Hellbent (Four Horsemen MC Book 5) (17 page)

"Shut the fuck up," Shep laughed. "Trust me, you won't be thanking me soon. The underlying point of me not wanting this job, is because I'm
not
stupid. You're fucking up shit creek, bro."

"So much for the 'I got your back'?" Axel grinned, stepping away to look at him, while the chatter and cursing rose around the room.

"Just fucking with you." Shep soft-punched his shoulder. He knew his eyes weren't nearly as calm as his demeanor, but he was trying, dammit.

"I notice you didn't hand the gavel over until after Cap's decisions were made." Axel's poker face was legendary. He didn't show a damn thing.

"You know, cooler heads and all that shit." Shep smiled tightly.

"Oh, like you and Beauregard? I thought you were going to gut him on the table. Don't get me wrong, I was right fucking there with you—"

"That bastard—" Shep gritted his teeth. "Will get what's coming to him."

"Easy now. Cooler heads, right?"

"Right." Shep forced his hands to relax. "One asshole at a time."

Axel nodded. "Ok. What do we do next?"

"We'll do an announcement thing at the Rally." Shep rubbed the back of his neck. "And until then we figure out how the fuck we're going to take Beauregard out. I mean, priority one—Fuck Beauregard."

There was a hearty rumble of agreement.

Axel banged his gavel on the table. "Let's do this."

Axel stood and went to get Captain and Eddie himself. As they sat at the foot of the table, Shep thought about how it felt to see Captain at the other end, apologizing to his brothers for his sins. About the weight of the gavel in his palm and how so much responsibility must have pressed down on Cap for years.

Axel sat down and leaned back in his chair. “I was just voted in as president.”

“Congratulations,” Captain whispered.

Axel's throat worked.

“And Captain?” Eddie asked her son, face frozen.

“Is still a member.” Axel stared at Captain. “We decided busting your rank was enough of a punishment for your actions. We still feel you should have tried everything before approaching the Feds. But, we can’t be sorry for how the club changed. We’re better, stronger than we were, thanks to you. For that, we owe you a debt.”

Shep took a steadying breath. Axel could do this. They'd get through this somehow. He rounded the table and cut Cap's bonds with his pocket knife. Captain sank back in the chair as if his vertebrae had melted.

What would it be like to have a burden you'd been shouldering alone for that long off your shoulders? Shep closed his eyes as Cap started rubbing his wrists, longing for the release the older man must be feeling.

“Does anybody else have any long-hidden secrets to reveal? Now is the time.” Axel’s eyes widened. “No more fuckin’ lying to each other, got it? Be man enough to come us when you fuck up, or you got somethin’ that needs hiding. Don’t hide a goddamn things from us.”

Shep’s stomach dry heaved, but he didn’t say one goddamn word.

“I call this meeting to an end.” Axel's smack of the gavel against the table held and oddly final tone.

Shep watched Eddie and Captain walk out, arms around each other. Seeing the two of them finally getting to be together after burying their feelings and denying their attraction for so long filled him with an odd sort of wistfulness he didn't have the emotional capacity to examine right the fuck now.

He walked outside, leaving the brothers to crowd around Axel and lit a smoke. Six minutes. He just needed six minutes of peace now after the clusterfuck that had just occurred.  

Then he'd call Pretty Boy and explain to him why he hadn't been able to bring up his plan today. And there was no way they were going to get their shit together to make the prize fight happen during the rally.

Today was just fucking awesome.

Chapter Sixteen

No throwing fireworks into the firepits at Seventh Circle.

No one wants a repeat of 4th of July.

~Four Horsemen Prospect Handbook

* * *

Pretty Boy's 2005 Harley-Davidson FLSTN Softail Deluxe purred into the parking lot of Seventh Circle Motors. The power of the engine beneath him soothed him, but his stomach remained agitated. All Shep's text had said was '
Seventh Circle. Now.'

He parked on the sparse grass next to the gravel parking lot. Rows of bikes surrounded the large warehouse and attached office of the sprawling garage. There were brothers every-fuckin’-where, stumbling, double fisting beer bottles and cursing. Most of them seemed to be herding towards the back, where he caught the whiff of kerosene, charcoal and woodsmoke. Red and orange light flickered over the roof of the garage hinting at fires in the back.

Looks like he'd gotten all worked up over nothing. The emergency was an impromptu rager. He shrugged. There were certainly worst ways to recover from your injuries.

He heard Crash and Dash's bikes coming down the road, Fetch hot on their heels. He tried to ignore the warmth that spread through his chest as they parked and automatically circled up with him.

"What the fuck is going on?" Fetch asked.

Crash's eyes widened. "This ain’t Revelation, is it?”

"No, something must have gone down at church." Pretty Boy narrowed his eyes. "I don't know how to explain it, but this isn't an entirely … happy … party? Everybody looks sad or pissed."

"Maybe the happy part's in the back." Dash nodded his head towards the flickering light. "Should we roll and find out?"

Pretty Boy nodded. They cut through the warehouse, winding around cars in various states of repair. Random brothers stood around, sucking down beers and explaining the
best way
to fix particular vehicles. Pretty Boy led the prospects along the red tool cabinets lining the wall to the back exit.  

Axel owned the lot behind the garage, too and it was vast graveyard of pickup trucks and Crown Vics in varying stages of decay. Once they'd outgrown their utility for spare parts, Axel converted many of them into biker-style outdoor furniture, the perfect atmosphere for the raucous crew of bikers gathered there.

Car-frame benches and fire pits were scattered across the grass Pretty Boy had cut last week. In the center, the bumper of an old Ford housed a vast charcoal grill, sizzling with burgers. Axel manned the grill, a steel spatula in one hand and a frosty bottle in the other. As they watched, Jagger strolled up to Axel and clapped him on the back, his inebriated congratulations drifting towards them.

Fetch twisted around, trying to take in the whole scene. "What in the name of Satan's sweaty ass-crack is going on here?"

"Where's Shep?" Crash demanded. "I have questions!"

They spent a good five minutes turning in circles and twisting in awkward positions to see around the cars, trees and roaming bikers.

"There." Pretty Boy pointed to an old Chevy pickup in the back. A barrel trashcan housed a flickering fire. He was the only one alone. Pretty Boy could fix that.

They headed over, dodging far too many obstacles for anything that wasn't actually an
obstacle course.

"Hey, do we still have to say the thing if we approach him?" Crash asked, voice breathy as they jogged.

"Not unless it’s a formal meeting," Pretty Boy tossed over his shoulder.

The slow rate with which Shep raised his head told Pretty Boy that the VP was long past three sheets to the wind.

“Took you all long enough,” he drawled. The strength of his accent indicated he was at least a liter in.

Crash stared at him, turned around and gestured wildly at what was going on around them, then looked back at Shep, hands outstretched. "What kind of fuckery is this?"

"Can't tell you all of it yet. But Axel's President now."

The. Fuck.

Pretty Boy rocked back on his heels. "What the hell happened? Is Captain okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. He's fine." Shep waved his hand dismissively. "He and Eddie are heading out of town for a while. But he's not President. And shit got real serious today."

"Fuck me sideways," Dash said.

"Pretty much." Shep nodded. "Why don't you boys go pay your respects?"

They groaned. The prospect workload was exhausting enough. Did they have to add a shit ton of extra trotting around, too?

"You couldn’t have texted us to pay our respects to Axel before we hoofed it all the way over here?" Fetch sighed.

“Wanted to tell you in person.”

“Thanks,” Dash said, rolling his eyes.

Shep crossed his arms, ducking his head. "He has the food."

"And we're gone!" Crash grinned and took off.

"Grab me something, I'll be up in a minute," Pretty Boy yelled. Fetch flashed him a thumbs up as he and Dash headed after Crash. He lit a cigarette and hopped up on the tailgate, careful to keep plenty of distance between him and Shep. "So, you alright?"

"It’s been one helluva day." Shep chuckled and took another long drink. "Still trying to wrap my head around it."

Pretty Boy sighed. "I take it his didn't mean good news for my vote, huh?"

Shep shifted from side to side, searching for his own smokes. Once he had one lit, he exhaled as he said, "I didn't bring it up."

"You didn't …" Pretty Boy leaned back, looking away. Alright, obviously some shit went down and he got that. He had already started to think a way around it if the club said no. He had actually been wishing he hadn't pushed Shep to ask—easier to ask forgiveness than permission, right?

So, Shep not bringing it up had done him a favor.

But … really? After last night and this morning and all that shit they'd talked about, after he told Shep how important this was to him, to the
kid
, Shep didn't even ask?

"Look man, I know." Shep rubbed the bridge of his nose. "But you don't know half of what the fuck happened up in there today. We had a goddamn change of command, for Chrissake. And it wouldn't have passed. It was pointless to ask, when maybe once things settle …"

"Shep … this plan has a limited time window. I explained that. Even if I could stomach waiting that long, that prizefight ploy's only going to work around the rally." He shook himself. Dammit, he shouldn't be so upset by this. He should be feeling pissed off, not betrayed.

"I'm sorry. But it didn't happen. And getting fuckin’ pissy with me ain't going to change shit," Shep said, voice rough.

"Right." Pretty Boy took a slow breath, fingers tensing. Coppery agitation rimmed his mouth and he bit it back. "Forget I said anything. I'll handle it."

"I'll think of something, ok—"

"Don't worry about it. You got a lot of shit on your plate." He stood and started backing away. "I'm gonna go see Axel. Pay my respects. Kiss his ring. Whatnot."

"Noah—" Shep called.

Go fuck yourself
was all over the bitchface he flashed over his shoulder as he walked away.

Chapter Seventeen

If you get into a bar fight—win.

~Four Horsemen Prospect Handbook

* * * * *

"Well fuck me." Crash scratched the nine ball for the second time in the game and Pretty Boy had to hide his laugh. His pool hustling game was on point tonight.

They were hunkered down in a hole-in-the-wall bar somewhere in the no-man’s land between Horseman and Raptor territory. Crash had been splendidly and loudly losing at pool for about two hours now. Dash shook his head like there was no saving Crash, and went to get another pitcher of beer from the cracked bar.

"You can still bring it back! C'mon!" Pretty Boy could feel Shep's gaze boring into his back in the dimly lit, smoky room. The sounds of glasses tinkling, classic rock and half drunk, rough looking men laughing did little to drown out his suspicion.

Manson, the Raptor’s president, and his shit stain of a little brother had showed up about half an hour into their latest game. Shep had straightened, eyes straying from Pretty Boy only long enough for Shep and Manson to exchange grudging nods and half irritated grunts.

Crash finally sank a ball, selling his act with a poorly concealed exhale of relief and grateful nod to the ceiling.

"You got this man," Pretty Boy said. By his assessment, Crash's opponent was ripe for the picking, if they just wanted to fleece him for some extra cash. But lucky for him, today’s menu had bigger fish to fry than this poor schmuck.

Pretty Boy had spent the rest of last night's party for Axel's—or for Cap's—or whatever, hanging out with Lexi, Dani, Jagger and Voo. His prospect brothers just kept pestering him about what the hell had crawled up Shep's ass and he didn't have the patience to deal with it.

Since then, Shep had watched him like a hawk at the house, and refused to let him ride, despite his impromptu summons to the party. Pretty Boy had moved to the guest room, and they'd stocked his drawers with the bare essentials. But he had more than one full set of clothes and even a couple pairs of shoes, so he'd been in worse shape before.

It had been a full week before Shep let him go out with the other prospects, instead making him do grunt work like double checking balanced books and reviewing inventory lists and invite responses. It fucking blew.

So, when he'd finally convinced Shep to let them all grab some pizza and beers at the pool hall, Pretty Boy knew this was his only chance to execute his plan. His prospect brothers were on board, but now they were going to have to pull this off with the VP in the same room. Not part of the original plan.

From what he heard on the street, with tensions so high, the Raptor’s president wasn’t letting his baby brother out of his sight these days. So, Pretty Boy had asked around about Manson’s brother—a man he had dubbed Asshat rather than bother remember his name—until he tracked down an ex-fling. Asshat's old flame had agreed to text him she wanted to hook up with him at the pool hall and no show, in exchange for a fat dime bag. And the amount of maneuvering it had taken to set all that up under Shep's nose had been excruciating.

Pretty Boy let his gaze wander to Shep, meeting his eyes and trying to flash an innocent,
oh shit—are there Raptors here? I had no idea—
smile.