I park my smoke back between my lips and survey my officers—Jack, Mick, Glacier, Smoky, Mug, and Dober. I've called them all into the chapel for a little chat before church, sitting down in the high backed chair left for me by the previous president. It's a bloody gorgeous chair, but ostentatious as hell. I glance down the massive table at the six men, three on either side, dressed in their cuts and patches, smoke curling from ashtrays, the scents of coffee and tobacco mixing together in a pleasant, familiar warmth.
“What do you wanna do about it?” Glacier asks, getting this big scary, shark smile that freaks me the hell out. The man scares the shit out of me sometimes, like some demented boy band lead dipped in tattoos and piercings, injected with a healthy dose of crazy and bloodlust. “That's our core group of leather lovers right there. If we kick 'em all out, this'll be one sad empty clubhouse.”
“We're not going to do a damn thing,” I say, feeling the heat of Smoky's stare on the side of my head. For once though, Dober agrees with me.
“If we punish the Omegas,” he says, using the nickname for the club groupies that I've never liked, “then it'll just piss everyone off—especially the other women. It's best to let them work this shit out on their own. As long as Lyric isn't hurt and no charges are pressed, we should act like it never happened.” He casts a long, lingering look in my direction, the harsh expression on his face framed by the wood paneling on the wall behind him, the red wallpaper above it. “Can your …” He pauses and I know exactly what he's doing, trying to decide what to call Lyric. “Girlfriend handle herself?”
I grit my teeth against the lack of respect, determined to take care of that at the barbecue this weekend. I'm going to make sure everybody knows how serious I am about having Lyric as my old lady.
“Sure thing, mate,” I say as I stub my cig out in the ashtray and light a new one from the pack by my elbow. “She'll have the other girls eating out of her hand by the end of the week.” Big grin flashed in Dober's direction. He doesn't like Lyric, but so what? He'll get used to her. I'll make sure he gets used to her. “Now, next order of business.” I lift my chin at Glacier, looking like he usually does, like a walking, talking dichotomy with his black T-shirt, his cut with the word Enforcer over the front pocket, and his gleaming head of angelic blond hair. “Did you ask our friend about his patches?”
“I did,” Glacier says, a pleased note in his voice, an edge of untamed violence that he must not have been able to work off last night. Our guy must've broke pretty easily. My enforcer taps his black painted fingernails on the table, a testament to his reputation in this club. Where any other man would've been teased mercilessly for the nail polish, nobody spoke a damn word about it to Saint. “And he sang like a canary. He got paid to join the club.”
I raise my brows at that one. Joining an MC isn't a job; it's a privilege.
“He got paid?” I ask, and feel my stomach tighten with nerves. If these guys, these thugs that Clayton Moore doesn't give a shite about are being paid, that means he's got money, and if he's got money … “How the fuck can Mile Wide afford to pay an army?” I ask, thinking of the men we killed the day Lyric was kidnapped. There had to be at least ten of them, not to mention the two we just took down at Kailey's house.
“Dude didn't know,” Glacier says, lifting his icy blue eyes up to the soaring rafters in the ceiling. This place used to be some kind of family oriented cookhouse in the fifties before the club bought it to start the California chapter of the Alpha Wolves. It was the sort of place where people crowded around long tables like the one we're sitting at now and shared heaping bowls of salad, mashed potatoes, platters of sliced roast. “And, considering his eagerness to chat, I believe him.” Glacier drops his gaze with a tight smile. “Said he was getting five hundred bucks a week plus a bike. Not exactly Wall Street wages, but pretty fucking impressive for some brainless idiot with a felony record. The guy told me he served time for raping some teenage girls. Nice to know Clayton's keeping good company, yeah?”
That knot in my stomach becomes an angry pulse as nausea overtakes me. Rapists for hire. Bloody brilliant.
“Fuck,” I curse as I scrub my fingers through my hair and take a drag on my smoke. Shoulda grabbed a cuppa on my way in here. I stand up. Can't very well tell the boys that I'm hankering for a cup of strong Earl Grey tea, now can I? “I need to think for a minute. I'm gonna get some coffee,” I say, scooting my chair out and moving down the aisle, my booted footfalls loud against the hardwood floors.