Page 19 of Property of Rattler

“You better not be fuckin’ with me, Rat. I’ve a hangover from hell.” He sighs heavily.

“Not fuckin’ with you, Prez. Learned something that might fall back on the club.”

He rolls his eyes to the heavens and back down. “Tell me you’ve not put your dick in the wrong hole.”

“I’ve kept my dick in my pants.” I suppose this is payback for me being seen as the joker in the club. “Prez, this is something we need to get on top of.”

He sighs loudly, then raises his voice. “Temp? Saint?” When he gets their attention, he adds, “My office now.” He looksaround, then shouts, “Star? Make me a breakfast plate and bring it to my office. And coffee.” Glancing at me and narrowing his eyes, he adds, “Lots of fuckin’ coffee.”

When he spins on his feet, I follow him out.

Normally, I try to avoid Prez’s office. Most of the times I’ve been inside have been to have him reaming me a new one. Apparently, he doesn’t like it when I wind people up. I don’t understand why everyone takes themselves so fucking seriously.

Prez enters first and takes his seat behind his desk. There are two chairs in front. Tempest takes one, I take the other. Then Saint, the last in, slaps his hand on my shoulder, and glares at me pointedly.

“Up,” he snarls.

What the fuck? It’s me who’s called this meeting. Do I have to stand at the back like a naughty schoolboy? It appears that I do. With an audible growl, I begrudgingly get to my feet. I stand awkwardly, rolling my shoulders as the stiffness from last night’s uncomfortable sleeping position catches up with me, then fold my arms.

“Start fuckin’ speaking,” Prez demands.

Not wasting time, I get straight into it. “Amethyst fuckin’ Stone,” I start. “She’s trouble…” As the three top officers give me their attention, I go back to where it all began, going from the moment I was summoned to Royals, and continuing with what I found when I arrived. When I get to the part about being locked in, they all start to laugh.

I wait for the mirth to die down, then add, “It’s a strange fuckin’ room. My phone was eighty percent charged, yet I had no reception. I was ready to punch a hole through the drywall in order to get out. I couldn’t stand the thought of being in there with that bitch all night.”

Tempest grins. “Thought you’d have made the best of the opportunity.” He makes a crude gesture.

My eyes widen. “You met Ames?”

He shakes his head.

“Anyway…” I choose to ignore the distraction. “The walls of that storage closet were steel. It must have been some sort of panic room at one time.”

“Or a walk-in safe?” Saint suggests.

I shrug. “Could be.”

Prez narrows his eyes. “You didn’t barge your way in here to tell me about a fuckin’ safe room. Get the fuck on with it, Rat.”

I do, as he suggests, get the fuck on with it. When I get to the part about the club’s unwelcome visitors, Bullseye grows serious and takes pity on me. “Go get a fuckin’ chair, Rat.”

I leave to get said item, and while I do, Star appears carrying a tray. On it is a plate full of every breakfast item imaginable, silverware, a pot of coffee, and four cups.

Bullseye waits until Star has closed the door behind her, and Tempest and Saint have parted their chairs to make room for me in the centre. Then, after overloading his fork with such a large pile of scrambled eggs that I’m entranced for a moment, wondering how he intends to get all that in his mouth, he asks, “You’re telling me these assholes cut the alarms and power to Royals, and walked straight in?” When he’s finished his question, his fork disappears between his lips. He doesn’t drop one bit.

“Yeah.” My brow furrows. “What’s more, Ames knew who they were. Or the man in charge, at least.”

Three pairs of eyes fix on me.

It all pours out of me—Ames’ story, her brother, and what he wanted with her. And the proposal she’d made to me.

The VP’s brows meet his hairline. He snorts. “She wants to marry… you?”

The emphasis slightly wounds me. I give him the truth anyway. “She wants to marry anyone, and is offering the unluckyfucker a cool five mill when they divorce in eighteen months.” I pause, then add, with a dismissive shrug, “Just thought if anyone in the club was up for it, it’s easy money for the Kings.”

By now, Bullseye’s finished his breakfast. Pushing the empty plate away, he refreshes his coffee from the pot, then sits back and links his hands behind his head. “You’re telling me, if you marry this girl—who shouldn’t have been employed in Royals anyway because of her age—you wouldn’t run off with the money? You’d give it to the club.”

“Freak employed her,” I get in first, letting the blame lie on the right shoulders. “And yeah.” I shrug. “If it was down to me. This club’s the only family I’ve ever known. It would be a way to give back.” Not that I intend to marry her, of course. That’s fucking stupid.