Monk by Ivy Black
Chapter Twenty-Five
Monk
“Are you being serious right now?” Prophet asks.
I nod, my expression grim. “Dead serious, man.”
“The fuckin’ Zavala cartel?”
I nod again. “Afraid so.”
He takes a long pull of his beer and shakes his head. “Shit. And I thought my luck sucked.”
After the run, I hightailed it back to the clubhouse, hoping to catch Prophet. Thankfully, I had a small bit of luck on my side for a change. The clubhouse is empty, save for the two of us, and we’re having a beer as I lay out the situation and what I need from him.
“Well, we’ve got rooms in the outbuildings. She can stay here as long as she needs to,” he says.
“Thanks, Prophet. That means a lot to me.”
He laughs. “I’m sure it means a lot more to her. Like I told you before, she seems like a good woman. She sure as hell doesn’t deserve the shit raining down on her right now.”
“That’s what I told her.”
He arches an eyebrow at me. “So, you handled your shit?”
“Didn’t fuck it up this time either.”
“That’s a good man,” he says, giving me a smile.
We drink in silence for a moment and I watch his expression darken. He turns his eyes to me again.
“She’s welcome here, man. But I gotta tell you, if those cartel sicarios show up, she may not be any safer here. When the bullets start flying, nobody’s safe, man. But you have my word, the Pharaohs will do whatever it takes to keep her safe.”
I extend my hand and he grips it tight. “I really appreciate it, man. You don’t know what your being willing to stick it out there for her means to me.”
“I have a pretty good idea of what she means to you. And to me, that makes her family. And we protect our own.”
The door to the clubhouse opens and Max walks in carrying a couple cases of beer to replenish the bar. I give him a nod, and he returns it.
“Seems like a decent kid,” Prophet says.
“I think so. I like him. And like most of us, he’s broken in some way. Needs the MC.”
The buzzing of an incoming text message interrupts my thoughts and I pull my phone out of my pocket. I unlock it and click on my text app, my blood instantly turning to ice in my veins.
“What is it?” Prophet asks, as if sensing my sudden tension.
“It’s a message from Kasey. She’s been taken.”
“What the fuck?”
I read him the message. “Jacob… taken by Spencer and Zavala’s man. Keeping me at the old Dutch Hunting Lodge. Help!”
“Son of a bitch,” Prophet growls.
“I need to get out there,” I say and get to my feet.
“Hold on there,” Prophet says as he jumps up and grabs my arm. “You can’t go chargin’ in there on your own.”
I shake my head. “I’m not going to ask you or any of the guys to roll into that with me. Too dangerous.”
“That’s your problem, kid. You always think you know what’s best for other people, and you think you can deal with everything on your own. It ain’t for you to say what somebody can and can’t do, will or won’t do.”
“Prophet—”
“Shut up, kid. You’re not the one callin’ the shots here. I am. And I told you we take care of our own,” Prophet says, his voice tight and gruff. “Hey Max, send out a message to everybody. Tell ’em it’s a 911 and to get to the clubhouse ASAP. And tell them to come strapped and ready for war.”
“On it,” Max calls from behind the bar.
“Prophet, I appreciate it. I do. But if anything happened to any one of you, I couldn’t live with myself.”
“And if anything happened to you—or Kasey—while we were all standin’ around with our thumbs up our asses, doin’ nothin’, there isn’t a man wearin’ our patch who could live with it. We’re family. This is how families roll. You got me, kid?”
The pride and emotion I feel in the moment are suffocating. To say I’m overwhelmed would be an understatement. This is exactly why I joined this club. Not because it caters to loners. Not because of the outlaw image or lifestyle. It’s because of this. This brotherhood. This display of family and loyalty right here. This is exactly everything I was searching for when I rotated home from Afghanistan.
I reach out and pull Prophet to me. I thump him on the back as I embrace him tightly. He hugs me back and tells me everything is going to be okay. And I believe him.
“Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt.”
Prophet and I take a step back and turn to see Max standing there in his black leather kutte, the only patch bearing the club name and location on the left-hand breast. He hasn’t even been given a nickname yet.
“What’s up, kid?” Prophet asks.
“I know I ain’t a full patch yet. I know I’m just a prospect. But I would really like to help. I’d really like to take up this fight with you guys,” he says.
“I appreciate it, Max. But you really don’t need to mix up in this,” I tell him.
“Fightin’ and killin’s the only thing I’ve ever been any good at. And not to brag or anything, but I’m really good at them. So please. Let me help.”
I turn to Prophet. “It’s your call.”
He eyes Max warily. “You sure you want in?”
Max nods. “One hundred percent.”
He walks to him and claps him on the shoulder. “Okay. Let’s do it then. Let’s make sure these fuckin’ cartel assholes know that Blue Rock is off limits to their kind.”
