Shane (Mallick Brothers 1)

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Shep said, looking up at the sky for a second, like looking for just a bit more patience to deal with all the men.

Just then, I heard a voice that I had momentarily forgotten was even present. “What’s your name?” Charlie asked, moving forward, talking to Shep.

“Shep. And you are?”

“Charlie Mallick. These are my sons. That,” he said, giving me a small smile, “is my son’s girl. I’ve known a lot of bikers in my time and I know one thing, you guys understand that when something belongs to a man, he protects it. Lea belongs to my son.”

“She belonged to Ross,” Micky insisted.

At that point though, everyone was ignoring him.

“I get that,” Shep agreed. “But your son came onto this property and killed the man who runs things here.”

To that, Charlie’s smile went a little wise, a little amused. “I think everyone here knows who really runs things around here. No empire, least of all a criminal one, can survive with a hot head at the wheel. You’ve been quietly controlling this place for years, I bet.”

There was a few grunts of agreement from some of the old timers, who had always known Ross wasn’t meant for power. There was some feet shuffling from others who obviously knew it was true, but didn’t have the balls to admit it, despite Ross being dead.

“So you’re telling me that you did me a favor by coming here?” Shep asked, but I could tell the harshness in his voice was for show, to make the men think he was showing at least a little anger at having his boss murdered.

“I’m saying it all worked out in the end,” Charlie said with a shrug. “We could let this get messy. My count says there are eight guns on your side with maybe one man stupid enough to want to use it over this. The rest, what, maybe some knives? We may not look like much, Shep, but let me tell ya’, we can take a bunch of half-bombed, mostly old and out of shape bikers any day. All for what? To prove a point? For what purpose? We aren’t a threat to your club. We live and work on the other coast. This was some personal shit; it’s handled. We’re fine letting it be done at that. I have a feeling you would too.”

“Like fuck,” Micky started.

I’d never seen Shep in action before. He was always a talking man, talking Ross down, talking sense into everyone. Always talking. Up until that moment, I couldn’t imagine him moving like he did.

One arm moved out, grabbing Micky’s wrist with the gun, twisting it, and directing the muzzle toward the ground. The other arm cocked back, swung out, and landed with a sickening crack to Micky’s jaw, making his body immediately go slack and fall. Shep pulled the gun free, twirling it once before sticking it into the waistband of his pants. “Anyone else got an issue letting shit be handled? I know for a fact half of you were sick of Ross’ shit. Especially over the last couple months when all he did was bitch about Lea. He hasn’t handled shit business-wise. All of our pockets are a little lighter than we’d like them. That’s over now,” he said, again, getting rumbling approval and some shuffling.

“So, what, you’re stepping up?” one of the younger bloods asked, brow raised.

“He’s vice,” one of the old timers said. “That’s how it works, dipshit.”

I almost wanted to laugh at that, finding the comfortable animosity the old timers had for the young blood familiar and somehow comforting.

“So that’s it? We’re just supposed to go on like some fuck didn’t come in here and kill our president?” the kid pushed.

Shep looked at me, shaking his head a little, like he was sharing his frustration with me. “Someone get that kid a bitch to get rid of some of that testosterone. I think he needs a good fuck if he ain’t getting a fight.” With that, there were chuckles and agreement. A few of the men patted Shep on the shoulder as they moved back inside. “Ross was bent,” he told us when there were only a few of us on each side left. “Fucked in the head. Always was. Don’t know how Rick let him come into power like that.”

“Lea…” my father started, watching me.

“No,” Shane snapped, making me jump it was such a vicious bark.

“No?” my father asked, brows drawing together.

“No,” Shane affirmed. “You don’t get to talk to her. You don’t get to feed her some bullshit sob story about how you had no choice. You don’t get to play the mother fucking victim. You don’t get to take this opportunity to justify your behavior and try to lessen your guilt. This is on you, you stupid fuck. Live and die with that on your shoulders. You earned the weight of it.”