Page 86 of Kings Against the World

I’m on a stool, nursing my Diet Coke, practically invisible. In the past I’d been the one to call the meeting into order; I’d been seated up front at the table where everybody with an official club role sat.

The meeting’s kicked off by Flanagan, the new club secretary. I can barely look at him and his greasy hair and long, punchable face. Every time I do, I’m reminded of everything that’s gone wrong over the last six months.

I screwed up in some big ways, then ran away to Vegas for a few weeks, and when I returned, I had to fess up and come clean.

My mistakes weren’t the kind that blow over. They weren’t ones Silver, Mace, and the others could easily overlook.

I’m still dealing with the consequences of those fuck ups today. It might not ever be the same for me in this club. I’ve proven myself unreliable, untrustworthy, and an overall screw up.

Silver stands at the front of the bar room, right near the head table. All eyes swing his way and any chatter dies down. He’s got that kind of presence. That quiet confidence that’s authoritative and commanding.

When he talks, most people listen.

“I appreciate everybody turning up,” he says, his voice even. “This should be quick enough. Then you can all go back to getting drunk off your asses.”

A few of the guys chuckle. Mudd and Einstein tap their pints of beer together, causing some of the amber liquid to slosh over the rim.

“The weapons shipment came through clean,” Silver goes on. “No trouble. No complications. We got everything we were owed.”

Murmurs ripple through the crowded room. The mood in the air lets up a little, everybody relaxing in their chairs. Clean shipments mean nobody’s breathing down our necks trying to fuck with us.

Big Eddie raises his arm up. “That mean the Peña cartel hold up their end?”

Silver nods in answer, the light that streams in through the window making his silver strands stand out even more. “The agreement is in effect. We’re officially business partners.”

Bush snorts from where he’s seated across from Big Eddie. “Bet the Barreras won’t like that.”

“Good thing we don’t give a fuck what the Barreras’ve got to say,” Mace pipes up from the head table. He’s leaned back in his chair, arms folded over his chest.

“The Barreras know what happens if they come for us,” Silver says. “After what happened to Miguel and some of their other men earlier this year during the Saints bust, I doubt they want any trouble right now.”

“We can hope,” sneers Johnny Flanagan under his breath.

I watch as Mace’s jaw squares and, at his side, even Cash seems irritated. Nobody’s ever been too fond of Johnny—if it weren’t for his father Johnny Sr., club member for well over thirty fucking years at this point, the younger Flanagan would’ve been kicked out a long-ass time ago.

Fact is, I think he was only handed secretary ’cuz daddy called in a favor or two. He’s known Silver and Tom Cutler for decades now.

But he goes ignored. Nobody dignifies his mumbling with a real response.

Silver merely presses on. He updates us on other club business, including some of the new prospects and the bike show that some guys like Tito and Cash will be participating in.

I try to pay attention, but that’s always been a sore spot for me—my mind wanders easily and the club meeting’s no exception.

I think about how I used to be sitting up front with the guys. I used to be an active participant in these meetings, one of Mace’s right hands when he’d filled in as prez. In the aftermath of my fuck ups, I’m relegated to nobody in the crowd.

I’m more removed from the club than I’ve ever been. The guys have even pulled back from spending as much time with me.

I get it. I fucked up big time. Not only did I lie about going to rehab—after I’d already screwed up going on benders andwreaking havoc at club events—I went off to Vegas for a few weeks to go undercover in a federal fucking investigation.

I was caught up with Boone in the first place.

Most clubs would kick somebody out for that kind of infraction. Some clubs would permanently handicap or even put somebody six feet under for a violation like that.

If anybody had the slightest hunch I was giving info to the feds, itwouldbe my fate.

But Silver’s kept me. He and the others have just… phased me out of things I was once a part of.

Maybe I never really belonged in the first place.

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