BUTCHER: Wolves MC (Riding With Wolves Book 3) by Faith Winslow Page B
Authors: Faith Winslow
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day. I put a call into our gang boss and got the ‘OK’ to proceed, then I put some more calls into my brothers to get them on the job with me.
“Within two days, we found out who was getting Carrie her smack from—a lowlife, piece-of-shit drug dealer named Tony Ink. He was no stranger to the Wolves and was already one of our targets. He supplied dope to a lot of young girls in Central and West L.A. at the time and was turning a lot of them out, working them as hookers for his evolving side gig as a pimp.
“Luckily, he hadn’t gotten Carrie into hooking yet, since she was only seventeen, but he had five other girls who were of-age, who weren’t so lucky… So needless to say, he was a troublemaker, a scumbag, and he needed to be stopped. Carrie was just the icing on the cake.
“It took about two weeks for us to work things out with Tony. We strong-armed him into getting out of the dope scene, to focus exclusively on selling pot. It wasn’t an easy sell, and some consolations had to be made, on all parts, but in the end, we got him to stop pushin’ smack, and we were able to convince him to let us ‘have’ Carrie and three of the other girls he had under his thumb.”
Butcher had just explained what some would consider an amazing, extraordinary feat. But regardless, he looked rather sad as he recounted this part of his story. And although I didn’t know him that well, I was able to surmise why. He mentioned Carrie and three other girls, which meant that there were two the Wolves couldn’t ‘save,’ for whatever reason—and the sadness on his face was lamenting this fact.
“We got Carrie and the other girls into rehab centers,” Butcher said, shaking off his sorrow. “But I took a special interest in Carrie, because of Dora, and I made sure that she had someone who could understand her and her situation, as much as possible, the whole time.
“Sam Hammond—who you mentioned earlier—has a younger sister who was once hooked on dope, and she took Carrie under her wing and taught her everything she knew about living sober and moving on.”
Butcher stepped even closer to the large window. He straightened out his posture and gazed in, with a look of pride and sentimentality on his face.
“Now, four years later,” he said, beaming, “look at her. Look at her healthy, full figure, her glowing happy face. She works in this diner every day. She goes to college, part-time, at UCLA, and writes poetry in her spare time.
“But, most importantly, she’s alive. She’s alive and well. And so is her mother. I helped make sure of that—and by God, I’d do it again. Tony Ink could’ve offed me—and in the future, I guess any punk could… But look at them. Look at Carrie. Look at Dora. Look at all the people they feed and serve. My life would be a small sacrifice for all of them.”
Something inside of me—my heart, perhaps—tightened, throbbed, and expanded again as Butcher said what he said. He said something we all wish we could say about self-sacrifice, which is something few of us actually ever have to do to such lengths. I admired him for what he had done. But still, it frightened me to no end.
“You’re only looking at what’s going on inside the window though,” I said.
Butcher looked at me, and his expression asked me to explain.
“You saved Carrie from dope,” I went on. “You saved her mother from a lot of grief, suffering, and loss. And sure you helped their customers, too—as well as all their friends, family members, and other people involved in their lives. But what about the people involved in yours ?
“Wouldn’t there be grief, suffering, and loss if, for whatever reason, you died? Wouldn’t your parents miss you? What if you had a wife—or a child? How would they go on without you? Who would take care of them ?”
“No death is ever really a good thing, Lexi,” Butcher replied, shaking his head. He walked away from the window, towards the corner. “There’s always
“Within two days, we found out who was getting Carrie her smack from—a lowlife, piece-of-shit drug dealer named Tony Ink. He was no stranger to the Wolves and was already one of our targets. He supplied dope to a lot of young girls in Central and West L.A. at the time and was turning a lot of them out, working them as hookers for his evolving side gig as a pimp.
“Luckily, he hadn’t gotten Carrie into hooking yet, since she was only seventeen, but he had five other girls who were of-age, who weren’t so lucky… So needless to say, he was a troublemaker, a scumbag, and he needed to be stopped. Carrie was just the icing on the cake.
“It took about two weeks for us to work things out with Tony. We strong-armed him into getting out of the dope scene, to focus exclusively on selling pot. It wasn’t an easy sell, and some consolations had to be made, on all parts, but in the end, we got him to stop pushin’ smack, and we were able to convince him to let us ‘have’ Carrie and three of the other girls he had under his thumb.”
Butcher had just explained what some would consider an amazing, extraordinary feat. But regardless, he looked rather sad as he recounted this part of his story. And although I didn’t know him that well, I was able to surmise why. He mentioned Carrie and three other girls, which meant that there were two the Wolves couldn’t ‘save,’ for whatever reason—and the sadness on his face was lamenting this fact.
“We got Carrie and the other girls into rehab centers,” Butcher said, shaking off his sorrow. “But I took a special interest in Carrie, because of Dora, and I made sure that she had someone who could understand her and her situation, as much as possible, the whole time.
“Sam Hammond—who you mentioned earlier—has a younger sister who was once hooked on dope, and she took Carrie under her wing and taught her everything she knew about living sober and moving on.”
Butcher stepped even closer to the large window. He straightened out his posture and gazed in, with a look of pride and sentimentality on his face.
“Now, four years later,” he said, beaming, “look at her. Look at her healthy, full figure, her glowing happy face. She works in this diner every day. She goes to college, part-time, at UCLA, and writes poetry in her spare time.
“But, most importantly, she’s alive. She’s alive and well. And so is her mother. I helped make sure of that—and by God, I’d do it again. Tony Ink could’ve offed me—and in the future, I guess any punk could… But look at them. Look at Carrie. Look at Dora. Look at all the people they feed and serve. My life would be a small sacrifice for all of them.”
Something inside of me—my heart, perhaps—tightened, throbbed, and expanded again as Butcher said what he said. He said something we all wish we could say about self-sacrifice, which is something few of us actually ever have to do to such lengths. I admired him for what he had done. But still, it frightened me to no end.
“You’re only looking at what’s going on inside the window though,” I said.
Butcher looked at me, and his expression asked me to explain.
“You saved Carrie from dope,” I went on. “You saved her mother from a lot of grief, suffering, and loss. And sure you helped their customers, too—as well as all their friends, family members, and other people involved in their lives. But what about the people involved in yours ?
“Wouldn’t there be grief, suffering, and loss if, for whatever reason, you died? Wouldn’t your parents miss you? What if you had a wife—or a child? How would they go on without you? Who would take care of them ?”
“No death is ever really a good thing, Lexi,” Butcher replied, shaking his head. He walked away from the window, towards the corner. “There’s always
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