Page 91 of Disturbed Lucidity

“How have you been, Elvis?”

The man shrugged while he kept cooking.

Elvis talked little, and unlike most of the brothers in the club, Elvis stayed in his lane and hardly, if ever, left the kitchen. Before joining the club, Elvis was the master chef for a two-star general. Poor bastard followed the general everywhere he went, and when the man retired, he cut Elvis loose. With no desire to work for another high-ranking officer, Elvis finished his tour and never looked back. Scuttlebutt was that the Secret Service offered Elvis the head chef position at the White House, but the brother told them to fuck off.

Now he cooked for us.

When Mouth brought him on board, I investigated him thoroughly, but found little. Similar to Mouth, the man’s service record had more redacted black ink than I had on my body. I had my suspicions but kept them to myself. I didn’t believe in forcing my brothers to talk.

However, I also didn’t believe in coincidences.

“Prez.” Hannibal walked in just as Elvis turned, handing him a plate of food without saying a fucking word. The big man took it before taking a seat across from me, chowing down the hot food.

Frowning, I looked at Elvis. “Why does Hannibal get served and I don’t?”

“Coffee was waiting.”

“Yeah, but why does that fucker get food?”

“Doesn’t drink coffee.”

Hannibal smirked while he shoveled food into his pie hole.

Puck and Pinball groggily stumbled into the kitchen next. Neither looked awake when they headed for the table. Sitting, Pinball dropped his head to the cool table and moaned.

“Get your fucking nasty head off my clean table, asshole,” Elvis said, dropping plates of food before the two sluggish men.

“Sorry, Elvis,” Pinball muttered, picking up a fork before digging in as Mouth, Cyrus, and Razor walked in, heading for the small table. However, when Mouth stood next to me, not moving, I looked up at him.

“Need something, Mouth?”

“You’re in my seat.”

“Excuse me?”

“Move,” the man growled.

It was too damn early to go head-to-head with Mouth, so I grabbed my cup of coffee and stood, heading for the door, when I stopped, looked back, and asked, “Why are you all eating in here and not the dining hall?”

“We eat in here,” Mouth replied while the Plebs staggered past me one by one, each nodding when they walked past.

Standing there, I observed half of my club brothers chow down their food while Elvis continued cooking and wondered what the hell I was missing.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Ivy

“Let’s fuck.”

Reclining in a chair, I swung my leg back and forth, bored as hell, while Luc sat behind his desk, doing whatever it was he fucking did. Not that I cared. It was club business, and that shit didn’t interest me. Mouth told me I was working at the strip club tonight with Pyle, so I was free to do whatever I wanted until my shift started later this evening. Slash was off doing something club related and said I couldn’t go with him, and I flat-out refused to go see what Logic was doing. Fucker would probably turn my boredom into another fucking therapy session.

Typing something into his computer, Luc muttered, “Your ass needs to heal. Go talk to Gunny.”

“And whose fault is that?” I snarked.

“Got shit I need to do, Ivy. Go bug someone else.”

Grumbling, I stormed out of his office in search of something to do. My body hummed anxiously. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something big was right around the corner. I’d only felt this way a few times before and each time, something bad happened. The first time I felt this way was when my father sold me to the Golden Skulls and Solomon saved me, setting me free. The second time was right before I killed that man in St. Agatha’s.

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