Page 53 of Ridin’ Dirty

I turned at the rumble of an approaching bike and recognized Nomad with his cowboy hat right away. No sooner had he parked and cut his engine than he was off his hog and headed for our destination.

“What are we waitin’ for?” he called over his shoulder.

None of the guys bothered to answer, merely falling in stride with him instead. Like Cobra said earlier, nobody stopped me as I hurried after them. It was when we began our ascent up the short set of stairs that we met resistance.

The Copper King who was leaning against the railing straightened and blocked both Nomad and Nighthawk from the door. The other King did his part to block Spurs and Cobra, and the knot in my stomach twisted tighter.

“State your business.”

“You know why we’re here. Don’t waste my time,” Nighthawk replied.

“Don’t waste ours. You’re a man short,” spoke the other.

“Seems there’s been a misunderstandin’,” drawled Cobra conversationally. “You lost one of yours, which sounds like a you problem. As for ours, we’re not leavin’ here without him.”

“Patch on your kutte tells me you’re no one I need to be talkin’ to. Patch on mine should tell you I’m conversin’ with you out of courtesy.” Nighthawk paused long enough to lean forward before he finished, “I’m just about out of words. Move out of our way.”

The two Kings hesitated for a beat. After a silent exchange, they cleared a path to the door. I was somewhat relieved for as long as it took us to cross the threshold into the clubhouse. I took two steps inside, and my breath caught. The place had hardly changed.

Unlike the Stallions’ lair, this one was shaped more like a den. There were steps a few paces away from the door which descended into the main room, the area cluttered with mismatched furniture, a bar, and a couple pool tables. On the far side of the room was an exposed set of stairs that led up to an open loft space. I didn’t need to see up there to remember what it looked like. My memories were clear enough I could practically smell the scent of weed permeating the place.

There was a huge Copper King flag that hung suspended from the middle of the tall ceiling, the black fabric with the coiled copper snake in the center an imposing message—or maybe just a show of pride, depending on who looked at it.

But it wasn’t the familiarity of the space and the memories it brought back that left me aghast.

It wasn’t the crowd of men who stood around the center of the room, none of whom even noticed our entrance.

It wasn’t even my subconscious recognition of the man with the bloodied fists, his back to us as his shoulders rose and fell with his labored breaths.

In an instant, what seized my lungs and stopped my heart was the sight of Pistol, tied to a chair, completely and utterly defenseless.

“What the fuck?” Nomad all but snarled.

The sound of his words wasn’t loud enough to be heard over the music and the next round of punches delivered. Ribs. Gut. Jaw. Blow after blow, each eliciting a noise more sickening than the last.

Both Spurs and Nomad were the first to make a move. Seemingly acting with one accord, Cobra and Nighthawk held each of them back while they waited for the beating to stop.

I didn’t know where to settle my gaze, my mouth hanging open as I looked between the Stallions, then at Pistol, then back at the Stallions.

They weren’t doing anything!

“You talk, we stop,” said one of the Kings.

My focus snapped in his direction, but only for a second.

“He’s got nothin’ to fuckin’ say,” bellowed Nighthawk, finally earning everyone’s attention.

I lost track of who was talking the moment the man with the bloody fists spun to look back at us. I saw it on his face the second he realized it was me standing there. His brow twitched in a frown of confusion that was there and gone as quickly as it came, immediately replaced by a scowl of sheer and utter disapproval. The expression pierced my heart straight through.

As if this scene wasn’t shitty enough already…

Pistol spat blood at Carmy’s feet, and the sneer that curled my brother’s lip made my breath catch. Again.

I then watched as Pistol leaned back in his chair in stubborn defiance.

I wanted to yell. To scream. To protest. Anything to prevent what was coming.

Before I could utter a sound, Carmy backhanded Pistol’s face so hard, it sounded like a punch.