by L. Wilder
Once we were parked, Country gave me a quick nod, then led me inside. As we entered the bar, several of the members turned and watched my approach with fierce expressions. I should’ve been intimidated as hell. Instead, I felt like my dreams were finally coming true, and I was trying my damnedest to contain my excitement as we made it over to his brothers. All eyes were on me as Country announced, “I’d like you boys to meet a friend of mine. I think he’d make a hell of a prospect.”
It was really happening. I was actually getting my chance. I thought nothing could put a damper on the moment, but I was wrong. One of the brothers gave me the once over before asking, “This friend of yours got a name?”
Before I could answer, Country reached over and placed his arm around my shoulder, pulling me to his side. “Yep. His name’s Ralph.”
Damn.
Country fucked me big time the day he’d told the guys my name, but he also had given me my in with the brothers and even volunteered to be my sponsor. Over the next year, I busted my ass trying to do whatever I could to prove I was an asset to the club—all the while listening to the guys call me Ralph at least a hundred times a day. In the end, it was all worth it. I’d gotten my patch, I’d become a Ruthless Sinner, and as an added bonus, the brothers finally stopped calling me Ralph and declared Rafe as my road name. I’d done what I’d set out to do, and life couldn’t be better.
Chapter 1
Rafe
“Damn, brother. You look like three shades of hell.” I walked behind the bar and grabbed a bottle of Tylenol off the counter. As I tossed it over to Lynch, I asked, “Have a long night?”
“Yeah, you could say that.” He groaned as he tossed back a couple of pain relievers and washed them down with his coffee. I wasn’t used to seeing Lynch look so rough. Normally, he was on top of his game, ready to face whatever came his way, but on this particular morning, he seemed to be struggling even to stay awake. He lowered his head in his hand and confessed, “I took Stacey home last night.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Um-hmm. Wasn’t sure she was all that interested in hooking up until we got over to her place.” He let out a deep breath, then shook his head. “Usually, she’s so quiet and sweet, but last night she was a fucking wildcat.”
“Gotta watch out for those quiet ones.”
“You’re telling me. She almost threw out my fucking back.” He looked up at me with tired eyes. “Not what I was expecting at all.”
Stacey was one of the strippers at Stilettos. She’d been working there for months but never really stuck around after her shift. She simply did her number, waited on her tables, and called it a night, so we all figured she had a fella or just wasn’t interested in hooking up with a brother. Lynch had just proven otherwise. I gave him a pat on the shoulder as I chuckled and said, “You could always give her another go and work out the kinks.”
“Fuck, no. I’ll just stick with the Tylenol for now.”
“Suit yourself.” I motioned my head towards the clock. “We’ve got church in five. Best be getting to the conference room.”
“Yeah, I know.” Sounding like a seventy-year-old man, he stood with an anguished groan and started for the door. “Let’s do this.”
Chuckling under my breath, I followed him down to the room. When we walked in, most of the brothers were already there. Viper, the club’s president, was at the front of the table with Axel, our VP, sitting next to him. I headed to my usual spot and sat down between Country and Hawk while Lynch wandered over and took a seat next to Shotgun. After a few moments of idle small talk, Viper slammed the gavel to start the meeting. His voice was low and steady as he started, “During our last meeting, we were all in agreement that McKinney had redeemed himself after giving us the information we needed to take out the Punishers; in return, we voted not to take him out.”
“Yeah,” Widow replied, “and Shotgun sent him packing.”
“He did, but before he left, he gave Shotgun one last piece of information you all need to be aware of.” Viper turned to Shotgun. “You want to share what he told you?”
Shotgun was the Sinners’ enforcer. He was in charge of keeping the club out of harm’s way, not only by brute force but also by retrieving intel from our adversaries. Shotgun’s tactics were often ruthless, but they were effective. He’d never failed to acquire any information we needed, and it was no different when it came to dealing with the Punishers.
They were a local gang who’d recently tried to take down the club. They’d tied up with a local cop, and together they’d decided they didn’t like the fact their competition was selling a better product. With the cop’s help, they tried to set us up and make it look like we’d killed Remington—a chick who would later become Shotgun’s ol’ lady. They’d roughed her up, stabbed her, and tossed her into our dumpster at Stilettos. Their plan backfired when Shotgun managed to get his hands on two of their members. One got a bullet between the eyes, while the other, McKinney, had given us information that eventually brought down their entire fucking gang.
Shotgun gave Viper a nod, then said, “As you all know, McKinney was very forthcoming from the start. He’d had his issues with the Punishers and wanted to walk away, but that couldn’t happen until we came into the picture. Like Viper mentioned, he gave us the intel on the warehouse and the Widow Maker, and because of that, we were able to take out the Punishers. Last night, he handed us one last piece of intel that has me concerned.”
“Concerned about what?”
“Not what. Who?” Shotgun corrected. “McKinney had already told me about Scar. He didn’t know much about him, just that he was the man behind the scenes, but on the way to the airport, he made a point to bring up the guy again. Said we needed to watch our backs and be prepared for a war like we’ve never seen before.”
“Damn. With our fucking luck, this guy is the head of some cartel or some bullshit like that.” Country shook his head and grumbled, “He’s liable to bend us over and fuck us in the goddamn ass and won’t even think about using fucking lube.”
“Nobody is gonna fuck us in the ass. Not now. Not ever,” Axel growled. “Furthermore, there’s no evidence that connects us to the Punishers or to that fucking Mathews. Billy made sure of it.”
“Yeah, I know Billy is the best at what he does, but a man like Scar is gonna have connections—the kind of connections that could have him easily putting two and two together. If that happens, we’ll have trouble knocking at our door.”
“So, what the fuck are we going to do about it?”
“For now, we’re going to tighten the reins,” Viper answered sternly. “Watch your back. Don’t take any unnecessary chances, and the girls will need to limit their sales to clients they know they can trust. No new buyers.”
Viper had always led with an iron first. He knew what was at stake and never failed to do what was best for the club. If he gave an order, I wouldn’t think twice about questioning him. Our VP, on the other hand, was there to make sure he was making the right call, so I wasn’t surprised when he asked, “You really think all that’s necessary?”
“Wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.” Viper looked to Axel as he continued, “I know it’s asking a lot. I know we’re gonna lose a shit-ton of revenue over this, but Menace is looking into this guy. As soon as we know more about what we’re dealing with, then we can consider reevaluating the situation.”
Hawk’s eyes narrowed. “But how’s Menace gonna find this guy when we don’t know anything about him? It’s like he’s a fucking ghost.”
“You’re right, he is. But McKinney mentioned a guy named James Schommer,” Shotgun replied. “McKinney said he’s our direct line to Scar.”
“Who the fuck is James Schommer?”
“Don’t know much, just that he’s some math professor or some shit like that.” Shotgun’s expression was filled with frustration as he shrugged. “Apparently, he’s the brains behind their operation and is in direct contact with Scar. When we find Schommer, we find
Scar.”
“Menace will track him down. Until he does, we do like I said. Buckle down and play it safe.”
I gave him a nod of assurance. “We’ll do whatever needs to be done.”
Viper stood as he ordered, “I want extra eyes on the girls at the club. You boys work it out among yourselves, but someone needs to be on the premises for every shift.”
“Understood.”
With that, he slammed the gavel down on the table and ended church. The guys slowly started to disperse from the conference room, and one by one we filed into the bar-- a place where we could talk freely about things without worrying about any civilians overhearing. I could tell by my brothers’ expressions they weren’t happy about the bomb Shotgun had dropped on us. Hell, I wasn’t thrilled about that shit either. We’d just spent the night before celebrating the fact we’d taken down the Punishers, so it was extremely disappointing to discover more trouble could be on its way. Widow was the first to voice his opinion on the matter.
He picked up an empty beer bottle and hurled it into the trash, the glass shattering against the metal container as he grumbled, “Guess there are worse things than hanging out in a strip club all the fucking time.”
“No doubt,” Country agreed. “Gotta love all the ass and titties, but it’d be even better if I was getting my dick wet while I was at it. But … hey, no man can have it all.”
“Fuck, the last thing you need to be worried about is gettin’ your dick wet,” Hawk bickered. “Hell, the way you’re always going at it, I’m surprised your shit hasn’t rotted the fuck off.”
“Raincoats, brother.” Country reached down and grabbed his junk. “Never take a dip without one.”
“Enough about Country and his fucking dick. We got real shit to discuss,” Shotgun barked. “Gotta figure out the schedule for the next couple of weeks. We’ve got ten hours to cover each night at both clubs, so we can either divide that shit up into shifts or take a full night. Need at least three of us there at all times. Four on the weekends.”
“I’m up for whatever,” Widow quickly replied. “Just tell me when to be there.”
“Same for me,” Hawk added.
“Good. I’ll make up a schedule and get it out to everyone. For now, go home and get some rest.” Shotgun glanced over at Lynch and added, “Looks like some of you could use it.”
It was clear from Shotgun’s expression that his statement wasn’t a suggestion but an order. No one complained; instead, we all left the bar and headed out to our bikes, each knowing the next few weeks were going to be long and brutal. We had no idea just how brutal, but we were about to find out.
