Page 36 of Sinister Red
ME: Good.
MARBLES: She won’t, either.
ME: Keep it that way.
MARBLES: You gonna tell her?
ME: Eventually. When the time is right.
MARBLES: Think maybe you should talk to her first?
ME: No. I’m leaving now. Be there in a half hour.
I tossmy phone on the passenger seat as Marbles reply comes through, but I don’t bother checking it. My best friend thinks I need to try to meet up with Sofie and have some sort of heart to heart or some shit to clear the air. He claims Sofie is miserable and unhappy, that she has been for years, but I don’t buy it and I’m trying to tell myself I don’t care. Sitting down and rehashing what happened almost seven years ago isn’t going to do anything but piss me off, so I’d rather drop in on her unexpectedly, get my answers, then leave her with the parting gift of her fiancé’s infidelity before I finally go find some rocket rider orsweet buttto fuck Sofie Berk out of my system with.
Sofie can own my heart, but she’s not going to own anymore of my time.
* * *
When I pullup to the clubhouse, I groan internally at what I see.
As usual, the parking lot is loaded with bikes and pickups, a few sedans that belong to the girls that are here almost twenty-four-seven, and off to the side, hidden amongst the throngs of vehicles are two that I’d recognize anywhere.
A ten-year-old black Ford Taurus and a fifteen-year-old silver Honda Civic.
Withers and Abernathy.
Between seeing theirnondescriptrides and the fact that Tank called church at random during the week, I have a feeling this is going to be a shitshow.
Especially when I get out of Marbles’ truck and close the door just as Johansson and none other than Roland Berk ride up in the former’s Toyota Corolla.
Fucking great.
Must be some serious shit about to go down, and I’m willing to bet that since this will be the first piece of business the four of us have been a part of since getting locked up, not only is it big but it’s dangerous and that’s why the MacAllister brothers have brought in our most critical players now.
Thank fuck they cleaned house while we were in prison.
That fucker Chad and his crew are lucky to still be alive after what they did, but they got a little visit from the karma fairy to make a solid point. Withers pulled some strings and had Chad Brentwood demoted from whatever position he held as a scumbag to a traffic cop working the edge of town where Sabine Woods meets Rolling Meadows. Shitty beat for sure, and I can’t say that I’m mad about the way he was dealt with, even if it isn’t the wayIwould have dealt with him.
But even with the bastards that turned on us after running with Withers for so long out of the picture, Tank and Gunner still felt like it was important to call everyone in. And that is starting to make my stomach hurt.
I don’t like any of this, and when I turn away from the two MEs exiting their ride to head toward the executive committee entrance, that feeling grows.
Tank calls it mydoom guts, the feeling that twists in my stomach that I can’t ignore, the one that usually starts before shit goes south in some way. The feeling that is usually neverwrong.
I had that feeling of doom when I was thirteen and my mom brought home a trick that wound up beating her and robbing her blind before setting the house on fire just hours after I took off. Had it the day before I found out my mom was murdered, too.
I’d been sitting in PE with Marbles when it started, and by the end of the class I was so sick to my stomach that the teacher sent me home. My best friend left with me, and come to find out my mom was strangled in that motel room about the same time I was leaving gym class. It’s been uncanny really, the way my gut seems to just sense certain things, and it’s only gotten more intense as I’ve gotten older.
Like when Spider offed Hamish and I knew hours before that something wasn’t right.
Or how I knew, even if I refused to acknowledge it, that Sofie’s birthday almost seven years ago wasn’t going to go the way I planned.
There have been countless instances of that feeling happening and being spot on, and none of the guys in the club—our president included—think twice when I voice my concern. Problem is, I don’t always voice it and that’s basically because I’ve spent a lot of time trying to deny or ignore it myself. I’m not a fan of having death or destruction follow me around, but I probably should have thought about that before I became a part of a family that attracts both like a moth to a flame.
It is what it is though, and after royally fucking up my life by ignoring mydoom gutsso many years ago, I won’t be doing that anymore. Gonna have to embrace my morbid talent and hope like hell it helps those I actually give a shit about.
And as soon as I push through the back door, the feeling in my stomach grows to epic proportions.
