Pacino tripped over his own feet, but what took him down to his back was Beck’s fingers wrapped around his throat.

He planted a knee in the asshole’s chest, got in his face and squeezed.

“What were you sayin’?” he whispered.

“Thro . . . Beck,” Web murmured from close.

Pacino kicking his feet, his fingers digging into Beck’s wrist, Beck asked, “What was comin’ outta your mouth?”

Pacino opened and closed that mouth, unable to get anything out, or any oxygen in, his face getting red, one hand went from Beck’s wrist to beat the floor as his body jerked viciously, fighting for air.

He should never have told them he was with Janna. She wanted nothing to do with the club, he should have made sure the club didn’t know she existed.

To keep face with them, show he was moving on from Rosalie, earn trust with sharing, keep them thinking with their dicks he was the big man, he got in with a girl in the porn scene, he’d shared.

Another lesson learned.

And time to right that mistake.

“You don’t even remember Janna exists,” he whispered. “You got me? You walk outta this room, she’s not even a memory. Confirm I’m heard.”

Frantically, Pacino nodded.

Beck gave it another five seconds.

He counted it out.

Slow.

When Pacino’s eyes started bugging, he put his weight in the man’s throat to push up.

He stood over him. “You better’ve just given me the honesty, brother. Anything happens to Janna, I swear to fuck, you’ll beg me to drag my knife from your balls to your gullet to end the pain I’ll bring.”

Pacino got on his ass and scrambled away, doing it until his back hit wall, grabbing his throat and sucking in air.

Beck didn’t move anything but his eyes, and he did that to follow him.

“Think that’s your cue to get the fuck outta here,” Eightball noted, and Beck tore his gaze off Pacino to see Eightball leaning a forearm into Spartan’s shoulder, boots crossed at the ankles, Spartan’s arms crossed on his chest, eyes on Pacino like he was fascinated by the workings of an ant.

Spartan was not a small man.

Jesus, Eightball was one tall motherfucker.

He hadn’t paid any attention to these men at all.

Lost in grief, his own mindfuck, like he’d done with Rosalie, he hadn’t paid any attention to his brothers at all.

Maybe, they were a lot like him. Maybe, dead-end jobs and kids wanting the latest smartphone and even shit dicking with their heads Beck had not made the effort to know, they’d looked for a brotherhood and found themselves on a path they didn’t want to be on and didn’t know how to get off.

Just like him.

But he didn’t know.

Because he hadn’t paid a lick of attention.

Beck looked back when Pacino struggled to his feet, drew in a big breath, two, before he sneered, “You bunch of big dumbfucks will be disbanded in a year. You don’t got what it takes to be an MC.”

“Funny, feels to me like the heavy that’s been weighing us down has just been lifted,” Griller remarked. “I feel like a flower blossoming.”

“The poet speaks,” Muzzle muttered with humor.

“Swaying in a light breeze,” Griller went on.

“Crazy fuck,” Core mumbled, but that mumble held amusement.

“Losers,” Pacino said under his breath as he moved to the door.

“Fucktard,” Eightball replied.

“Asshole!” Pacino shot back, standing at the door.

“Man, you aren’t gonna win this because, first, your ass ain’t out the door yet and it’s still out the door. Second, I’ve sunk my dick in pussy in the last decade, to be precise, this morning before I came here, I came in her, and you can’t get pussy unless you pay for it, which I think is half the definition of a fucktard. And third, you actually just are a fucktard,” Eightball returned.

Pacino scowled at Eightball before he gave his parting shot.

And it was the parting shot of a fucktard.

“I hope you all rot in hell.”

“That’s somethin’ a girl would say,” Rainman remarked.

Pacino slammed out the door.

“Digger, door works for you too,” Web noted.

That was when Beck turned to see Digger was standing, rooted to the spot.

“Digger, Resurrection meetings are for brothers only. You need to leave,” Web pushed.

“I don’t have my brothers, I don’t have dick,” Digger whispered.

“You shoulda thought of that before you offered us up to Lannigan,” Web returned.

“It was supposed to go good. It was supposed to be money. Bitches. Brothers. Outlaws,” Digger said.

“Maybe coulda been that, if we’d known what the fuck we were takin’ on and why. Lannigan has a beef against Chaos. He fucked you to get in that Club. Then he renounced that Club. Then he fucked you again to get back at that Club,” Beck reminded him. “That motherfucker doesn’t know what brotherhood is. He probably doesn’t even know how to spell it. He’s proved repeatedly he doesn’t know how to live it. And you laid us out for him.”

“I don’t have you, I don’t got dick,” Digger whispered.

“Think Pacino is lookin’ for a playmate,” Hardcore suggested.

Digger looked at Core with an expression on his face like he was about to get sick.

Then he hung his head and slowly walked to and out the door.

“Take the table, my brothers,” Web murmured.

They all moved to the table.

“Resurrection,” Web said after they all settled in.

Men cast glances at Beck.

Beck stared at Web.

“Righteousness,” Beck stated. “Clan. Honor. Respect. Allegiance.”

“Iustitia, Tribus, Honoris, Observantia, Fidelitas,” Griller muttered. “Though there’s a bunch of ets in the middle of those.”

“You havin’ a seizure?” Muzzle asked.

“Took Latin in in high school,” Griller returned. “Shit stuck.”

“We got our mission, brothers, we got our club,” Web announced, and his attention went back to Beck. “That tat you got on your arm, Beck, the one with the eyes staring through a helmet and mouth grill of flame. You think your artist would be down with designing our patch?”

She got paid enough, she’d be down for anything.

“Sure,” he answered.

“Get on that, brother,” Web ordered but added, “And check those translations. Not that I doubt Grill. But we’ve fucked up enough. Let’s at least get our motto right.”

Instead of sighing, Beck lifted his chin.

He had no idea how Lucas was going to take this.

He’d weakened a murderer.

But it seemed he’d accidentally strengthened his club.

It would go down how it went down. He couldn’t change it.

And he’d never been assured of not doing more time.

If he didn’t give the cops the club, and something they could use on Valenzuela, he’d just probably have to do more of it.

He’d always been down with that option.

He’d earned it.

But now there was Janna.

So now, for the first time, he hoped he didn’t get fucked.

Not for him.

Because if he did, she would too.

On his way home . . .

No.

On his way back to Janna’s, he pulled into the parking lot of a grocery store to a spot at the far end of the lot and stopped.

Not to call Lucas.

Because Hardcore had been following him since he left the old Kiwanis or Rotary club or whoever they’d bought that piece-of-shit, cinder-block nightmare from to make it their clubhouse.

Hardcore pulled in at the open spot in front of Beck and kept rolling until he’d stopped at Beck’s side.

He shut down his bike.

So Beck shut down his bike.

“Not a big fan of the tail, man,” he growled.

“Shit we landed on Rosalie was fucked up, brother,” Hardcore returned.

Beck stared at him.

“Lost Kiki ’cause a’ that,” Hardcore shared.

Beck knew Kiki was gone. But Hardcore went through pussy like water.