“She doesn’t know that. Now, let’s get inside—Pic said it was important. Better hear what he has to say for himself.”
• • •
“Got a call from Hallies Falls,” Picnic said, looking around the table. “Not good news. Gage got attacked earlier today. The details are fuzzy, but his old lady found him on her living room floor half dead—all cut up. He’s in emergency surgery right now.”
“Was it club-related?” Ruger asked.
“Cord thinks so,” Bolt said, sharing a look with Picnic. “They took his colors. Someone wants to start a war.”
The words hung heavy over the table. I didn’t know about everyone else, but I was running through a mental list of potential suspects and coming up short. Who was strong enough to challenge us right now?
“You think it’s the cartel?” Horse asked.
“Probably,” Pic said. “Things may be heating up again north of the border. I think we should head over and check things out for ourselves. Rance is on his way, too. He’s been hearing rumors on his end, so odds are good it’s connected with that shit going down in Vancouver. Thoughts?”
“I’m with you,” said Ruger. “We could ride over, pay Gage our respects, and do some poking around along the way. They’re still a small chapter—might help them sleep a little better tonight, knowing they’ve got backup.”
“Anyone disagree?” Pic asked. Nothing. “Okay, then. Duck can stay behind. We’ll want a couple more bodies here just to cover our asses, too.”
“I need to stay,” I announced. “Izzy’s having her tonsils out tomorrow. Hopefully it won’t be a big deal, but they’ve got to put her under. Promised her I’d be there when she wakes up.”
I waited for someone to protest, give me shit about bailing on the run.
“Understood,” Pic said. “We’ll leave the prospects with you. They can stay here at the Armory, make sure nobody tries to fuck with us on this front. I’ll want to roll out in an hour—if you need to run home and grab some shit, now’s the time. Assume things could get ugly, so we ride fully armed. Talk to Ruger if you need an extra weapon or more ammo.”
He gave the table a sharp rap with the gavel, then stood up. I followed him out, catching his arm.
“Sorry about the run.”
“No, it’s better to have you here,” he replied. “Don’t need a brother on the road with us who isn’t focused, anyway. And it’s not good enough to leave the prospects—I’m more worried about Duck than anything else. I told him not to come out for church, but he still showed up. He’s pushing himself already, hates to show any kind of weakness. The prospects and Deanna don’t stand a chance of keeping him in line.”
“Christ, and you think I do?” I asked, biting back a laugh. “Duck does what he wants. Always has.”
“Yeah, and in two weeks he can again,” Pic replied. “But the doc said if he doesn’t take it easy, he could blow the artery in his groin right out—the one they shoved the catheter through. Once you start bleeding in a place like that, you don’t stop until you’re dead. Mel worked too hard saving his nasty ass for us to lose him over something stupid.”
“Right, and what am I gonna do to stop him?” I said, shaking my head. “The bastard killed more guys in ’Nam than’s in this whole club. He’s not gonna listen to me.”
Pic snorted.
“He killed more guys in ’Nam every time he tells the story,” he replied. “I guess if he gives you enough shit, you can have Mel drug his ass. Or tie him down—I dunno. Just keep an eye on him, okay?”
“You’re sticking me with an impossible job,” I realized slowly. Picnic cocked a brow. “All you guys gotta do is figure out who’s attacking the club and stop them. I have to control Duck.”
“Note that I didn’t volunteer to stay in Coeur d’Alene,” he said smugly. “Good luck.”
“Painter, get your ass out here!” Duck shouted from the bar. “Let’s go talk to the prospects—make sure they understand what’s expected of them.”
“Did you plan for me to stay here?” I asked with a sudden flash of insight. “Because of Mel?”
Pic shrugged. “That’s for me to know. Now you heard the man—get your ass out there. Duck’s waiting.”
Then Pic offered me a cheery salute. I flipped him off in response, because fuck him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MELANIE
“You want to watch TV?” I asked Izzy, snuggling down with her in my bed. Our bed—mine and Painter’s. It still felt really weird, even after more than a month of us all living together.
“Yes,” Izzy said, her voice small. The surgery had gone well, and now she was slurping down a blue Popsicle like her life depended on it. She’d already had two, but children are lawyers, and she’d taken the “unlimited” clause seriously. At some point I’d have to cut her off—didn’t want to risk an upset stomach. Reaching for the remote, I flipped on the small TV sitting on top of my dresser. Izzy sighed in pleasure, and I kissed her forehead.
“Look who came to see you,” Painter said from the door. Behind him was Sherri, carrying another box of Popsicles. London had brought some by earlier, and of course Painter had bought about a thousand of them, too.