Page 61 of Blue

No, but again, what was Blue supposed to say? She’d done this to Stella. She led her to the bowels of hell and left her unsupervised. Then again, Stella did work for the same bikers Blue did. Maybe it was inevitable.

“Just be safe, okay?”

Stella chuckled. “Oh, we used condoms.”

Blue couldn’t help but giggle.

“I gotta go,” the tattoo artist said with a laugh.

“Have fun.”

Maybe it wasn’t a terrible thing. Perhaps the guys wouldn’t miss Blue if there was a new woman to take her place. They always got into a tizzy when a new, willing woman came in. This was a good thing. It was possible Stella wouldn’t repeat the same mistakes Blue had.

Sarah seemed to be on the road to making them with Cajun. Blue couldn’t do anything about that. That ship had sailed. There was no rescuing her.

Blue scoffed at herself. Stella was doomed, but that was her path. She’d figure it out one day. Maybe. There wasn’t anything Blue could do about it now.

Glancing at the coffeepot and then over her shoulder toward her bedroom, Blue had a decision to make. Would she go into the shop today, or would she hide out and plot her next move?

CHAPTER 20

Mooky

While Mooky had never been on a sinking ship, he suspected he was going down. The way the few people hanging around the clubhouse scurried away from him resembled rats fleeing a boat going under. Despite “Misery” by Nonpoint playing softly over the speakers, the hushed whispers going around the room seemed louder.

Whatever, he had places to be and things to do. Namely, facing the music for his crimes. There was no delaying it. His days had been shit on top of shit on top of fucking shit. No need to break the cycle now.

Maybe, if they let him live, this would be the kick in the pants he needed to change his life. He could go legit. To what? He hadn’t a clue. Who was he? He had no fucking skills. He had no training in anything. All he knew was club life and tattooing. If the club took his patches, took his cut, took his shop from him, who the fuck was he? How the hell would he feed his kids? He had no capital to make it on his own. What shop would take him on and risk pissing off Odin’s Fury? He was fucked.

Hesitating, Mooky stood at the door of Clark’s office. His throat went dry. The urge to run and hide nagged at him. Running wouldn’t solve fuck all. All he had to do was knock and face the consequences of his actions.

Lift his fist and bang on that door.

He could do it.

His arm didn’t move.

“Get your ass in here!” Clark shouted through the door.

News traveled fucking fast in the clubhouse.

Taking the knob in his hand, Mooky twisted it. Nástrond could be on the other side of that door. For all he knew, his brothers had voted while he sat in the cell. He couldn’t fault them. The last few days, he’d brought nothing but trouble to their door. The Roughneck Riders would’ve drilled him for less.

How much different were Odin’s Fury? They were both one percent biker clubs. They both didn’t tolerate bullshit, and Mooky had shoveled a ton of it their way.

Taking a deep breath, he lifted his chin. With a steeled spine, he stepped into the president’s office. If he was to go down, he’d face the president and vice president head on. He’d make them look him in the damn eyes.

Clark sat behind the desk. His normally perfectly coiffed hair seemed ratty. It lacked the lacquered shine from whatever gel he used. He didn’t even have the stupid spit curl he liked to wear. The club president had an obsession with Superman.

Deep creases spread out from the corners of his eyes. Damn, he’d aged in just a few hours. The stress of the last few days was all over his face.

Mooky caused that.

Fuck. He wasn’t a good brother. They had every right to boot him from the club. Maybe he should lay down his cut now and save them the time of putting it to a vote.

Opposite him, in a chair, was their VP. Bald-headed Dash turned to face him. Dark circles rimmed his eyes. The man looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

“Sit.” Clark pointed.

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