Free White Wolves MC: A BWWM Interracial Romance by Ella Douglas Page B

dinner, I left Mercedes at the apartment and headed to the clubhouse. Spending too much time with those jokers made me feel sick, but I had to be putting in appearances.
     
    When I got there, there was a Haitian kid tied up outside. His face was bloated and bloody, completely distorted. He smelled like piss—I didn’t know if it was his or someone else’s.
     
    “What’s with the kid out there?” I demanded as soon as I entered.
     
    “That was one of Bolo’s guys. He was trying to pass off some coke that he said the sting missed. Turned out to be ninety-percent sugar,” Fatman roared from his place on the couch, a sawed-off shotgun laid out over his lap. He was cleaning and oiling it and it looked deadly, even in pieces on the obese fuck’s legs.
     
    “So you decided to piss on him?”
     
    “That wasn’t me,” Fatman laughed. “I don’t know who did that, but I didn’t have to go.”
     
    He was going to execute the kid the second he finished cleaning his gun. I knew how he worked.
     
    “Well, give me a chance to work him over before you finish him off…” I mumbled. “I’ve got a pretty full bladder myself.”
     
    “It can always get fuller, esse,” Manuel announced from behind the bar. He laid out two shot glasses and filled them till their overflowed with cheap Jamaican rum. We both knocked our shots back, the sweet burning liquid streaming down my throat like bleach.
     
    “It always can,” I murmured. I chatted with Manuel for a few minutes until I saw that Fatman was just about finished cleaning his shotgun.
     
    “Hey, brother, let me fuck that kid up a little bit more before you stick your dick up his ass,” I called out to my ostensible boss. Outside the club, it was deserted and the kid was passed out. I drew my Python and pistol whipped him hard to wake him up.
     
    “Listen, you son of a bitch,” I growled. The kids eyes were wide with terror, an admirable feat considering how bruised and swollen they were.
     
    “They’re planning on executing you in about two minutes. I’m going to cut you free and make like you got away. You best start running now.”
     
    And with that, I drew my switchblade and sliced the ropes binding his hands.
     
    “What’s your name, asshole?” I murmured as he stood up.
     
    “Henri,” the kid replied. “Thank you so much, man, I ain’t gonna’ forget this, I—“
     
    “Just fucking run, okay?” I growled, lifting my pistol up into the air. Henri took off running and when he was down the road and out of sight, I started hollowing.
     
    “You fucking cocksucker, get back here!” I roared, shooting into the air. “Son of a bitch! Son of a fucking bitch!”
     
    Fatman and a few other White Wolves tumbled out of the clubhouse.
     
    “What in fuck is going on out here, Viper?”
     
    “That fucking Haitian kid ran off!”
     
    “What?! How the fuck did he get loose?” Fatman screamed.
     
    “Someone smashed a beer bottle over his head and he must have grabbed the shards of glass,” I said, pointing to the shattered glass surrounding the post where Henri had been imprisoned only minutes before. “Which one of you dumb fucks thought that was a good idea?”
     
    All eyes settled on Fatman who scowled, his chins wobbling as he waddled off to his bike. But the kid was long gone, and it took the fat ass too long to get onto his chopper anyway. I couldn’t promise that the kid wouldn’t be caught later, wouldn’t die another day—but at least he wasn’t going to die here and now.
     
    Of course, if he were caught and he told them how he’d gotten free… Then I’d kill him myself. If I didn’t get killed first.
     
    I settled back down at the bar, listening to Fatman roar off. Dog tossed me a beer, which I caught effortlessly, cracking open against the edge of the bar counter.
     
    “What a fucking idiot…” I muttered.
     
    “The big man?” Dog asked.
     
    “Who the fuck else?”
     
    “He’s good at what he does,