Chapter Six Bishop
My heart beats in time with the sound of war drums in my ears. Around me, my boys form a protective circle. Guys I’ve never seen—guys whose names I’m only vaguely aware of—stand up beside me, putting distance between Dig and his asshole goons as they begin to push through. I hear him calling me, taunting me. “You want this club? You want this club, Bishop? You come and get it, you fucking asshole!”
“This is not how it’s supposed to work!” one of the older riders shouts in the center of it all. “Men! Hold it! Men!”
The only thing I can make out is his black hat raised towards the ceiling and his hand frantically calling for attention. Eventually, a few others join him. They call for order; for respect for club rules. My team dies down just enough to hear them out, but Dig’s crew is too far gone. They’ve got the look in their eyes, the kind that is blood-thirsty and desperate. They’re being challenged here by a guy they barely know. I honestly can’t blame them for shaking in their oversized, nasty boots.
Someone throws the old geezer up on a wooden chair next to the table I was just standing on seconds ago. He kind of hovers there for a second, looking a bit like he is going to vomit all over the men assembled (whether out of fear or drunkenness or both), but his voice manages to find its way out of his throat. It booms through the crowd, shutting all the men up in quick succession.
“We don’t have a president,” he calls out, his voice like thunder. “We don’t have a vice president. They’re dead. And the only ones we’ve got to blame for all this trouble are those filthy motherfuckers in the Snakes.
“Now, we can be pissed off as much as we want to be. You should be pissed off. But just because our brothers are gone does not mean we’re giving up what this club stands for and how we operate! We aren’t fucking savages; we’re fucking Vipers! There are fucking rules we all agree to when we take our oath!”
“This ain’t the time to read a rulebook, you old bastard.” Dig spits as he walks towards the center. “This is the time to strike back!”
I follow on the opposite side, refusing to break eye contact with my opponent.
“Fuck that shit!” I shout. “You wanna go back out there? That’s what those sons of bitches want us to do. They’re prepared for it. You don’t strike when they’re looking. You do what they did to us—catch them when they think we’ve got nothing left. When we’ve dwindled our forces, and our men have quit. Then you kill them while they’re sleeping. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. We bury our dead first.”
The word dead reminds me of Rivet and her bravery. It’s tough fucking stuff to stand up to a club like that, let alone speak at a meeting that women aren’t invited to have a part in. I don’t know what the hell possessed her to do that, to tell the truth about me, but it probably is the only thing keeping me alive. Whatever she might think of her ex-boyfriend, he was a respected member of this club, for the most part. And his legacy means everything in our traditions. Viper wouldn’t get the same rights as our president will, but he will be buried with honors. Her telling them that I tried to save him has, most likely, won some of these men over.
But it’s not the truth. I didn’t ride after Viper because I wanted to ensure our VP didn’t die. He was a fucking fool back there, and she was dumb as hell to ride out with him. But seeing them pull away like that, I couldn’t let her be killed out there in the rain, on that highway, because Viper didn’t know how to win a battle. Something pulled me to follow them, to keep an eye out for her, and to ignore the feeling of wanting to yank her ass off of his bike and drive away with her myself.
“Bishop? Bishop,” a voice whispers into my ear and tugs at my shirt. I pull out of the fog and ask the old man to repeat his question.
“You want to take the vote or duke it out for the club? It’s up to you.”
Dig has already answered and judging by his smug grin, I am guessing that he picked me beating the living shit out of him. I could make this easy on him and take that fight, but if we’re really talking about me being president, I need to think about the future of this club and the morale of the men.
“I want a vote. I want to know what every brother’s choice is before I take this punk-ass wannabe and destroy him.” My men’s laughter echoes through the bar. They pat me on the back while they walk towards the lined up bar stools and bench seats.
Dig, on the other side, doesn’t look away. He actually looks pleased with my request, as if he wants to see who’s picked his new sworn enemy over him.
The old man loudly clears his throat while the room quiets to a soft rumbling of bickering voices.
“We know how this goes,” he says with an air of superiority. Usually, the old or outgoing president does this honor of running the show, but this works too. Old men don’t have much time left to vote. They’ll not see another president past this point. All they want is stability. I can provide that compared to an erratic asshole like Dig.
He continues, “We need nominations. Anyone else wanna get in on this crap show? Raise your hand or call your name.” There’s complete silence as eyes train up to Dig and me standing awkwardly up the front. The man nods his head at each of us and then says, “Well, then, uh, we need seconds.”
“I second Dig for President of the Carnivores! Keep to what Viper would’ve wanted!” A small applause goes up as a guy I know only as Pete Dog sits back down in his chair near the front. Dig reaches over to shake his hand and pat him on the back. He grins like a child in desperate need of approval before moving back to his spot.
“I second the kid,” another old man says from way in the back. His finger points towards me as he adds, “I don’t know much about him, but if he was brave enough to ride out into that hellstorm to chase down Viper and that girl, he’s good enough for me. We need someone with strength right now—not some entitled ass with no position or experience.” The same amount of men clap from the other end of the room while those in the middle and on the fringes look back and forth at each of us with critical, daring eyes.
“Okay. We got nominations. We’ve got seconds. This is the part where we’re supposed to do speeches, but frankly, you two have said your piece. I think it’s time to move on unless anyone in the group has an objection to not hearing these boys fight amongst themselves again?”
With a satisfied grin over not hearing anyone demand to drag the damn process out any longer, he moves on, “Good. Good. Then we take a vote. I’m gonna call out a name, and you stand when you want that person to be the next President of the Carnivores. I’ll do a count, so I need some silence and someone to take the tally down. Rules are that the winner needs three-fourths of the vote or we go to fists in the parking lot. You two got it?”
I nod back confidently, but inside, my stomach turns. I wasn’t the guy who ran for class president or was elected to anything. I didn’t depend on my popularity to get me through high school or to win me any prizes. Even as an adult, I’ve been the loner—the guy who stood behind the fray and did his own thing no matter what. Now, I’m relying on these guys to vote me, one of the newest members here, to put me up for president! That’s fucking beyond what I am prepared for. I stare back at the door where Rivet disappeared, and I wonder if she’s somewhere watching this in disbelief too.
Dig’s name is called first. The men have a minute to decide since they can’t change their vote. They cannot decide to stay seated the whole time if they’re undecided. Everyone’s gotta have a say in this, so those stragglers mean more than the boys that pop up eagerly with their hoots and hollers. The old dog shushes them as he goes from person-to-person counting bodies. Another member trails him to be sure his count is accurate. A few times they have to stop and confer over the numbers.
By my count, there’s gotta be at least fifty riders here. It isn’t the whole club, but it’s a good chunk of us. Getting two-thirds of the vote means there needs to be at least thirty-three standing. It’ll be close, based on my count, but I hold out hope as I stare each of them down, w
ondering about their motivations. Are they afraid of Dig and his neckbeard bastards who follow his crew around like puppies? Or do they truly not think I am the right person for the job? It’s taking a lot out of me to not storm over to each one and demand an answer from their pursed mouths.
“Twenty-six,” the old man announces, and a mix of groans and cheers go up. He may have gotten the majority by one vote, but it sure as fuck wasn’t enough. With my arms crossed, I look over at Dig with his smirk still plastered where he left it. I nod my chin at him before the crowd pushes past us and out towards the parking lot where the now early morning rain is falling at a steady, but lighter pace.
D’Angelo, my first Carnivores friend, is by my side within seconds. “You ready for this, Bishop? You know how to win?” He grabs hold of my arm and leads me out towards the lot. A trail of my brothers from the enforcers and security forces follow our lead. They chant my name or some stupid slogan they’ve thought of within seconds. At least I’ve got my boys to back me up.
I strip off my shirt and hand it to D’Angelo while replying, “My whole life’s been a fight. This is just another one.”
Before I take another step, I look down to the ground. The wet cement is slippery, but there are small parts where I can get some traction on my boots. The visibility isn’t bad either. The light from the lot is just enough that I can make out the bodies and faces in front of me, including the petite little raven-haired lady who sneaks past the backs of the men forming a circle. She attempts to smile at me, but I can see there’s something there, something more hesitant.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I say to Rivet in a low, rumbling whisper. “The guys here aren’t going to take too kindly to you sneaking into a club fight. They’re already pissed at you for speaking your mind.”
“I know,” she replies as her eyes dart around. No one that cares is paying her any mind, but who knows where the eyes are for this club. “But I can’t let you go through this. Dig’s a good fighter. I’ve seen him and Viper spar a lot. He’s small, but he’s quick and like a tree or something.”
“So what are you saying? I should give up and go home? Lose my honor?” I can’t believe she would even suggest that I would be chickenshit like that. I didn’t plan on going for the president’s spot. Hell if I even thought that would ever be possible for a junkyard kid like me, but here I am, and I am not about to waste an opportunity because the guy I’m up against is an amateur fighter.
“No, Bishop!” She grabs my arm with urgency, pulling me closer to her. She reaches up and touches my face with the tips of her shivering fingers to wipe away a raindrop along my eyelid. I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of her; it’s as fresh as it was when she rested her head on my shoulder, and I have that nagging feeling that I should know it or remember it.
“What I’m trying to say is that you shouldn’t get tired punching him. He’s fast, but he’s not good on his feet. I remember Viper scolding him about that when they would box. I don’t know if you can use that, but—”
Before I can reply, she steps away, back into the shadows. I try to reach for her, but I’m yanked into the center of the ring by my arm. The graying man from before shouts, “What the fuck are you doing, Bishop? We’ve got a fight here!”
“Backing out, I bet,” Dig mutters through his clenched teeth.
“I don’t back out, Dig. Not now. Never ever. You’d best learn that now before I teach it to you myself.” The smile disappears from his face, replaced by a look that should wipe away every bit of confidence I have, but I’ve got something better than confidence—I’ve got a plan.
“Timer ready?” The man looks towards a guy sitting with his watch in his lap. He turns back to remind us, “You’ve got five minutes. I’ll call out when you move apart. First to KO or have their opponent back out wins. And boys...” He pauses, then whispers to us, “Don’t forget you’re on the same team, in the same club. One of you is gonna walk away feeling some mighty fine pain. Best keep the low blows out of this and fight fair for the good of the club.”
We both nod, but who the fuck cares. All I want to is to punch Dig’s lights out. I want to watch him bleed out on the wet ground and eat his words for accusing me of being a traitor. Loyalty means jackshit to him, and hell if it means anything to me when he draws the first blood. I am not about to let him win in this circle. Not tonight.
I hear the man clap; our signal to begin. Without a pause, Dig’s hands go up towards his face, and his feet shuffle back and forth lightly on the ground. I walk up towards him with no arms or hands up to protect me. I don’t even care that he takes the first blow to my chest. It’s so soft it barely registers on my skin. Before I can look up, he manages to smack me across the face. My nose crunches terribly, and my ears begin to ring. I pull my head back and instinctively grab for the bloody, sore rim of my nose. The taste of my own blood drips around and into my mouth, and I fume. Every part of me blinks back alive.
He’s quick. Rivet told me that one, but she was right on him not being able to punch. It’s like a dog that’s under your feet all the time yapping and barking at you but never bites when you step on their tail. I duck another swing and then another. He tumbles slightly forward, and I manage to strike his back with the backside of my elbow. Dig’s body tumbles forward into the crowd of men who push him right back towards me. They holler at him to stay in, but I must have done something to spook him because he looks less like a cock than ever.
He rushes towards me with his bald head pointed down and his shoulders squared at my body. Before I can move to the side, he’s on me, throwing me to the ground. My back slams hard against the pavement with the back of my head ricocheting off the concrete. In the distance, I hear an awful scream that I know can’t be mine or any of my men. I look for her, for Rivet, but she’s lost in the sea of shocked and stunned faces and the blurs of arms and legs attempting to hold me down to deliver more direct punches.
Not today. Not here. Not now. I’m not going out like this. I’m bigger than him, more powerful too. He may have experience on me, but no one has what I have—grit and determination to see this to the bitter end. I begin to kick back with my legs, throwing them up in the air, wildly looking for something, anything, to hold on to. As he winds up for another punch, I manage to hook my knee around his face, causing him to lose balance and veer off to the side. The crowd again goes silent as the tides change within seconds. We both stumble to our feet, him still struggling to control his balance. And that’s when I see it—my opening.
I don’t bother standing up all the way. Instead, I lean over, my hand still on my knee, and I use everything in me to thrust my hand straight into his chest with my palm. He tips in the opposite direction, landing on his back. His head splashes into a fresh puddle as he cries out, but it’s too late for him. My boot nails him in the stomach and then the ribs. He lies part-facedown at my feet with his knees curled up to his stomach. I catch his face and then one of his shoulders. But it’s not until I get on my own knees and thrust my fist into his stomach that I hear the sound of air escaping his body in defeat.
Dig closes his eyes and rolls over onto his back. His hands open with his palms out and his legs go weak. Just like that, I’ve become the new President of the Carnivores MC.
Chapter Seven Rivet
I watch in helpless horror as Dig goes down hard. The sound of the club’s disbelief is like shattered glass falling to the ground with him. And the only thing left standing is the mountain of the man that is Bishop. Shirtless, bloody, and covered in rain and sweat, he sweeps his dark hair to the side and turns his head over his shoulder. Vic, the old man leading the show, runs to him and lifts his throbbing arm high in the air as if it’s one of those professional mixed martial arts fights we occasionally have on the flat-screen TVs hanging over the bar.
Vic’s voice sounds above everything else: “Gentlemen, may I present to you the new President of the Carnivores! Get your asses over here and take your oath to him. Now!”<
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His thin, droopy voice can’t hide his clear glee and excitement. It’s pretty damn obvious that he chose his side a long, long time ago. As he stares over the assembled crowd, he doesn’t even bother to give so much as a look back at Dig, who stumbles slowly and clumsily to his hands and feet with the help of some of his more faithful friends. The rest of the club looks around, waiting for someone to start… something. They all stand there kind of like idiots, mouths agape like they’ve never seen this kind of thing before. In fairness, they probably haven’t. But then, one by one, a wave of heads bobs down towards the ground as they take their knees to the cement, like they’re bowing before their new king in a play based on the life of King Arthur.
I know I should leave. At the very least, I should turn away. We women take our oaths to the club differently than the boys do. There’s this rather idiotic hazing initiation where they get us all liquored up—like, we’re talking out of our minds drunk—and then pass us around from guy to guy. It’s usually pretty harmless, just a bit of kissing and groping, but remembering what it was like with some of the stupid bastards at my initiation still sends shivers up my spine. Knowing what I know now, I’m not sure if I could go through it again.
HITMAN’S SURPRISE BABY: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Page 39
