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“No, you won’t, King. I will. I have Noah to think about.”
“And I have my club to think about.”
I work my jaw trying like fuck to restrain myself. “In what fucking way?”
His nostrils flare as he leans forward with such force the table moves. “In the way that I need to decide whether you can be trusted again.”
“When the fuck have you ever known me to not be trusted with club shit?”
“I don’t fucking know anymore.” He jabs his finger down on the table. “That’s the shit I have to fucking think about.”
“That is bullshit. Can you even fucking hear yourself? Since the day you brought me into the club, I’ve done whatever you’ve told me to do. I never once questioned a thing asked of me and I got shit done that only you and I knew about. I never lied to you or spoke out of turn and I always had your back. Fucking always.” I shove my chair back and stand, my muscles tensing with the anger coursing through me. “If that’s not loyalty, I don’t know what the fuck is.”
His face twists with ferocious anger and he charges at me. Grabbing my shirt, he rams me backwards until I hit the counter of the bar. “It wouldn’t fucking matter if you had my back for decades; as far as I’m fucking concerned, one lie wipes everything. One act of going behind my back wipes it all, too. I can’t trust you now.”
“No, you don’t want to trust me. There’s a difference.” I shove him away. “I don’t know what the fuck goes on in your head, but I will tell you this: you’ll lose Zara if you don’t pull it out of your ass.”
He opens his mouth to speak, but a gun goes off and he stumbles backwards.
Fuck.
He’s been hit.
Right as the gun sounds again and the room goes black, I shove him to the ground and crouch next to him, searching for a bullet wound.
“In my fucking shoulder,” he grunts as he pulls his gun out.
I reach for mine, too, listening hard to figure out where the enemy is. The bar in this clubhouse is circular in the middle of the room. To have shot King in the shoulder, they were on the other side of the bar, but fuck knows where they are now.
King signals that he’s moving around to take a look. I signal back my intent to go around this side of the bar.
I’m tired and my eyesight isn’t at a hundred, both of which make it hard to see. But as I round the bar, I detect a guy coming towards me. I’m low to the ground and see him before he sees me. Capitalising on that, I rush at his legs, wrapping my arms around them and barrelling him backwards so he lands on his ass. Managing to catch him by surprise gives me the split second I need to gain the upper hand, and I use it to crawl on top of him and shove my gun to his head.
“Who the fuck are you?” I demand, knowing Winter will want this information rather than the guy dead.
“The asshole who’s going to kill you,” he snarls.
With that, he fights me for the gun, knocking it from my hand. Jerking up, he attempts to headbutt me, but I see it coming in time and bring my hands up to block him. Gripping his head, I gouge his eyes, inflicting enough pain to cause him to rear back and roar out in agony.
Punching him hard in the face, I thunder, “The only one fucking dying here tonight is you!”
I reach for my gun, but he pushes it further away and kicks me in the stomach. Grabbing his foot, I pull, causing him to land on his back. Moving fast, I stand and bring my boot to his face with a hard kick. He wants to fucking kick me? I’ll kick him back. Far fucking harder than he kicked me.
I reef him up and shove him against the bar. With my hand to his throat in a grip that cuts off his air supply, I say, “You shouldn’t have fucking come here tonight,” before grabbing my knife from its sheath. I stab it into his chest repeatedly until he sags to the floor, his chest a mess of blood.
The sound of a fight on the other side of the room filters into my awareness and I yank my knife out of the dead guy, grab my gun, and go to help King.
I find him and another asshole trading punches. King is a strong fighter, but this guy seems to have enough brute strength to match him. The gunshot wound in King’s shoulder, though, is slowing him. I can tell by the way his moves are lagging; I’ve never seen that from him. When he takes aim with his fist and misses the guy’s face, connecting with his neck instead, I know he’s in trouble.
Grabbing a chair, I smash it into the asshole’s head, trying to give King the opportunity to take control. King’s still struggling, though, and staggers to the side. The asshole barely registers the hit I delivered with the chair, and he keeps going at King, punching and kicking him.
Taking aim, I shoot the guy’s leg, hoping it’ll pull his attention from King, because my president is fucking crashing.
When the guy continues on his quest to end King’s life, the bullet to his leg only slowing him for a beat, I shoot his other leg and then throw myself at him. Tackling him to the floor, I go to battle with him.
We’re a frenzy of punches and kicks that don’t get us anywhere except down some energy and up a whole heap of fucking injuries. He winds me hard enough at one point I struggle for breath, but I keep on going. There’s no option but to do that.
King and I are fighting for our fucking lives here.
