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I understand why he needs clarification. A club beatdown is a harsh punishment, and it’s one that is rarely used. I’ve heard it was done once before in London, but that’s the only time I know of.
“Because it’s needed.”
“You’d put yourself through that?” Blackjack leans forward on the table, interlacing his fingers. “You want to stand there while every single member of this club takes a swing at you?”
I don’t relish the thought of the pain, but I don’t see what else can be done to show I’m serious about fixing things. It’s designed to make a man think twice about stepping out of line again. Every patched member gets one hit, and those hits are not fucking pulled. They’re meant to hurt. The only upside is once it’s done, all ill feelings are meant to be buried. It won’t fix everything, but I’m hopeful it will go some way to repairing the damage I’ve caused.
“Yeah,” I say, “I would.”
“Why?” Howler repeats.
“Skye is terrified of me. Rage can’t look at me without wanting to wrap his hands around my neck. The other old ladies are wary, and my club brothers think I’m a dangerous liability. What the fuck place do I have here if I can’t fix things?”
This club is my life, and when I came out of my incensed anger, I realised how much I need it. The thought of losing my wife and my club is almost too much to bear, but that choice might not be mine.
Howler glances at Blackjack, who just shifts his shoulders.
“You’re sure you want to do this?”
I nod at Prez. “I want to show I’m serious about regaining my brothers’ trust.”
Blackjack blows out a breath, his brows raising. “I think you’re crazy.”
“So do I,” Howler adds, “but if you want to do it, I’m not gonna stop you.”
“I do,” I say.
“Okay. I’ll set it up.”
Blackjack leans forward, his arms resting on the table. “I know you feel you need to bleed to make this shit right, but don’t bleed to death trying to show how fuckin’ sorry you are.”
His words remind me of the ones Heidi delivered to me earlier, but hers had been soft, filled with a mix of anger toward the club for continuing to punish me and concern that I’m allowing them to.
Is this what I’m doing?
Am I bleeding to death on the sacrificial altar? Heidi will lose her shit if she finds out I’m doing this, but I know in my soul this is the right choice.
“I’m not,” I say finally.
Howler stares at me for a beat before he lifts his chin toward the door. “Get going.”
I stand, pushing my chair back. I shouldn’t say anything. I don’t have the right to ask anything of my club, but I do it anyway, because I have to know if I stop killing, stop seeking revenge, that my wife’s murder will be handled.
“Just promise me…” I break off, grimacing. “Just promise me you’ll make those fuckers pay for killing my wife, Howler.”
Prez runs his finger over his bottom lip as he stares at me. That unmoveable, unreadable expression is again in place, and I fucking hate it.
“I promise you,” he says finally. “It might not happen how you want it to or as fast as you want it to, but I will burn every single member of that shitty fucking gang to ashes, Trick. For you, for Hawk, for Wren, for Rage, and for Skye. I won’t leave a single Pioneer breathing.”
It’s a threat to continue a war that we didn’t start. It’s a promise to get justice for every single person affected by their fucking antics.
And for now, it’s enough.
“Thanks,” I rasp, suddenly choked by emotion. My club shouldn’t have my back with this, but I’m grateful they do.
“I would’ve done that from the start, Trick,” he says. It’s not the first time he’s broken my balls for failing to trust him to handle this, but for some reason, this one cuts the deepest.
“I know,” I say, “but she was my wife.”
