Page 5 of Property of Shotgun
For example, there are women who get pulled over for blowing a light or disobeying speed limits—I’ve always been more the latter—but instead of flashing a smile or flirting with the cop to get out of the ticket, all I ever had to do was tell the officer I was on the way to meet my husband at the clubhouse. Occasionally the cop on duty would ask who my husband was, but usually all I had to do was drop a mention of the Kings, and I’d be sent on my way.
That’s when I realized half the cops in Brooklyn were on the Kings payroll but knowing that still didn’t raise any red flags for me. Maybe it’s true what they say… ignorance is bliss.
I mean we had a good life. We broke the chains of generational trauma and bought our first house before either of us turned twenty-one. It was right around the time the club opened their first legitimate business, Monty’s Pork Store. It was originally owned by Guido’s grandfather, and when the club took possession, they started laundering their money through it. Every Wednesday Irish would take the stacks of money in my underwear drawer and move them through Monty’s.
Where the money came from never bothered me. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t worry. My husband was out there doing his thing, providing for me and our kids, and every night he came home to me. He did the dishes, picked up after the boys, and topped off the night by fucking me just the way I liked it.
Even after the club opened Lipstick & Lace, and he was surrounded by whores who were more than happy to drop to their knees and suck his cock, he came home to me and fuckedmymouth.
I never worried about him cheating on me. Not once in sixteen years.
Still there was always this feeling in the pit of my gut that it would all blow up. That I would eventually end up crying over him. He got locked up a few times, and that’s when the feeling started to grow. It festered and metastasized inside me as Irish climbed the ranks of the club, and when he was elected Vice President, I couldn’t ignore it anymore.
I had stuck by man through thick and thin, but him having such a powerful position, knowing he was likely next in line for the throne, threw me. I voiced my concerns, and Irish did what he did best—he shoved money at me the problem. He thought buying me a fully loaded Escalade would somehow make all my worries disappear, and when they didn’t, he went to plan B and distracted me with his cock.
Three weeks later, I learned I was pregnant again, and instead of worrying about my husband going to jail for life, I began to concern myself with vision boards of a nursery, and all things pink, thinking if I manifested it enough, God would give us a little girl after two perfect boys.
Irish entertained my excitement, and after our twenty-week sonogram where we learned we were having another boy, he softened the blow by buying us a brand-new five-bedroom house in Mill Basin, promising me we’d try for a girl soon after our third boy was born.
That’s how Irish operated. He bought lavish things and made big promises. He never saved for a rainy day or worried about what ifs—he lived life in the fast lane, to hell with everything else.
And when it came down to his life or his club, he chose his club. He chose the Kings of Anarchy over me and the boys, and as much as I love him, I don’t think I’ll ever forgive him for it.
“Mommy, we say goodbye to Daddy, now?”
The sweet sound of my youngest son, Raiden’s innocent voice pulls me out of my head, and I glance down at him, my heart breaking at the sight of him dressed in a black suit. I bought it two weeks ago at Nordstroms with his little brother’s christening in mind. I’m only thirty-two weeks, so the christening is ways off, but I couldn’t pass it up. I didn’t get a dress shirt, though, so he’s wearing a simple white T-shirt, and a fresh pair of Air Force One’s.
I smooth a hand over his dark hair—long just like his daddy’s.
“Yeah, baby. Where’s Legend?” I ask, lacing my fingers with his. I smooth my free hand over my bump. The black dress I chose for the funeral is a little snug, but it was Irish’s favorite.
“With Uncle Shotty.”
My body goes still at that. I haven’t been able to look at Shotgun since the night he stepped out of the cage, and learned his life was spared. It hurts too much, and I feel horrible for even thinking that because Shotgun has always been such a big part of my life. He may have been Irish’s best friend, but he was mine too. He was the first friend I made when my grandma and I moved to Brooklyn, and if it weren’t for him, Irish and I would’ve never met.
He was there for everything.
All the milestones.
He was the best man at our wedding, and the first to visit me when I gave birth.
We made him Godfather to both our boys, and I just know Irish was planning on asking him to baptize our third.
He’s been part of our family long before he and Irish became brothers of the patch and I’ve got a lot of love for him.
No part of me wants him dead, but two men were taken in a vicious attack on the club, and only one came back alive. It’s going to take time for me to make peace with that.
Leading Raiden toward the door, I pause and slip my feet into my Louboutin’s—another lavish gift from my dead husband. I wish he valued his life as much as he valued the designer labels he spoiled me with.
We make our way to the common area, and the room goes silent as soon we enter. Many members from neighboring chapters have come to pay their respects over the last few days, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many Kings in one place at the same time. It’s a little unnerving to be honest, and all I want to do is turn around and hide in Irish’s room.
“Mommy,” Raiden tugs at my hand, pulling my attention away from the sea of leather. “Who these people?”
“Daddy’s brothers…” My voice trails as I glance around the room again. I try to put names to all the faces, but it’s impossible. There’s just too many. Needing an anchor, my gaze locks with Shotgun’s, and my breath hitches slightly. Avoiding him helped me block out the injuries he sustained to his face, but there is no escaping them now. For every bruise, there is a stitched gash, making the tattoos that decorate his face hard to detect.
I stare at the one just under the corner of his right eye. A diamond with the number thirteen inside of it, marking Legend’s birthday. Adjacent to it, under the corner of his left eye, the roman numerals read eight. He got that one the day after Raiden’s birthday. I wonder where he’ll ink the new baby’s number.
He breaks our stare, and turns to Legend, murmuring something to my son before he returns his attention to me. I don’t know what makes me walk toward him. Maybe it’s the unease that swirls through my body, or perhaps it’s my subconscious. Everyone here is mourning Irish, but the only person who feels anything close to what I’m feeling is him.
