Page 43 of Choices

No reason it can never happen.

I take my place at the table for church, my thumb stroking over my name etched into the wooden surface bordered by the names of my brothers, those that are here and those that came before—each one contributing to this sacred space, each name engraved into it like an ancient scripture. There’s nothing else in the room. Four white walls, all blank except behind the president’s seat where our club insignia is painted with pride on the stretched canvas.

Monster slides a bottle of whiskey across the table toward me then chucks back a full glass, hissing from the burn and shaking his head with his tongue out like an excited dog. I pour two fingers’ worth and pass it down the line to Green. The overgrown bush on Monster’s face makes it hard to tell if he’s smiling or smirking.

“What?” I snatch up the glass and take a swig, the amber warmth heating my tongue.

“Pussy,” he mocks, nodding his head to Green, who fills his glass to the brim and downs it.

Still holding my glass, I point to him then Green. “That’s savagery, you classless fucks.” The bottles reserved for church meetings are the expensive shit you’re supposed to savor. They’re downing it like tequila shots at a nightclub.

Pulling out my blade from my ankle strap, I hold it up to Monster and jerk my chin to his hand fisted on the tabletop. “Let’s see who the pussy is.”

Those crazy black orbs of his swirl with excitement. Slamming his hand down on the table, he spreads his fingers and caresses his beard with the other hand.

I slowly bring down the blade, carrying it back and forth, barely touching the slivers of wood displayed between each finger. The fucker starts laughing, and I pick up my pace, the soft thud a rhythmic tune as the blade hits the wood.Tap—tap—tap—tap—tap. We have everyone’s rapt attention before Green knocks over the bottle of whiskey, and I nick Monster’s skin from the distraction. The hard bastard doesn’t even flinch asblood leaks from the slice on his index finger, and the brothers roar with laughter.

“Oops.” I retreat, slipping my blade back into its sheath. “My bad.”

“Hence your fucking name.” Monster makes a show of licking between his fingers.Asshole.

The smack around Green’s head from Grease draws a laugh from Dodger sitting beside him.

“The number of times you slap him, the dumb fuck is going to end up brain damaged.”

“End up brain damaged?” Grease snorts, leaning on the table, his massive arms straining his t-shirt. “He was born brain damaged.”

“You’re emotionally damaged,” Green retorts.

The door slams shut at Pres and Callan’s arrival, signaling church is starting.

Taking his seat, Pres grips the gavel and hits the table.

“First order of business,” Pres announces, the vein in his neck bulging. “Jennings missed a second payment and tried to go directly to the Russians to undercut us for the weapons shipment due next week.” All playful banter flees the room, and tension fills the air.

Jennings is a fucking moron. After his first missed payment, Pres gave him leniency, and what does he do? He goes behind our backs. How dare that prick presume weakness from us. We rarely give second chances and sure as hell never forget those who take advantage of the first one. Jennings will pay for disrespecting the Kings.

“What’s the play?” Dodger asks.

“We can’t let him get away with the disrespect, and the Russians will be watching to see how we handle our business.” Callan nods to Pres, who mirrors him.

“Jennings is going to ground,” Pres declares, looking to Grease. “Then we raid his warehouse and take our money in merchandise.”

Every brother nods in agreement.

“I’ll find him,” Monster announces.

“No. Dodger, I want you on this. I want the cunt kept alive until you hear from me.”

“Okay.” Dodger shrugs, and Monster frowns at him.

“I can control myself,” Monster defends under his breath, and he can, but Pres must not want pain inflicted right away.

The gavel smacks the table once more, and Pres looks to Green, a smile curving his lips. “It’s already been mentioned, but it’s time to take a vote.” Callan opens a folder and pulls out a piece of paper with an image of Green’s brother’s face taken like a mugshot and “Prospect Tim One” written on it. Pushing it to the center of the table, Callan unsheathes his blade and stabs it through the paper, pinning it to the table and casting his vote.

One for.

This is it.

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