Page 80 of Tempting Fate

“What about… Fret?” Cub’s voice fills with despair as he enquires after my plan to save his childhood friend. “How are you going to…”

“I have an idea,” I tell him. “And I’m goin’ straight to the source to put it into action.” The distinctive sound of Harleys entering our suburb fills the air. “The mood I’m in, he’ll either play ball or fuckin’ die.”

When Brutus leads the pack of Shamrocks that he double-crossed at the so-called meeting into the compound, I’m not sure if I’m looking forward to the inevitable showdown with my godfather or drowning under the weight of his endless deceit. Brutus, true to form, ends my dilemma as he comes barrelling over to me. He throws his helmet at my head. I catch it before it hits me. Running a sharp gaze over his familiar face, I decide that it’s a little bit from column B and a whole lot from column A.

“You little motherfucker. I want your patch.”

“Tell me, prez.” Disdain drips from his title as I ignore his demand. “How much does it cost to set up your own son and your little Cherub? Your heart or what’s left of ya soul?”

“What’re you dribblin’ about now?”

I wait until all the Shamrocks who witnessed Brutus in action at the shed to gather around before I loudly state, “Seems our esteemed president organised that bullshit meetin’ to achieve dual purposes.” My club brothers shift quietly, tensing up as they sense that I’m about to drop a bomb. “He didn’t only want to cause trouble between me and Cherub while also strengthenin’ his ties with the Maddison’s, he also needed most of us outta the compound so Fret could be kidnapped from our turf. With only a few of us here, it was easy for them to get to him.”

“That’s not true,” Brutus shouts. He points a sausage sized finger at me. “He fucked off without an escort. The Bishops didn’t get to him. The bull-headed little prick disgraced his cut when he all but handed himself to them on a plate.”

“Funny,” I remark with a smile that contains zero mirth. Scrubbing my palm over my chin, I muse out loud. “I don’t remember mentionin’ who took him. Tell us, Brutus, how do you know the fuckin’ Bishops have Fret?”

“It’s—I… there was…”

“Kristoff Maddison told us before we left the shed,” Joker, the step-grandson of one of the founding six offers when it becomes clear that Brutus isn’t able to supply a viable excuse. He moves over to our president’s side and pats his bicep. “Thinkin’ you needa rethink the tone you’re takin’ with our prez lately. Seems to me like you’re just lookin’ to find fault. Peddlin’ conspiracies. Castin’ aspersions. Gettin’ Toker to act the fool for you.”

“Kristoff offered his men,” Brutus announces to everyone. To me, it’s clear that he’s simply running with the story Joker just gave him, yet some of the Shamrocks nod like they believe his bullshit. “Since we’re on lockdown, I’m gonna call him, see what he can do for us.”

“So we can owe them a favour?” Toker interjects. “We don’t work with the bloody Irish mob.”

He pushes his way through the group to stand next to me.

Cub, who’s remained by my other side, leans close to murmur, “I think I’ve figured out who’s helpin’ him technologically.”

“Blind Freddie’s figured that out, Cub.” Toker’s response makes me snort.

Brutus glances my way, then he levels his nephew with a sneer. “We owe them nothin’… they owe me for yesterday.”

His strange choice of words goes over most of my brothers’ heads.

Not mine.

The Maddison clan owes him for yesterday….

Yeah, that seems about right.

15

LILY

“Where is he?” I ask no one in particular as we wait inside the clubhouse. I pace back and forth, my attention flitting from the front doors to the locked chapel and back again. “We should go get him ourselves. Or you can stop holding me captive and let me deal with my mess alone.”

“Don’t start again, Cherub,” Toker tells me with a huff. “I’ll give you a fuckin’ noogie if you do.”

“Oh, screw off, Bendy-dick,” I retort with the nickname Wyatt gave him when he was a toddler. Stomping over to him, I jab my fingernail against his chest. “This isn’t the time for jokes.”

“Not jokin’,” he mutters. Grabbing hold of my finger, he waggles it. “You poke me again and I’ll up it to a wet willy.”

The snort-laugh that leaves me is involuntary. “Jesus Chr?—”

Whatever I was about to say is lost as a sob erupts from my mouth instead. My cousin, giant butthead that he can sometimes be, takes hold of my wrist and yanks me forward. I stumble into him, my forehead bumping his sternum before he wraps his arms around me.

“I hate crying.”

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