Page 56 of The Prez

He leaves my office and I grab my phone, calling Pete instead of shooting him a text. I want to hear his voice, not get some generic ass message. I don’t like that one of my guys is MIA and no one knows where he is.

The phone rings five times before it kicks over to voicemail. I growl in frustration as I listen to the recording. At the beep, I say, “Hermano, you better be dead or in the hospital to not answer my fucking call. Hit me up as soon as you get this.” I hang up and toss my phone on my desk.

Not only is Pete on my mind, but Omari is too. I didn’t want to leave him today. After what that piece of shit Brock did to him, I don’t like not being with him. My brothers can handle keeping him safe, but they’re not me. If it weren’t for all the hangarounds that walk around with their ass and tits out half the time, I’d tell Omari to come here so I can make sure he’s safe. But the clubhouse is no place for a baby for a full day.

Releasing a frustrated breath when my phone doesn’t ring with a call from Pete, I turn to my computer and order the supplies I need for our businesses.

I’m working for close to an hour when the buzzing in my head gets too loud and I can’t stand sitting in this office without knowing where Pete is. A knock sounds at my door and I think it’s my VP and enforcer with an update. “Come in,” I grunt.

Callie peeks inside, a bright smile on her face. I groan, wanting anyone but her in my office. “Hey, Prez.”

“What.” I don’t even try to pretend I’m happy to see her. There is nothing I want from Callie, but she insists on cornering me every chance she gets.

She moseys over, sitting on the edge of my desk. “You don’t play with me anymore, Prez. I was wondering if everything was okay.”

“What do you want?”

Callie shrugs. “To see if you thought about what I asked. Being exclusive. As your old lady, I would make sure you’re happy. You haven’t been happy since Christian died.” I glare up at her, making her shrink away. “I’m just saying. I can get you out of your slump.”

“Get out of my office,” I grunt, “before I toss you out. I’m not looking for an old lady. And what makes you think you’d be it? You fuck anything that walks in this place. Get that fucking pipe dream out of your head, Callie. Ain’t gonna happen.”

She huffs and stomps out of my office, probably to find one of my brothers to fuck.

I call Jace and Zeke to my office.

When they step inside, I asked if they got a bead on our mechanic. Zeke shakes his head. “Nope. I went by his place a few hours ago and the F-350 wasn’t there. Chance says he didn’t get picked up and thrown into the drunk tank lastnight. I tried the emergency room, but they said they couldn’t give me information on a patient unless I was next of kin. I went up there and sweet talked a nurse to see if he was a patient, but she said there was no one there by his name. So, I got fuck all.”

“Same here,” Jace adds. “When Pete ain’t here, he’s at home. He’s not at either of those places, so I don’t know, Prez.”

“Fuck,” I mutter, pushing my hair back from my face. “Alright, I’ll ride around to see if I spot him. I don’t like that he hasn’t been in touch.”

We clapped palms before I scoop up my helmet, my leather jacket, and my cut. I head outside and, after I put my gear on, I throw my leg over my chopper and start her up.

I drive around town, looking for Pete and letting the wind clear my mind. It’s like everything is coming down on me fast and I’m barely keeping afloat as I try to handle everything going on. Christian dying, Elena dying, getting Little Raf, his allergic reaction and ER stay, Omari being beaten and Pete missing. It’s like every curve ball that can be thrown at me is hitting its target. I’m not sure how much more I can handle before I break.

I’m not really paying attention to where I’m heading. Just riding and thinking. When I refocus on my surroundings, I find myself on Christian’s street, the familiar road sending a pang through my chest. I never thought I’d be back here. Since he died, I’ve stayed as far away from things that remind me of him as I can—besides the clubhouse.

I’m in for a shock when I drive past Christian’s house, intent on paying my respect, but finding Pete’s truck there instead.

What is Pete doing here? The club members have been slowly but surely cleaning Christian’s house out for resale.Christian made mortgage payments months in advance, so it’s not like we’ve been in a rush. Maybe he’s here cleaning?

That doesn’t explain why he didn’t answer my call or missed his shift looking after my family.

I pull onto the curb and turn my bike off. After I take off my helmet and rest it on the seat of my chopper, I march up to the door, banging on it loudly. After a few seconds, I hear locks disengage and my blood boils. He’s been here, fucking chilling, when someone could be after Omari and hurt Little Raf in the process. What could be so important that?—

“Jesus, fuck, hermano. What happened?” I ask Pete when he opens the door. His face is an amalgamation of black and blue, his lip is swollen and his nose has a bandage over the bridge. Where his hair flops over his forehead, I can just make out the white gauze taped there.

He focuses tired and hurt eyes on me, appearing dazed for a few beats. “Prez? What’s up?”

“Pete,” I growl, pushing past him into the house. “The fuck are you doing here, not answering your fucking phone?” I look for somewhere to sit, but there is no furniture in the living room anymore. I keep walking until I get to the bedroom. I stop dead when I see the state of it.

It’s a mess, drawers pulled open and shirts strewn haphazardly across the bed. Even the pillow has a shirt drawn over it, like it’s being used as a pillowcase.

I turn around to look at Pete, whose face is blazing red even under his bruising. “What’s going on here? Did someone try to steal from Christian’s house? Did they attack you after they found you here?” I’m asking questions that don’t really make any sense because I can’t think of a reason why Pete would look the way he does and Christian’s room looks as if a storm blew through it.

Pete’s bottom lip trembles as he shakes his head. Then he hisses, leaning heavily against the door jamb as if he can nolonger hold up his weight. I move over to him quickly, wrapping an arm around his waist so I can lead him to the bed. He sits on it heavily, then lies down. To my utter shock, he grabs the pillow and pulls it closer to him, his nose tucked into the fabric.

“No one tried to rob this place, Prez,” he says, voice muffled by the pillow. “I did this. I needed a shirt that smelled like him. But they all … most of them just smell like detergent.”

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