Page 47 of Sinner's Malice
“He say where he was?”
“No. It wasn’t a cordial chat. He said Popeye has something on me.”
“He say what?”
Bane shook his head.
“Any idea what that fucker might have on you?”
“No.”
Sitting at the table, watching the two of them, I wondered if either of them realized just how alike they were? Both men were stubborn as hell, opinionated, the best at what they did, and both were the biggest pains in the ass. Dealing with one was bad enough, but if they ever sorted their shit and banded together, they would be unstoppable.
“Well.” Montana sighed. “Malice wouldn’t just call to chew the fat. If he called, then he believes Popeye has something.”
“Silver said the same thing.”
Montana looked at me and winked. “My girl knows her shit.”
“Problem is, I don’t know what Popeye would have. It’s not like I’m an active brother in this club anymore.”
“You used to be,” Montana challenged, daring Bane to object.
“That was a long time ago, Montana.” Bane sighed.
“Wasn’t that long ago, brother, and not because of us. You distanced yourself all on your own. That’s on you.”
“Really?” Bane huffed. “You really want to bring that shit up now?”
“Just saying—”
I groaned loudly.
“Enough. No fighting. I mean it. I haven’t had enough coffee and, Montana, you are holding York. Kid is too damn young to hear his father lose his shit, and you,” I accused, pointing a finger at Bane. “Stop antagonizing him. You need his help, and you know it.”
The second Montana sent out the call, the board members started arriving. None of them looked happy to be at the clubhouse so damn early in the morning, and I didn’t blame them. It was fucking Saturday. They should have been able to sleep in and spend time with their families. Instead, they were here, wondering what the hell was going on.
The first to arrive was Mercy.
“You cockblocker. This better be fucking good,” the man complained, glaring at Montana who, after taking York back upstairs to sleep, returned and plopped his ass at the table, sitting next to Bane, who still hadn’t moved. “Do you know how hard it is to get alone time with my wife, asshole? We had the entire penthouse to ourselves this morning!”
“Malice called.”
“So?”
“Popeye has something on Bane.”
“And?”
“And Bane needs our help.”
“Then fucking help him. He’s your friend!”
Before Montana could reply, in stumbled Payne, who still looked drunk off his ass and half dead to the world. Staggering over to the nearest chair, he sat down and laid his head on the tabletop.
“You okay over there, Payne?” Bane asked, concerned, getting to his feet so he could check on the very drunk brother.
“Who died?”