Twenty-Eight
"Don't fucking snap at me! Why are you snapping at me? If I wanted to be fucking snapped at, I could go home to my husband!"
"Jesus, woman, do you ever stop running that big mouth?"
He immediately realised he'd only gone and thrown gasoline on the proverbial fire when she turned on him, blue eyes blazing, and he actually took a step back out of the reach of those long, painted talons of hers.
"Don't seem to recall any complaints about my mouth when you had your dick in it," she seethed. "Remind me why the hell I ever thought this was a good idea?"
"Been asking myself the exact same thing," he shot back. "Bad enough knowing Johnny would straight up murder both of us, without having to listen to you bitching at me any chance you get! You were the one who wanted to teach the Sons some manners, or whatever the fuck your point was. Why you getting all pissy with me for doing what you damn well wanted?"
For once, she didn't actually seem to have an answer for that and he used the more or less welcome respite of her sulky silence to haul himself up from the couch and stomp over to the refrigerator to grab a beer. But no sooner had he sank back down against the cushions than he became aware of her glare and tut of disapproval.
"What now, for fuck's sake?" Mackenzie Rockwell demanded, throwing his hands up in something that could have been anger or surrender. "Stella, what? Can't a man have a beer in his own damn house without you tutting? Don't you think I need a damn beer with all this hanging over my head?"
"Oh, and that's my fault, is it?"
"Yes!" he all but yelled, incredulous that she couldn't see it. After all, it had been her bright idea to stir up a little trouble. Shake the branch that was the Sons of Anarchy, so to speak. See what fell out. Next thing he knew, he was swinging a baseball bat at a car. That was the power of Stella Quincy.
Not that he could tell her old man that, all things considered.
So when things hadn't played out exactly how they'd wanted and she'd gone crying home to Johnny with half-truths twisted into some tale of disrespect, the aggrieved War Boys president had ordered his sergeant to deal with it. Send a proper message. Like they didn't have enough to think about trying to keep the law off the scent of a flourishing little meth empire. Easy money, or so Johnny had said. Fuck that. He wasn't the one losing sleep trying to keep so many plates spinning.
But it was all snowballing again nonetheless. Escalating out of control. And then he was leading an attack in the dead of night, shooting up Sam's Yard and making a hasty exit. Left to wait for the Sons' to make the next move. For retaliation.
The waiting was the worst part.
But he'd already known that, hadn't he? Because he'd spent fucking months waiting for Johnny to catch on to the fact his sergeant had been screwing his wife. Waiting for it all to blow up in their faces. And when it did …
Boom.
"You sure you're gonna be well enough for this weekend?"
"What's this weekend?" Eden managed, looking up from where she'd been curled up on the couch since getting home from work exhausted, picking half-heartedly at the gently steaming bowl of homemade curry Seth had set down in front of her.
"Uh, another fight night? The fundraiser I've only been talking about all week?"
"For Joel's family," Eden sighed, realisation dawning on her. "Of course. Sorry, it just … slipped my mind. Of course, I'll be there. I already checked it doesn't clash with work and it's all good. You got yourself a medic."
"You still feeling off though?" her brother asked in concern, lifting her sock-covered feet so he could sit down before letting them drop back down into his lap. "You've hardly eaten anything - I thought you loved my curry. Although if your stomach's upset, I could heat you up some soup? Something lighter, less spicy …"
"The curry's great, honest. And I don't feel as bad, I just don't seem to have much of an appetite. Sorry."
"You look tired …"
"Women don't want to hear that, Seth," she said wryly, poking him with her toe.
"You push yourself too hard, kid. If this fundraiser's too much on top of your actual job, just say. I can find someone else. Don't want you burning out on me."
"No, I want to do it," Eden insisted. "I want to help. For Joel. I'll be fine. How's everything else looking? Do you need me to help with anything?"
"Nah, we're gold – it's all coming together. Decent line-up. Lot of people wanted to do something and with his background in boxing, this makes sense."
"Got any of the Sons roped in?" she asked, with an attempt at casualness than didn't quite hit the mark.
"Couple of them," Seth nodded, shooting her a little side-long look. "Got any in particular in mind?"
"Just wondered if Charlie was finally getting a crack in the ring …"
"Sure you did," Seth snorted. "And yeah, actually, he is. And no, Chibs is not on the fight card. Although I dunno what you were hoping for, so does that mean relief or disappointment?"
"Shut up," she muttered, shoving him with her foot.
"Right, next order o' business," Chibs said, from his rightful place at the head of the table, with Tig on his left, Happy on his right and the rest of the Sons in their usual spots. Usual was all a matter of perspective though. Part of him still found it jarring to be sat in that seat, to look around and not see the faces of brothers he had loved like blood for so long. Jax, Opie, Bobby …
He shook those thoughts off as he always did, before they could really take hold. Before the whole damn roll call of ghosts could spool out in front of him yet again.
"We all know Charming ain't ever been quite as sedate as some people would like to think, that it's got a dark underbelly just like anywhere else," the president started, weighing the gavel in his hands as he spoke. "Well, it looks like that dark underbelly's creeping through the cracks in the surface again. Bug?"
The intelligence officer nodded in acknowledgement, leaning forward to update the club as a whole on what he'd been working on.
"Yeah, so the boss had me looking into suggestions crystal meth's becoming a problem in town and the short answer is yeah," he said. "I mean, it don't look like we're talking Heisenberg levels here, but someone's definitely got a couple of fingers in that particular pie. Turns out there's been a spike in reports to police around possession and supplying, and a spike in both home invasions and raids on businesses where there's been at least a suspected drug connection – either those responsible have been suspected of looking to fund their next fix, or to have been off their fucking heads. Opportunistic shit. Chaotic. Not to be underestimated though. Desperation makes people dangerous."
"Some little bastard turned over Vee's place over this shit," Tig reminded them all, a hard glint in his blue eyes. "We ain't having it. Not in our town."
They all mumbled their agreement and Chibs' jaw tightened just a little, fervently wishing they'd held tight to that moral code of sorts when it had really mattered. Him included. Him especially. He should have tried harder to steer Jax right. Before they'd gotten sucked into a world of cartels and fucking rocket launchers and muling coke. But as long as it stayed out of Charming, right?
Only Charming had gotten just as bloody as anywhere else in the end.
But Bug was looking at him for the nod to continue, so he had to swallow that all down, along with his grief for those it had cost them and everything else he'd had to keep bottled up inside.
"I, uh, also tried digging around the medical side of things," Bug pushed on. "Real upward trajectory on overdoses, injuries where drug intoxication was a major contributing factor. So, all in all, yeah … Charming's got itself a nasty little drug problem."
"And we know just how nasty," Chibs said, his face grim. "A wee lad's dead. Twenty-three. One o' the Scrapyard's boxers. Good kid, by all accounts. So Tig's right. We ain't having it. Not on our turf. Family means something to this club. We ain't having good people burying kids before their time. We ain't having good people robbed, terrorised. We're shutting this shite down. All in favour?"
The ayes were unanimous.
Keen as Chibs was to have Samcro shut down Charming's meth problem, he wasn't about to underestimate those behind it. If their suspicions were right and this new generation of the War Boys were involved, it wasn't that they were particularly threatening in and of themselves – especially not compared to the shit the Sons had been forced to deal with in recent years. But they were volatile, disorganised, unpredictable.
That made them dangerous.
He was damn sure he hadn't survived this long and against such heavily stacked odds to be taken out by some fucking two-bit thug trying to make a name for himself and he wasn't going to allow that fate to befall any of his men either. They'd tread carefully. Only make a move when they were sure of their target.
It wasn't like they didn't have plenty of other things to keep them occupied in the meantime, manning the garage and their fledgling security business, checking in on Red Woody, supporting the Scrapyard's latest fight night. The latter was a popular move though. Sons were always keen for any excuse for a good old-fashioned fight and an excuse for a party and, once again, out-of-town members were descending on them for the occasion.
Leaning on the ropes of the main boxing ring at Seth's gym, Chibs watched on as Charlie sparred with Rogue River's sergeant, both of them focusing on agility rather than trying to hurt each other, given that both were signed up to the fight card.
"Told you the kid would come good," Seth said, appearing at the Samcro president's side. "Charlie's looking sharp, man."
"Helps that Knox don't slap him about like Tig," Chibs said wryly, but he acknowledged the truth in the statement too. "Credit where it's due – the lad's been working hard. Might actually be in with a chance."
"More than a chance, I'd say," Seth shrugged. "I'd put decent money on him. Tough opponent, solid, good stamina. But Charlie's got a determined streak, he's quick on his feet and he's starting to get some real power behind those punches. And Knox is … Knox. Dude don't know when to quit and he could fell fucking trees with those fists. Looking like a good night for Samcro."
The two men turned their attention back to the ring just in time to see Charlie catch the older, bigger man out with a light jab to the kidneys that would have really done some damage had they been putting any weight behind their punches. But Knox, knowing the young man needed his confidence boosting as much as anything they could do in terms of training, hammed it up, doubling over with a wounded "oof" before staggering back to raise his opponent's gloved fist in victory.
"And the crowd goes wild for the hometown hero!" he declared, his voice booming across the gym. "Charlie 'Hotshot' Hobart! Oh, see? The girls are gonna love ya, Charlie-Boy. Hey, gorgeous, you gonna save some of that love for a poor lonely visitor?"
Clapping her support for Charlie as she watched from outside the ropes on the far side of the ring, Eden just grinned up at the dark-haired Rogue River sergeant as he threw her a wink, unaware of the little frown knitting Chibs' brows at the flirtatious interaction.
"Ain't like she's spoken for …" came Seth's dry reminder by his ear. "Right?"
"Right," Chibs muttered.
Fight night rolled around quickly and once again the Scrapyard was packed out with the supporters. The death of Joel DeLuca had touched a nerve in the town, especially with his family being well-established in the community, running a popular little bar and restaurant that had been passed down from Joel's grandparents. It had been closed ever since, his parents too grief-stricken to face opening up, and the money raised would go towards funeral costs and helping them get by until they could somehow piece what was left of their shattered world back together again.
"Be almost worth getting beat bloody …" Knox mused, leaning back against the wall as he sat on a bench in the room allocated to the next fighters up while Chibs strapped his hands.
"What?" the Scotsman said, having zoned out of the conversation to focus on the job in hand.
Knox simply nodded in the direction he was staring. "For some tender loving care - heavy on the loving, easy on the care. Hey, I heard you hit that and quit it, man. Gotta say, I ain't sure if you're my goddamn hero or just a fucking idiot. No offence."
Chibs glanced around, catching sight of Eden checking over another fighter who'd picked up a small cut while practicing just before his fight and his jaw tightened as he went back to ensuring his brother's fists were securely wrapped before jamming on his gloves and starting to lace them.
"So, she's fair game now, right? I mean, I respect the hell outta Seth and I do still owe him for what went down in San Quentin, so I ain't saying I'd definitely make a move ... But damn, the things I could do to that hot little body-"
"Knox?"
"Yeah, buddy?"
"I love you, brother, but if you even think about touching her, I'll take these gloves back off and snap every one o' yer motherfucking fingers," Chibs said, his voice low and a tight smile on his scarred face. "Clear?"
"Fucking crystal," Knox grinned, his cheery reaction drawing only confusion. "Hey, if I get my bell rung in this fucking fight, tell Lyla she was right for me, will ya?"
"What? Right about what?"
Knox smirked, pretending to catch Chibs with a glove to the side of the head, just giving him a gentle tap. "Quit over-thinking it, Pres," he shrugged, rolling out his shoulder muscles as he stood to get ready to make his way to the ring. "Step the fuck up. Before someone else does."
"Knox?"
"All yours, beautiful," he declared, raising a challenging eyebrow in Chibs' direction before flashing a killer smile at Eden as she called to get him ready to head out. "Where d'ya want me?"
Chibs' scowl only deepened.
