Page 14 of King

My grandmother once told me that my temper would get the best of me. I never believed her. If she wanted to talk about tempers, all she needed to do was look in the damn mirror. But considering my current position, I could see where she may have been right.

After my little tantrum, that broke not one but three bones in my hand, I was now sitting in an office surround by seven exceptionally large, very tall, very intimidating men. Of course, their ringleader King was the only one truly paying attention to me.

The others were in varying degrees of boredom.

I didn’t know what these blowhards were playing at, but they actually believed that King was the President of the Sons of Hell. I met the bastard and King wasn’t him. No matter how many times they kept insisting King was the head honcho, the man in charge, the big kahuna, I just kept shaking my head.

I had been face to face with the real President of the Sons of Hell. He was nothing like King. The real president was a sinister, vile, completely unreasonable tyrant. The real president didn’t give a shit about anyone and he sure as hell didn’t care about my life. He made that perfectly clear before he threatened to slit my throat if I didn’t do exactly what he wanted me to do. These men, especially King, would shit their pants if the real president of the Sons of Hell showed up.

That much I knew for sure.

To make matters worse, my one and only true friend, the man I looked up to and admired, sent this fucktard imposter a letter asking him to help protect me.

If Dog weren’t already dead, I would kill him myself.

“Venom, we are the Sons of Hell,” the young cute one named Pyro said, for like the millionth time. I’d met Pyro before when he came into my shop for a touch up. Thought he was a standup guy. Funny too. Didn’t know he was also delusional. “I swear it. Our dad Steel was the President until he died several years ago, and King took over. We only have one chapter. This one. Why would we lie about that?”

I yawned, shrugging my shoulders. “To get me to talk.”

“Oh cupcake, you’re gonna talk,” King seethed.

I wanted to laugh. Men like King and his cronies were a dime a dozen. They enjoyed intimidating women who they believed were susceptible to their charms. Problem with that was that I was on to them. They played a good game and for a short hot minute they almost had me fooled, but there was no fucking way King was the President of shit. Maybe the President of the town’s boys’ club, but not the Sons of Hell.

King was too emotional. He let his anger rule.

The real President was ingenious, methodical and wouldn’t think twice about snapping my neck. I saw him kill indiscriminately, without remorse. King would probably cry like a fucking baby if he ever killed anyone. In fact, I would go as far to say that King wouldn’t hurt a fucking fly. King was nothing more than an overgrown teddy bear.

The man probably even cried when they killedBambi.

I’ve been around biker clubs my whole life. I knew what they were like and King and his merry band of misfits just were not fitting the bill. Don’t get me wrong. They had the look down pat, but that’s where the similarities ended. If anything, they looked more like a bunch of men on a weekend getaway from their wives.

“Look boys,” I said, tired of this crap. “This has been fun. You almost had me fooled, but I’m tired now. Can we suspend this for another day? I have clients showing up in a few hours and I really need to call them back to reschedule. Thanks to that idiot, my hand is useless now.”

“I didn’t break shit. You did that all on your own,” King replied angrily. “Keep talking smack and I will break my hand over your ass.”

“You and what army twinkle toes?” I snarked. “Face it. If you hadn’t kidnapped me out of my home, this never would have happened. Therefore, you are at fault. In fact, I may sue for damages.”

“Cupcake, you can sue me all you want. Just make sure you get the name right. I’m King, President of the Sons of Hell.”

“Sure,” I grinned, adding, “And shall I add the President of the United States to that, too?”

Before King could come up with some witty retort, the cute one slapped his hand down on King’s shoulder, stopping him. “Venom, you said earlier that you met the President of the Sons of Hell. What state were you in?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“It’s just a state. I’m not asking for a city or street address. Just the state.”

Sighing, I folded my arms over my chest. I knew I wasn’t getting out of here without giving them something. It was just a fucking state. What could it hurt? “California.”

“If you are so scared of this man, why would you stay in California after Dog died?”

“I didn’t. I moved, moron,” I replied, rolling my eyes. It figured. The cute ones were never that bright. Apparently, they thought they could rely on their looks. Too bad he wasn’t my type. Besides, he didn’t need to know anything more. I was under no obligation to tell them shit. My reason for leaving was my own.

King narrowed his eyes, shaking his head. The man seriously needed an anger management class, or at the very least, to take a chill pill. I wasn’t going to give them anything that could get me killed. I wasn’t stupid. I knew what talking would get me. My head was right where I wanted it to be. Solidly on my shoulders.

They just needed to accept it and move on.

“Pyro, call everyone we know in California, then call the Soulless Sinners. Ask Montana if he’s ever heard of anyone called Czar. If someone is posing as me, he would know. Priest, go get Scribe and tell him I want to speak with him. And you,” he said, looking directly at me. “We need to have a personal conversation. Clear the room.”

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