to help him heal, find the right way to aim his life, and she would have been with him on that ride.
He didn’t give her the shot.
And he hadn’t listened.
Instead, The Boy Who Was No Good handed her over to his club, but he’d been the first to land his blows.
It was no defense, it was stung pride, which was no defense at all, but he’d thought she was in love with another man.
He’d found he was right about that, just wrong about which man.
He’d also found it was him who drove her to that man.
But bottom line, the shit he pulled, the pain he’d landed on her was not right.
Christ, he hadn’t slept in months.
Christ, he could not get the taste of her fear when he’d taken her to them out of his mouth, the sight of his brothers going at her, the feel of his hand wrapped around her neck, the look on her face when she saw the monster in him.
If he kept being a pussy, he could blame that monster on his mother.
If he kept being an asshole, he could blame that monster on his club.
If he kept being a dickhead, he could blame his grief and the knowledge he felt down to his soul that it should have been him who died young, who was wiped from this earth and it wouldn’t be a loss, and not his brother, who was a loss, for bringing out that monster.
But it was him who let that monster free.
So that was all on him.
“Throttle?” Web called.
Wind, Ride, Fire, Free.
Chaos’s motto.
“We gotta have some kind of mission,” he grunted. “We set what we’re about, a name’ll fall outta that.”
“He’s right,” Rainman said.
“Do we need a kinda . . . committee to come up with a mission statement?” Griller asked.
He’d said mission.
Not mission statement.
They weren’t a bank, for fuck’s sake.
Jesus, these guys were lame.
“Throttle, me, Spartan, Eightball, Muzzle on that committee,” Web declared. “Everyone’s got ’til Friday to hand in their ideas.”
Hand in their ideas.
Like it was homework.
Totally lame.
Fuck, if they didn’t know what they were about already, no committee was gonna lay that out for them.
And they didn’t know what they were about.
They had no clue.
With these assholes, this was gonna take a year. They’d bicker about it, end up with some loser name they thought was badass and some statement they thought kicked ass, but didn’t. It’d say nothing, mean less, and they’d all be just as lost as they were when they found the club.
Wind, Ride, Fire, Free.
What did that say?
Everything.
We like to ride.
We like to raise hell.
We are who we are and no one can say dick about it.
We do what we do and no one can stop us.
We stand strong, together, and let no one fuck with us.
Four words.
Back those words up with action, and they said everything.
“We done?” Beck asked.
“Got something to do?” Muzzle asked back.
“Someone,” Pacino snickered.
Beck cut Pacino a look.
Pacino looked away.
Little weasel hadn’t been laid probably in years. Even a shitfaced biker groupie steered clear of that pencil dick.
’Cause the man had a pencil dick and that was known wide (not to mention, he actually looked like a weasel).
He probably laid in bed jacking off to what he made up about Beck getting himself some.
That acid churned deeper in his stomach.
“We’re done, Throttle,” Web said. “Meet on Saturday to discuss the statement?”
Discuss the statement.
He’d wear a suit.
Fuck.
“Yeah,” he grunted.
Web planted his stupid fucking gavel in the table and announced, “Adjourned.”
Beck pushed back, and he was about to get up before his eyes fell on Digger.
Digger was staring at the table like a naked picture of a woman was etched in it.
An ugly one.
Seeing that guy, the way he was and had been for months, Beck’s gut screamed at him.
Something was not right with the man, and it wasn’t about them getting busted doing that transport for Valenzuela. Or getting busted for landing that beatdown on Rosalie. Or half their guys serving time or making deals or court-ordered not to associate with members of Bounty, or whoever the fuck they were.
The guy was a skeeve.
Live and let live. Trying to find his way clear of the expectations of his mother (or her lack of them), that was what Beck had been looking for when he’d searched for what he needed and ended up screwing that pooch and finding Bounty. So that guy, deep into his fifties, drooling over any biker bunny who looked underage, Beck should just let it go.