Page 14 of Mad Max

I don’t think I’m the one being played here, nor is the club. Not from the way I see it.

But it’s damn coincidental, and that shit usually means something.

Law bangs on the table with his fist as he stands. It’s more for support than to get our attention, I surmise, as he doesn’t seem put off that I’m the only one looking at him as he rises.

“No use sitting on our asses, wondering. We’ll ask Travis tomorrow. In the meantime, Flint, dig up what you can on the niece. She might be innocent, she might not. Either way, let’s do our own recon. Ain’t about to let shit get pulled over the club’s head just ’cause someone looks innocent. Been down that road before.”

Collectively, we look to Chains, who just growls. Ain’t a secret he got screwed, twice, by a chick no one saw as a threat. Got him his own cell too. But from what I’ve gathered since being back, his fucking past worked out for his future. At least he doesn’t seem to complain all that much while he dotes on his old lady who’s about to pop with his kid any day now. Might not know a ton of shit about babies, but I know a walking house when I see one, and Chains’ old lady is just that. Sure, she’s all glowy and shit, but she’s still the size of a fucking house in the belly area.

“I’ll get started right after I get Kitten from practice.” Flint stands next and heads for the door. We’re all invested in bringing down whatever we think we know is going on, but no one more than him. His old lady got tangled in this from the beginning, and he’s got a grudge a mile long to kill Duke, the VP of a rival club, Devils Damned.

Our clubs don’t mix, but we usually have an understanding of sorts. Either the understanding is broken, or Duke’s gone rogue from his own club’s rule. While the Devils Damned president is a fucking bastard in his own right, Psy ain’t into the skin trade. Only thing he ain’t willing to sell. He does the prostitution route, but not buying and selling off the unwilling. Guess that’s the guy’s only fucking standard, from what I can tell.

Doesn’t seem to be true for his VP, who’s been hanging out at a northern chapter of theirs in Oklahoma. Devils Damned have tried for years to get into our territory, but the Hounds of the Reaper have claimed the middle of the fucking road. We control the midway points from east to west and north to south. Our sister chapters vary, but we’ve got enough out there that we make a solid dent in territory throughout the US and a few overseas. Each club is run in their own way, but they all follow us, the mother chapter.

And we all follow when a brother seeks revenge on anyone doing harm to their old lady.

Kitten might be fine now, but she’ll always have a target on her back till this is over. Never thought I would see the day that Flint would fall for a woman, but I can’t say I blame the guy for the one he did. Of course, she fell first—got the scar to prove it.

Law waves him off. “No rush. I don’t think you’ll find much. Gut’s telling me to look elsewhere, but I’d rather know for sure. When are the Misfits putting on a new show? She’s been upping the practice lately, hasn’t she?”

“In two weeks. I hate that she wants another brother to watch her when she practices—says she wants to surprise me and all that shit. But each time she comes home in one of her outfits, I ain’t that disappointed.”

“What’s the show about this time?” Casper pipes up, as the club has taken to going to the shows each time. It’s become an unofficial club event. Each time we go, the show has never disappointed us. Sure, none of us may watch the movie that plays in the background, but we can all appreciate the hard work Kitten and her team put into doing the dances and scenes. And yeah, there are some hot-as-fuck numbers in skimpy outfits who wiggle on the stage.

“Burlesque.”

I grunt, the equivalent of a bark of laughter from me, as I follow my brothers out. Yeah, the club’s not going to have a problem going to another song and dance show at all. Just hope we can be done with some of this shit beforehand to actually enjoy it and not let our problems ruin a good night out.

Chapter 7 – Cheyanne

“S

it here. He’ll be out shortly.”

I smile at the guard, who doesn’t even look at my face after he shows me to the round table in the common room with all the other visiting families. I settle in, knowing the routine, and actually find myself smiling when I hear my uncle cursing at a guard. Who knows what set him off this time, but he always seems to go after one guard or another.

Before prison, he was reserved. Never raised his voice, never spoke without thinking. I don’t think I ever heard him utter a single bad word till he got here. And I know it’s not because he didn’t know them. Sure, he showed me a different side than he showed the world when he was home on leave from the agency. But in here, half of what he does I fully believe is just an act. He’s playing a part. The media portrayed him as a traitor, even though he’d dedicated his life to serving his country. So that’s the part he plays.

Guards and onlookers see a person who doesn’t give a shit about the law or that he’s stuck behind these walls. But those who are close, those who really know, see what he’s doing. He might be stuck in this place, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t still playing a game on the outside. And until yesterday, I thought the game was just to get information to certain people. To provide a bit of relief to the families connected to those on the inside or to the victims he went to prison for saving.

No one but me sees the surprise on his face as he comes into the room and realizes who’s come to visit him. Not sure if the guards do it with everyone or just him, but he’s never told who’s here, just that he has a visitor. When I come, it’s always the third weekend of the month. I shouldn’t be here for another week.

I wave, per my usual, and he just rolls his eyes, per his usual. He always thinks I’m too friendly, that I should put up more of a guard, but I like waving. It’s my way of opening the conversation and closing it at the end. I had that issue as a child. Never knew when the moment was over, or I left before it even began. If I wave, most people understand when I want to start or when I’m done. And if they just walk away after I wave my hello, I just wave my goodbye at their back and walk away myself. No emotions, just results.

“Someone die?” he sneers as he takes a seat. The guards are still too close for him to drop whatever act he’s portraying. I think it’s also his way of protecting me. If he shows he doesn’t care, then I’m not someone to be looked into, just a wayward niece with no family left but him.

“Yes.” He pauses, and it’s the only sign that I’ve shocked him. “People die every day, so I’m sure someone did. I don’t know any of them, but it’s the circle of life.”

He huffs as he shakes his head, and I find myself tilting mine. I said something that wasn’t right. He never laughs, but he does this when I mess up. “Semantics, Boo.”

Ah, got it. I smile instead of feeling embarrassed that I got his question wrong. The fact that he called me Boo is a semantic in itself and lets me know we can talk freely. He only refers to me that way once it’s clear.

I take a moment to notice the others in the room. No beast standing guard like those few times I came to visit last year. Not even the usual guards, but I think that’s my fault. I came on a different day, so nothing could be planned. Despite what Jimmy says, the men in here respect him and actually want to protect him in their own way. That’s why certain guards usually bring him to our chats and why the usual inmates who get visitors seem to have roaming eyes looking for threats, not just visiting.

But not today. Today, everyone is for themselves. I see, as well as feel, a few glances my way. Jimmy might have given me all clear, but he isn’t as relaxed as he usually is. There’s no smile—not that he smiles often, but there’s definitely more of a sneer on his lip than not. I need to be careful with what I say in here, more so than usual. I have no idea if the person sitting beside us can hear and is part of what I discovered or not.

“I got a letter yesterday,” I start.

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