“I’m pulling your bottom rockers.” The air in the room grows thick with tension at my words. Every brother at the table looks at me with a different emotion—hate, betrayal, envy . . . but some look at me with respect. “I’ll give you two weeks. If you’re not ahead of everyone else, I’ll pull back patches. After that, you’ll be sewing on Prospect rockers. I don’t think I have to tell y’all what happens if you fail then.”
Cuts are laid across the table as I use my knife to remove the Texas patches one by one. The bottom rocker represents your state—what charter you belong to. Having it removed is a way of branding those that aren’t living up to the expectations of the club. It’s a blow to a man’s pride. He’s no longer worthy of a full patch. And to get it back, he’ll have to earn it.
Before I leave, I call Nationals and inform them of my decision. They’re not surprised by my actions, they’re proud. “You’ll make a fine Nomad, Shady. Now go to San Antonio and do the same.”
The news of what happened in Houston spread like wildfire. By the time I left, they were working harder than any chapter in the country. When I finally make it San Antonio, they’re throwing a party in my honor. I’m sure it’s in hopes to avoid having their patches pulled. But just to show them I’m not impressed, I called a meeting as soon as I walked in the door. Now the only man wearing a bottom rocker at my party is me. And just like I saw in Houston, respect is in the eyes of some of my brothers.
* * *
I’ve been gone for two weeks.
Two long fucking weeks.
I’ve thought of Diem every day since I left. Not one moment has gone by that I haven’t wondered what she was doing. If she was wearing my shirt. How she was feeling. If she was thinking of me . . .
But my pride was too big for me to text or call. She must have been suffering from the same prideful issues. Because in two weeks, I haven’t heard from her either.
I’m nervous when I pull up to my house. I’m not sure what to expect. When I hear a glass shatter against something inside, I grab my piece from my bag and nearly knock the door off the hinges trying to get in. My mind races with thoughts of what I’m up against. An intruder? Has Death Mob figured me out? Has the club found out about Diem? Is there a raccoon in the kitchen . . . again?
Shards of glass litter the living room floor. The broken pieces were once a plate. Other than the hundreds of tiny, sharp objects, everything else seems to be in place. My boots crunch across the glass as I keep my gun up and make my way to the back of the house. Kicking open my bedroom door, the barrel of my automatic comes face-to-face with the strikingly beautiful Diem.
“Get that fucking thing outta my face,” she greets, slapping the barrel of my gun out of her way before pushing past me.
“Well, hello to you too.” I turn to follow her, but she stomps back into the room before I can take a step—attempting to slam the door in my face. I catch it with my hand, unable to hide my smile. Damn I’ve missed her cocky ass.
Speaking of ass, she looks perfect. No bruises. No slow movements. She’s all sexy and pissed dressed in an outfit that I’ve never seen her in. Thinking back, I remember Rookie telling me that Carrie had brought her some clothes after our last incident. And I’ll have to remember to thank Carrie for her choice.
Tight jeans, an even tighter top, and lo and behold . . . fucking shoes.
“What are you smiling at?” she snaps, filling her duffel bag with clothes. She’s leaving?
My smile fades as I realize that’s exactly what she’s doing. “Where you goin’?”
“Where you goin’?” Her shitty attempt to impersonate me has me smirking once again. “You wanna know where I’m goin’? None of your fucking business. That’s where.” She’s so pissed her voice is shaky, and for the life of me I can’t figure out why.
“Diem,” I start, but she whirls around on me and pokes her tiny finger in my chest, managing to push me back a step.
“Don’t you ‘Diem’ me. You’ve been off for two weeks doing who knows what with who knows who.” She stomps across the room, then comes back, knocking shit over on the dresser as she does. And all I can do is stand and watch in amusement. “I’ve been here, Zeke. Stuck in this fucking house eating carbs and watching westerns and counting the blades of grass in the yard. I’ve drove myself crazy while you’ve been partying and playing and probably eating steaks and drinking premium liquor and fucking random whores in some shitty southern brothel.”
“Diem,” I try again, but the look she shoots me has me shutting my mouth.