve seen good clubs go to shit in a few years for that kind of thing.
“They did say they’d like to use you again. That they’d owe us.” Pres smiles at his own words. He loves collecting favors and having people in his back pocket.
I just shake my head.
“I figured,” he says, catching me off guard. “Scribe, pull a name for me. Violet Cassano.”
Scribe picks his laptop off the table and starts typing away.
“You know?” I ask Pres. I shouldn’t be shocked. “How?”
“The fact that Vincent can’t seem to keep his hand off your stomach gave it away about a month ago.”