Viper (Hell's Handlers MC 9)

With a heavy exhale, Viper lowered his gun. Tomorrow that door was being replaced with solid fucking wood. “Sarge?” What the fuck? The man was supposed to be in Florida, halfway through his honeymoon.

“Open the door, asshole.”

“Christ.” He flipped on the foyer light, unlocked the deadbolt, then opened the door.

Sarge bust into the house like his ass was on fire. “Guess you’re not happy to see me, huh?” he asked with a laugh as he blatantly stared at the outline of Viper’s flaccid dick in his boxer briefs.

“Fuck no, I’m not happy to see you. Why the fuck aren’t you in Florida?” Viper asked, placing his gun on a small table in the foyer. He ran a hand through his hair. Though he’d been awake a good few minutes now, his brain still felt the need for sleep and wasn’t functioning at full capacity. “Is Cindy okay?”

Sarge grabbed his shoulders. The grin stretching across his face was the happiest Viper had seen on the man in ages. “Cindy’s fucking great. That woman sucks dick like no other.”

Not the first thing Viper would spout when bragging about his new wife, but to each his own. No one had ever accused Sarge of being a gentleman.

“So why are you here? You do know what time it is, right?”

“Who gives a fuck about the time when I have news as fantastic as this?” He gave Viper a little shake.

As his head rattled, he tried to step back, but Sarge’s grip tightened. The man seemed almost manic tonight. This morning? What the fuck time was it again?

“It happened, brother. It finally fucking happened.” Sarge pulled Viper in close, pressed a kiss to his head, then released him with a shove. He practically bounced through the house on his way to the kitchen. “This calls for a drink to fucking celebrate.”

A dull ache formed right under the spot Sarge had kissed him. His brother had been in the house a few minutes and instead of clearing shit up, all he’d done was make Viper concerned for his mental state.

“Uhh, Sarge, you on something, brother?” he asked as he trailed the man to his kitchen.

“Did a few lines of coke a bit ago. But I’m good.”

What? Since when was he using? He’d mostly asked the question in jest.

One mystery at a time. “What is it we are celebrating?”

Since he’d practically lived with them when they first got the house, Sarge knew where everything was kept, including the booze. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey and poured two glasses. “Cutter is fucking dead.” With that bomb, he lifted his glass and tossed back the entire contents in one swallow.

“Wh—uh…holy fuck. Did you just say our president died?” Viper dropped into a chair at the kitchen table. Their president was dead? Sure, he’d lived a hard life, but, shit, he’d only been sixty-eight. “What happened?”

Sarge shrugged and poured a second glass. “Heart attack. Swear to Christ, brother, soon as West called me, I fucking pulled outta Cin, tossed her some clothes, and we were at the airport begging to get on the next flight. Thought I was gonna have to offer Cindy’s services if you know what I mean,” he said with a laugh.

Viper blinked, then did it again. Was he dreaming? A quick tug at the hair on his arm verified he was awake, just fucking baffled. “Wh—” Where should he even start? “How come I haven’t heard anything?” He grabbed the glass Sarge had poured for him and took a long, slow sip.

Sarge tossed his second swallow back as quick as the first. “Ahh,” he said, smacking his lips. “You buy good shit, brother.” He set the glass down. “West said Prez kicked it around six this evening. The family asked to hold off on telling the club until tomorrow morning, so his wife and daughters had some time to say goodbye on their own.”

Made sense. West was their president’s nephew. A good guy who worked his tail off for the club but had no interest in filling his uncle’s shoes as president. Hell, he didn’t even want the responsibility of being on the exec board. He and Sarge had become close over the years. Before Sarge and Cindy got married, they’d rented a house together. It wasn’t any wonder West called Sarge despite the gag order.

The confusion came from Sarge’s almost gleeful response to their president’s death. “You didn’t have to rush home, brother. Funeral probably won’t happen for a week or so. You and Cin coulda stayed and enjoyed the rest of your honeymoon.”

With a snort, he poured a third healthy glass of whiskey. “This is not the time to be MIA, brother. You snooze, you fucking lose. Got something to ask you.”

“Sure. Anything.” And he meant it. Even five years later, Viper hadn’t shaken the notion that he owed Sage. That he’d always be in the man’s debt for his help in rescuing Cassie.