Page 45 of Death's Deal

“She isn’t dead, and I think if you lie to me further I might ask the club to—”

“What? What are you going to do, boy? It’s not like you’ve had the balls to fucking stop me before. Or stop anyone. If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t even have that position.”

I’m beyond annoyed by his accusation. The presidency may not be what I wanted, but I learned quickly it’s what I needed to survive. “It wasn’t a position I wanted, but I earned it.”

He laughs out. “No one held a gun to your head to be President. You were voted in and you’ve done well enough for yourself, Death.” What a condescending tone full of sarcasm and attitude, it’s exactly what I’d expect from a man who’s cornered and...

Afraid. Afraid of the truth he thought was long buried.

When my mother died and he ended up inside, losing his position as the President, I thought we’d never survive or get out from under the shitstorm we were left with. Jaz, Apoc, and I, along with the club, found a way to repair it. We built Humble and Wheelz, our civilian garage, and we’ve thrived. Well, up until the cartel, but we’re managing now with the cash from the mayor.

Mayhem has no idea of what I’m capable of, and most importantly, what I can handle. He’d missed my formative years and once I ended up in jail, he had even less control over my growth, my strength, and over the man I became.

But this petty bickering isn’t getting me anywhere.

Knowing this is not where I want this conversation to go, and it’s a part of his ploy—distract and deter you from your real reason for coming by—I push our conversation back on track. “I have the Queen’s book. It brought to light a few inconsistencies.”

He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes at me. “You have it? How did a little shit like you get it?”

Nice. Insults.

“The club came across it after the murder of the current Queen. The girl who brought it back from Mexico was able to decipher a great deal of it.” He says nothing in response, so I continue, “We were able to make out dates, drops, and the deep connection to the Army, among other things.”

Rubbing his hand through his hair, he mutters, “I always told her that book was going to fuck us at some point.” Rubbing the scruff on his face, he adds, “There’s so much in there that you don’t want to know. Boy, there are some truths I can’t shield you from, and if you have that book, make sure no one—and I mean no one—but you reads it. Some secrets will do more damage than good.”

From the corner, an extra-large, very assuming guard calls out for all those in attendance to hear, “Visitors. One minute.”

Walking over to our table, the same guard taps Mayhem on the shoulder, and nods. “You have ten.” After nearly thirty years of internment in a place such as this, his power is still all encompassing. As a child, I found that power enduring and awe-inspiring, as a man, it tells me his reach is farther than most wish he was capable of.

As the two of us wait while the room empties of families and inmates, Mayhem sits perfectly still. When the final bodies have dispersed, leaving only ourselves and two guards, Mayhem pipes up, “Don’t dwell on Hylo, Bennett. She wasn’t the saint you’d made her out to be.”

“She was there for me. I always found that better than your absenteeism,” I remark through gritted teeth.

Rising from his chair, this time slightly slower, darker, and disturbingly scary, he looks me dead in the eye with hard intent. “It’ll jeopardize the love you had for her, and it’ll harden you. Hylo only looked out for herself. She left me in this hell and if you push too hard, you’ll be right beside me soon enough. Just ask your FBI friend, Johnson.”

Walking toward the guard positioned at the door, turning just before leaving, he stops. “You won’t want the answers that you’ll find if you go digging. Trust me on that. And if you have to choose between the club or family, make sure you choose family. That includes yourself,-yázhe'.”

Passing through the door, leaving further questions swirling dangerously in my mind, he’s gone back to his cell, leaving me to sit and stew in questioning disgust.

What else can be found in that book that could cause us grief?

Fuck.

If it’s bothering him, it has to be pretty good.

Now, more than ever, I want to get back to the house to pore over it further.

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