“Hey, pretty girl,” I say, the sound of her voice making me forget that we’re in an argument.
“Zeke, don’t,” she says, but the fight isn’t in her.
“Look . . .” I drag my hand down my face, trying to find the right words to say without the reminder of what happened pissing me off. When I realize I can’t, I stick to business.
“Don’t take your anger out on my club. If you got a problem with me, that’s for me and you to work out. Don’t make the club pay for my mistakes.” Everyone is on their bikes, unable to leave until I do because I’m the highest-ranking officer here. I’ve smoked half a cigarette and been called every motherfucker in the book by my impatient brothers before she finally answers.
“It’s clear that you’re more upset over your club having to endure a schedule change than you are about hurting me.” She pauses a moment, letting out a low breath. “I confided in you, Shady.” The hurt in her voice has me closing my eyes and hating myself a little more.
“Diem,” I try, but she cuts me off, her tone now cold and unforgiving like she just flipped a switch.
“I told you that I was struggling and you treated me with the same respect as the men I was forced to kill. I see where your priorities are, and I completely understand. Because like you, I know where mine are too.” She hangs up and I roar loud enough to silence everyone in the parking lot. I’ve never been so angry with myself.
Of course the club was my priority. But Diem was too, even though I’d yet to make her feel like one. I kick at the air, mumbling obscenities while my club looks on like I’ve lost my mind. I straddle my bike, asking myself the same question I’ve asked over and over. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I’m at a hundred and twenty before I figure it out, but the reality hits me so hard, I nearly wreck with the impact. There’s no answer other than the obvious—I’m just an insensitive, control-freak, anti-feminist prick.
* * *
By the time we make it to the warehouse, I’m fucking livid with myself. And exhausted. And running off of gas fumes and coffee. I light a cigarette and stand with my club as Diem steps out of the same SUV she arrived in last night. Damn, she’s pretty. Even tired and overworked, she’s exquisite. Just like the neatly pressed business suit she wears over that goddess body I know is hidden underneath.
“I need men on the ground on the East Coast right away,” she starts. She’s barking orders and calling shots without even as much as a “good afternoon” or a look in my direction. “We’re expecting production to slow, and we will be patient with you. Don’t get men you don’t trust just to hurry the business along. We want good, dependable soldiers like you. How long do you think it will take?”
She directs her questions to Jimbo, who responds like a National president should. With the truth and no bullshit. “At least a year. We have several support club chapters we can Prospect, but it takes time. A one-percenter isn’t born overnight.”
Her small head nods as she purses her lips, just like she always does when she’s thinking. “I suggest moving chapters you have now to fill in until you get some more guys ready. We’ll make sure your territory isn’t compromised.” Jimbo agrees, and they discuss locations.
Meanwhile, Clark, the big man I recognize as the one from the Death Mob clubhouse, is burning holes into me, so I finally meet his gaze. He rolls his neck and I flex my fingers. It’s an intimidation method that makes us both look like grade school kids.
“Do you have a problem?” Diem’s voice rings out and I don’t have to look at her to know she’s talking to me. She only uses that tone when she’s pissed at me. And I guess she’s still pissed.
“Not at all,” I say, not looking at her.
“What about you?” she says, and I know she’s talking to the guy I’m sizing up. “Do you have a problem?”
“I don’t like him,” he growls, his voice low and gruff. He sounds mean, but he’ll die just as quick as any other man who gets a bullet in his head.
“Yeah? Me either. But this is business. So if the two of you want to get in a pissing contest over whose dick is bigger, then do it when you’re not on my time.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answers, like a whooped puppy. I just smirk.
“Something funny to you?” This time, I turn to look at her.
“No, pretty girl. Nothing’s funny.” She’s not embarrassed by my endearment, but she’s not blushing about it either.
Her eyes narrow on me as she ignores everyone else in the room. The silence is uncomfortable, but not to us. “We’re all on the same team here, Shady.” She drawls my name out like it tastes bad in her mouth. It sounds bad too. I like when she calls me Zeke. Somehow, it means something different.