Chapter 20

Reb

Reb was in hell. He was stone-cold sober at a bachelor party. At midnight. Whoever planned this shit was fucked in the head. Reb glared in Bumper’s direction. Not that the fucker noticed—he was three chicks deep and surrounded by more surgically enhanced tits than a Hollywood director.

Which was Reb’s problem. The strip club Bumper had chosen, the Honey Pot, was a juice bar. Meaning full nudity and no booze. Because apparently it wasn’t possible in America to have both. And his buzz from earlier that night had long worn off. Three hours and a basket of chicken wings does that to a guy.

“Remind me again why we didn’t have a private party at the clubhouse?” Reb had to shout over “Cherry Pie” playing over the loudspeakers as a redhead did some impressive, complex moves on the pole center stage. At least her athletic ability was impressive. Her body really didn’t do much for Reb. Lately he preferred his woman petite, blond, and a touch shy. He’d had a hard time getting Emily to strip in the privacy of his bedroom with the lights on.

“Jess made me promise no private parties,” Zag yelled back. “Also no licking, and something about ice cubes.”

“What?”

“No licking and no ice cubes.” Zag nodded toward his glass of soda sans ice.

“What the fuck does she think is in the ice?”

“I didn’t ask. I just agreed. Sometimes it’s easier that way.”

Reb threw back his head and laughed. “Fuck me. You’re getting pretty smart, bud. That lesson took me the better part of five years after we were married to learn.”

“Yeah, well, it’s easier since it’s Jessica. She makes it worth my while.” Zag’s lips curved in a secretive smile that had nothing to do with the redhead onstage.

Reb felt momentarily envious. He’d never had that with Rhonda. With her it was all about the drama and attention and getting her way. He was hard-pressed to think of a scenario where she ever yielded, let alone went out of her way to make up for something.

Good riddance.

Or at least it would be, if the emergency hearing in two weeks—almost two fucking months after he put in the petition—went his way. But he’d dotted his i’s and crossed all his t’s. Rhonda’s neighbor had signed an affidavit detailing how often she’d found Tucker alone without any adult supervision. The judge had to see through Rhonda’s shit.

“You okay, man?”

Reb blinked and the room came back into focus. Every glittering, spangled inch of it. Zag’s bachelor party was a time for celebration and jiggling tits, not being a pussy and reflecting on his shitty and soon-to-be-over marriage.

“Yeah. I’m good.” Reb took a swig of his apple juice, then made a face. “Or at least I will be once we get back to the drinking portion of the evening. How much longer are we staying? I’m thirsty.”

“There are five naked women within ten feet of you and you want to leave?”

Reb shrugged.

“Someone’s whipped.”

“Fuck you.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather fuck Jessica.”

“I hear ya.” Reb looked over the girls working the room—all had huge, gravity-defying tits. Where were the chicks with naturals? Hell, he’d prefer a mouthful of natural to the gallon-jug-sized fakes strutting around here. Who was he kidding? All he really wanted right now was Emily.

The Honey Pot used to be one of his favorite watering holes, lack of liquor notwithstanding. But now? Eh.

He was whipped.

“Well, I don’t exactly see you over there with the guys whooping it up.” Reb nodded toward their friends in the next booth and the five mostly naked women rubbing up against them.

Zag sighed. “Not nearly as good as the real thing.”

“I hear you. Guess we’re both whipped.”

Zag snorted and took a gulp of his soda sans ice. “Things still good with Emily?”

Reb tipped his head in a short nod. “Yeah. Real good.” Then something Zag had said earlier tickled Reb’s memory. “Wait—if you couldn’t have a private bachelor party, why the fuck is Jessica having one?”

“There’s only one male stripper in all of Reno. Did you know that?” Zag smirked.

Reb shook his head.

“I’m guessing you haven’t seen ‘Johnny Long Arm,’ then. They should call him Johnny Gray Pubes. The fucker qualifies for AARP. I ain’t worried about shit.”

Reb laughed and shook his head. Not exactly the mind-set he’d have if it were Emily’s bachelorette party. He didn’t want anyone—young or old—shaking their junk in his baby’s face.

He sat up with a start. Where the fuck did that thought come from? He was almost out of one marriage. Emily was a great girl, and Tucker loved her to death, but Reb sure as hell wasn’t ready for another marriage.

It had to be all this talk about Zag and Jessica’s wedding. They looked so fucking happy it made it easy to forget how screwed-up the whole institution was.

Zag took another drink of his soda and made a face. “Maybe it is time to get back to the clubhouse. I really miss my fucking whiskey. No view on the planet is worth this price of admission.”

“Fantastic. Let’s round up the boys.” Reb stood and waved a hand in Bumper’s direction.

But instead of gathering the troops and making tracks, Bumper took it as some kind of bat signal and waved toward the DJ box like he was trying to land a 747.

The DJ faded the song to an early end, picked up the mic, and crooned into it, “Everyone put your hands together for Ginger. Thank you, Ginger.” He paused until the cheers died down. “I’ve heard we have a special occasion to commemorate tonight in the Honey Pot. Someone is celebrating the demise of their bachelorhood? Not really a celebration to me, more of a wake, but what the hell! Let’s get the doomed S.O.B. onstage. Ladies?”

The crowd hooted, and all the guys were quick to point out just who should be dragged onto the stage. Zag shot daggers at Bumper, but eventually let himself be pulled into the spotlight. They’d all got the same lecture from Zag before walking in the door. He was fine with a few complimentary lap dances—and he’d had three already—but he was adamant that he didn’t want to be one of those corny fuckers hauled up to center stage. Everyone had agreed, but apparently Bumper hadn’t meant it.

Reb slouched in his booth, lit a cigar, and enjoyed the show. He’d never seen Zag’s face so shocked as when the Ping-Pong balls started to fly. Laughing himself sick, Reb had just waved off the third lady who tried to join him when a commotion at the door drew his attention.

“You’re not patting anything of mine, asshole!” a deep voice bellowed.

The club didn’t have strict security, really just a glorified bouncer who checked IDs and took the cover charge. But occasionally, if someone looked twitchy, the bouncer would ask for a pat-down. Being regulars and the local MC, the Brothers were never patted down.

Which was a good fucking thing, because those looked like Tramps at the door.

Fuck.

“Bump!” Reb slashed a hand across his throat, then palmed the handgun he kept at the small of his back. “Cover the back.”

“Aaargh!” The bouncer yelled and backed away from the door, clutching his abdomen. Three Tramps surged through the open door, and all hell broke loose.

The girls shrieked and ran around, hair and tits flapping everywhere as they looked for cover. A few of Reb’s boys guided them out of the way. The turntable made a huge screech before the music cut off. The DJ must’ve hit the lights, because the club went from shadows and disco balls to sudden, stark light.

Perfect for Reb to see the Tramps’ VP, Joker, charging him.

Reb sprung out of the booth and ran straight at Joker. He pistol-whipped the fucker and wished he could shoot the son of a bitch, but after the light show they’d put on at the Tramps’ stash house a few weeks back, and his upcoming custody case, they were supposed to be lying low. And dead bodies with so many witnesses would make it tough to lie low. Although technically the Tramps had started this particular fight.

Joker bounced back up like a fucking jack-in-the-box and nailed Reb in the ribs with a vicious uppercut. Apparently those pussy rings weren’t all for show. Wheezing from the blow, Reb got a few punishing hits of his own in.

“You think you can pull a fucking pansy-ass stunt like you did and we wouldn’t get some payback?” Joker brought his foot up and rammed a table out of the way, then he tried to circle around behind Reb. “You fucked us with La famigghia. They don’t have their guns, so they’re out for blood. I’m gonna make you bleed like a bitch tonight.”

Fuck yeah. Reb hoped the Mafia would come after the Saddletramps and save him and his boys the trouble. He saw a glint of metal in Joker’s hand and ducked at the last second. Joker’s hand whizzed past Reb’s ear and would’ve shaved some hair off his head if he wasn’t already buzzed.

Fucker had a knife.

Screw that shit. Reb was ending this now. He raised his gun, but immediately felt a deep slashing pain between his shoulders. Before he could turn around, he felt another slash of fire in his right side. Reb hunched over in reflex and dropped his gun. Pain took a backseat as adrenaline sang through his bloodstream. He twisted around and kicked the shit out of the pussy Tramp who’d snuck up behind him. Target was whimpering in pain and clutching his balls in fear by the time Bumper pulled Reb off the Tramp.

“Reb, come on, man. We gotta bounce. The pigs will be here any minute.”

Reb huffed and stood upright. “Where’d Joker go? That fucker disappeared the minute this little bitch snuck up behind me.”

“I don’t know, man. I took the girls out the back, and when I got back it was just you kicking the shit outta Target here. Zag is watching the exit. We gotta bounce.”

Reb bent over to grab his gun and groaned in pain. His back screamed in protest as his muscles attempted to flex with his movement. He took his agony out on Target one more time, kicking the Tramp in the ribs. “Son of a bitch.”

“Reb, we gotta go, man.”

“Yeah, yeah. I hear ya.” Reb stood upright with a groan, his gun clutched in his hand. “Do me a favor and look and see if there’s a knife still stuck in my back.”

“What?”

“Just look, dammit!” Reb twisted to show Bumper his back.

Bumper hissed. “Shit, man. You’re bleeding like a stuck pig.”

“I know that, dammit. Is the knife still in me?”

“No. I don’t see it.”

“Let’s bounce.”

The duo made for the back door. Reb gave Target a departing kick to the side on the way. It wasn’t the first time they’d had to slip out the back of the strip club, and Reb doubted it’d be the last. But they were in tight with management, so hopefully it’d be awhile before the cops came around to question the Brothers. If at all.

His boys climbed onto their bikes and had the parking lot vibrating with revved engines. More than a few of them looked worse for wear. Bumper had a distinct limp, and Stitch’s face was already swollen. Hatchet’s white shirt looked like someone attacked him with a ketchup bottle. But given the way he was favoring his right arm, Reb doubted the stains were from a condiment. They were going to make Doc earn his keep tonight.

Satisfied that everyone was at least accounted for and upright, Reb tried not to show any weakness as he made his way to his motorcycle, but his head swam and he stumbled next to his bike.

Bumper caught him. “Whoa. You gonna be okay to ride, Reb?”

“Have to be.” Reb righted himself carefully, then tossed a leg astride his bike. “I’ll bleed out before you’ll see me riding bitch.”

“Fine, but if you fall off, I’m not gonna catch you. My catlike reflexes aren’t that good.”

Reb snorted, then waved Bumper off and started his bike. Catlike reflexes? Bumper was the biggest klutz he’d ever met. Still, it helped take his mind off the pain. He waited for Bumper to climb onto his bike, then led his guys back the clubhouse. They took side roads the entire way and didn’t hear a single siren. The ride was hell on his wounds, though. Between the vibration of the bike and the effort it took to stay upright, Reb’s back was screaming.

Finally they turned onto the clubhouse’s street. The second Sig opened the gate, Reb shot through the gap. He coasted as close to the entrance as he could get, then parked. Or tried to. He got the kickstand down, but he didn’t have the ability to balance the weight of his bike. His back screamed for mercy and bile tickled the back of his throat, but he wasn’t gonna lose it out here in front of his guys. No weakness allowed.

He swayed and would’ve dropped his motorcycle, but two of his guys swooped in to help him. Zag righted the bike while Bumper pulled him off. Reb groaned in agony as the movement aggravated his wounds.

The edges of his vision crept in. Reb fought against the looming darkness. “Get…Get…”

“We’re getting you inside, boss. Doc’s waiting for ya. Zag, grab his feet.” Bumper grunted as he supported Reb’s shoulders.

Zag huffed. “I will. Stop bitching at me. I gotta get his bike upright first, dammit.”

“Get Emily,” Reb whispered just before everything went black.