Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 38333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Not everyone is happy these days. I’ve heard lots of grumbling over the past few weeks. Lots of questions about Brick’s new attitude. And all the ‘bad luck’ as he calls it.
Maybe not half, but close to half of the patched members are starting to think… maybe we need a new leader. Maybe Brick’s time has come.
Diesel would never go against Brick. Ever. But… he’s not happy, either. And if the men put it up for a vote and his name came out on top, he’d step up. I know he would.
Problem is, we’ve already got a fuckin’ Prez.
And he’s been the Badlands Prez for nearly twenty years now.
That’s a lot of earned allegiance. A lot of history.
But that shit runs out quick when you start making mistakes like this.
So I pull myself up to my full height and narrow my eyes right back. “Yeah. I’m doin’ more than just sayin’ something here, Brick. I'm questioning why our prez doesn't seem concerned that one of his brothers is bleedin’ out after a setup."
Brick's expression doesn’t change. "As I said, church at noon. We’ll discuss it then." He turns, like he’s just gonna walk out.
"We need to discuss it now," I press. "Someone sold us out. Someone who knew the route, the timing, and the exact location of the exchange."
Bricks stops. Kinda side-eyes me over his shoulder. "And you think you know who, do ya?" The challenge in his voice is clear.
I take a step toward him, hands sticky with dryin’ blood. "I think it's interestin’ that comms went down right before the ambush. I think it's interesting that you weren't on the channel when we called for backup." Another step closer. "Where were you, Brick?"
The silence that follows is absolute. No one breathes. No one moves. It's the kind of silence that precedes violence—the moment before a storm breaks.
Brick's eyes go dead. "Careful there, Legion. You're a baby patch around here still. No one cares about the thirteen fuckin’ years you wasted as a prospect doin’ God knows what. In fact, what the hell were you doin’ all those years you were here, but not. You were one of us, but not.”
“Well, I know where the fuck I was for three of them.”
“Ah, right,” Brick sneers. “Your fuckin’ prison time. My God. If I had known that you’d canonize yourself for three short years in the hole, I’d have chosen someone else to take the heat. You never shut up about how you did time for us. Even that fuckin’ whore sister of yours had to mention it when she was at the gate holdin’ her shiny, new Ashby baby.” Brick turns to look at the club. He throws up his hands. “Am I right, or what? Raise your hand if you’re sick of hearing how Legion sacrificed for us.”
No one raises their hand. At first. But as Brick waits, they realize… he’s lookin’ for support here. He wants to know who’s still got his back. And he’s takin’ notes.
Lots of hands go up.
Diesel’s doesn’t.
Brick looks at him, chortles. “Come on, Diesel,” he says. “You’re sick of it too. You’ve said as much.”
I don’t look at Diesel. He’s allowed to have his own opinion. And sometimes people say shit just because they feel like they have to.
Like most of the members in this room right now.
I know damn well Dusty and Brick do not get along. Dusty is about ready to call it quits. After being here almost eighteen months as a prospect, he’s ready to say fuck the Badlands patch, pack up his woman in the laundry, and try his luck with another club farther west.
But his hand is up.
I don’t look at him, because I know Dusty now. And the regret he feels for playing along to Brick’s bullshit will show all over his face if I look him in the eye.
Men do what men gotta do.
But that don’t mean that some of these guys wouldn’t have my back if it came down to it.
Brick looks back at me, his anger stowed, but present. "Remember who brought you in, Demon. Because it’s the same man who can put you out."
We stand there, locked in a stare that says more than words ever could. Three weeks ago, I would have backed down. Three weeks ago, I still believed in brotherhood above all.
"Doc's here!" Crow calls from the door, breaking the moment.
Doc Simmons shuffles in, medical bag in hand, reeking of bourbon. His eyes dart between Brick and me, sensing the tension but wisely choosing to ignore it.
"Move," he orders, pushing past me to reach Butch. "Everyone back. Give me space."
Diesel and I step away from the table as Doc begins his work, muttering to himself as he cuts away Butch's shirt.
Brick turns without another word, walking toward the back hallway that leads to his office. His shoulders are relaxed, his pace unhurried—a man without concerns. A man certain about his place in the world.