“What’s that mean?” Mason laughed as he reached out to grip Bones’ hand, pulling him in for a one-armed clinch.
“I had heard he was big, which he is, and fierce, which he also looks to be, but I had also heard he was politically astute, sidestepping many of the traps most prospects find themselves falling afoul of.” Bones tsk-tsked and shook his head. “At the moment, he looks as if he ran headfirst into several fists, which would only happen if he had miscalculated greatly. That means his political sense is less than advertised.” Bones tsk-tsked again, then grinned. “This makes me happy because LEO should not be so smart.”
“Hate to burst your bubble, Bones, but Tatum here is as good as you’ve heard. This”—without turning, Mason gestured behind him toward Doug—“was a mistake on the part of another member. Not Tatum’s gig.”
“That is too bad.” Bones shook his head, then grinned, his teeth startlingly white against his dusky and tattooed face. “But perhaps it is good for you. If a man is smart enough to cross the divide from his past life to a new one offered by a club as honorable as the Rebels, then he should also be smart enough to hold his place. Tell me, friend, why it is the RWMC always scoops up the good ones?”
“Because I’m smarter than you are?” Mason laughed, and the two men turned, walking towards the bar and passing out of earshot in moments.
Tugboat turned and stared at Doug. “You gonna come in?”
Even before he finished his question, Doug was gingerly shaking his head. “My assignment, until relieved, is this pole.”
Red scoffed, and Doug twisted to see him rolling his eyes. “You need stitches, Tatum. Come inside. I got a kit in the back. You stand out here and your face’ll swell, and then I can’t fuckin’ stitch your shit up. Let’s get this over with.”
Doug took in a breath that hitched with pain and then angled his head, asking, “That an order, patch holder?”
“Jesus, kid. Yes, you need it to be, it’s a fuckin’ order.” Tugboat chuckled as he gestured towards the bar. “Ain’t anyone gonna bother Rebel shit on the lot of the Rebel’s main bar. Now Bones—” He paused and pointed towards a man standing near a cluster of bikes parked in one corner. “—is smart. He ain’t on his patch, so he always decides to leave a man out here. Don’t need to, but he does it because some of the clubs here ain’t friendly with his crew. Rebels? Worth a man’s life fucking with our shit here. So yeah, it’s a fucking order.”
“In that case, think I can manage walking inside.” He took a step and wavered before catching his balance. “Only just, but I can manage.”
***
“I know what I said, Tatum.” Mason shook his head, the smallest quirk of his lips giving the lie to the terse tone he’d adopted the moment Doug had tried to argue with him. “And I know what I’m fucking saying now, brother.” The warmth that word carried crept up Doug’s chest, heating him from inside how a man like Mason could call him family. It was something Doug had needed for so long, and these days, he cherished it every frequent time it came.
Doug had spent ten months as an RWMC prospect, and it had been a long time since the day Pike had dragged his ass back to Missouri, tail between his legs. Doug had no illusions that would be his last encounter with the man, but at least for the time being Pike had his hands full. Conducting a defense of his territory against encroaching clubs meant Pike was spinning round and round trying to keep his shit together. The worst news from the region had been the sheer numbers of men petitioning to leave the St. Louis chapter. Probably not something Doug should even know about, but Tugboat had been free with the updates he’d shared, clinking bottles with Doug more than once about how yet another chapter gained a good, solid, and loyal member while Pike was left twisting in the wind. Seemed Doug wasn’t the only one who didn’t like the man at all.
Healing from Pike’s beating took longer than he’d wanted, the slow recovery of fractures of his ribs and cheekbones plagued him for weeks before he could eat or breathe without discomfort. Mason had ruled on the altercation in a closed church to which Doug was not granted entrance, and the verbal reports that came out of the room that day had noted the depth of his trust and belief in Doug. Those words had helped more than anything with healing, because hurt or not, prospects drew the shit jobs. Still, the shit jobs assigned afterwards looked easy when compared to what had come before. No more cleaning the head after a club party, and no more toothbrush rim polish parties. No, since then he’d been tending bar at the clubhouse and running security at Tupelo’s, another of the Rebel bars in town. Easy jobs, all of them.
What meant so much more than the jobs themselves had been the chance for Doug to get to know even more of the Rebel membership. Every week Mason paired him with a different crew, admonishing him to watch and learn, and he had. Chapter officers, roaming members, support clubs, friendly clubs—he’d studied everything put in front of him even more avidly than he’d applied himself to the online classwork Myron had hooked him up with. Mason wasn’t happy with him having half an MBA, something he’d half-assed his way through after coming back from California so long ago. At the rate Myron shoved textbooks in his hands, he’d finish out his degree within the year.
And now Mason was sitting across from him at a table in the Jackson’s telling Doug he wanted him back in Fort Wayne. A place where his face was too well known by LEO for all the wrong reasons, but also a place where he’d built a tight friendship with the Rebel chapter. On the one hand, it made the most sense, but on the other…
“Prez, I don’t wanna argue with you, and I won’t, but have you thought this through?” Doug’s head snapped to the left when Tugboat’s abrupt laughter boiled free. He glared at the man. “What the fuck are you laughing at, OG?”
“The idea Mason hasn’t already considered every angle of this ask. Jesus, kid, I thought you were supposed to be the up-and-coming new guard.” Tug laughed again, his hand shaking with the force of it as he lifted his beer for a drink. “Fuck, that shit’s funny.” He swiped at the foam in his mustache as he pitched his voice higher, still laughing as he mocked Doug’s words, “’Have you thought this through?’ Jesus, you’re hilarious, kid.”
“Gimme a reason not to move you. Give me a good one and I’ll consider it. You got one shot at this, Tatum.” Mason dangled his beer between finger and thumb, corner of his mouth tipped up in a grin. “Convince me. Gimme your best shot.”
It still pinged as wrong for the club members he knew and trusted to call him by name. Too much like being called out by the captain in the squad room, or the bullpen. As if his hard-earned detective title hadn’t been enough to warrant a second thought. Not that he wanted to be reminded about Winger every day, the pain was still too fresh, but hearing an occasional Lawman would have evened the playing field.
“If I go back to the Fort, there’s risk of attention to the club because of who I am. There’s no running from my past career, and I wouldn’t want to, because there’s a lot of work I did I’m proud of. We’ve talked about my time in Cali, and how we stopped a credible terrorist threat. I’m also proud of my efforts to stop the human trafficking highway running up through Indiana. But me being back and wearing an RWMC vest has the probable chance of drawing notice.” Doug didn’t look away, kept his gaze on Mason as he waited for a response. When none was forthcoming, he kept going. “I remain unconvinced any benefit from my skills or knowledge isn’t offset by that risk.”
“And I disagree with your opinion. I’m not talking today, but soon, brother. How long you got until you’re done with school?” Mason tipped his chin up as he drank, eyeing Doug over the top of the beer.
“Not long.”
“I need you in the Fort.”
Doug sighed and let his gaze roam the bar for a moment. Three men who’d entered a few minutes ago were standing at a pool table in the back, clustered near the cue rack on the wall. Cutting his gaze to where Slate stood against one wall, he caught his eye and angled his head, waiting until he got a nod in respo
nse. Gaze back to Mason he was surprised at the broad grin in place on the man’s face.
“That right there? That’s why I need you.” Mason leaned back, hooking one elbow over the arm of the chair. “Don’t tell Slate, but he’s stepping up sooner than you.” Grinning at Tugboat, Mason continued, “Tomorrow night? I think tomorrow night’s about right for Slate.” Tug nodded, and Mason looked back at Doug. “And I need you to have his back, brother. He’s gonna need men he trusts to do what’s needed, and he trusts you a fair measure. You’ve been in the Fort, you know how it is there. You know the climate when it comes to the River Riders.” He mentioned another club in Fort Wayne the Rebels were friendly with, but held separate from. There’d been no conversation about rolling them into the Rebels, not like with Winger’s little riding club. The distinction wasn’t lost on Doug, and he wondered about the real politics behind the separation, putting those thoughts aside for now.
“So you want me to back Slate up, is that it?” He could get behind the idea. Doug liked he’d found a fast friend in a man who’d been a prospect not long before him. Andy, Slate’s government name, had rolled all across the states looking for a home before finding it in the Rebels. With him, more than almost anyone else, Doug felt a sense of kinship—that brotherhood he wanted. They’d rolled on club business more than once over the past months, and he trusted Slate with his life, knowing the sentiment was returned.
“More than that. We’ve got a couple of businesses there, and I plan on adding to them. We’re also working hard to lure the bike guy from Norfolk to roll another garage here, which would mean I’ve got a couple of mechanics I can spin down to Indiana. Got a lot of pieces in play, and knowing you’d be waiting is key.” Mason set his empty on the table, picking at the edge of the surface with one thumbnail before he cut his eyes up to meet Doug’s. “And you understand this isn’t actually a request, right?” A pause, then with heavy emphasis, Mason added, “Brother.”
“I’ll do what’s needed, Prez. You know I will.” Doug sighed as he acquiesced gracefully. “I appreciate the chat, I know you don’t put up with a lot of shit from folks, and I was pushing hard. Sorry, boss.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. It’s your job to raise the questions, but it’s also your job to understand when the time for talking is over.” Doug nodded and Mason grinned, then shouted, “Need some beers over here.”
A woman’s voice responded, and Doug looked at the bar in time to see Slate moving quickly across the floor, headed towards the men he’d noticed earlier. Slate got in one man’s face, crowding him backwards and Doug stood, watching tensely until the man’s posture relaxed, turning apologetic. All three men turned and walked out, their path steering clear of the waitress bringing beers to Mason’s table. Slate trailed them out, and then came back to pull up a chair at the table.
“Fuck me. I’m so goddamned tired of wannabe bullshit I cannot even fucking explain the exhaustion.” He tapped the table and the waitress nodded before walking away, understanding his demand. “Those boys said they came down from Milwaukee, said they were told this was the place to score in town. Specifically, Jackson’s. Right fucking here in our goddamned house.”
Doug watched as Mason’s expression hardened, going from jovial, to fierce and angry within a breath. Drugs were one of the three things he didn’t allow in the club businesses, unlike many clubs. Flesh trade and military grade weapons were the other two, and Doug had found he had no problem at all getting behind the ban on all three. So, knowing what he did, the fact someone sent those men down from Milwaukee with a false story was telling. “We got trouble brewing, boss?”
“Probably. Mange ain’t got the sense God gave a goddamned goose, and it’d be just like him to want to piss me off today.” Pulling in a deep breath, Mason rolled his shoulders. “Mange or Hawk, because those fucking assholes can’t plan their way out of a wet paper bag. Fuck, Slate. They say anything else?” Slate shook his head. “Okay, I’ll get on the horn in a bit, see what I can shake out. Pisses me off.” He leveled a finger to point at Doug. “Trap—shut. Make your plans, brother. This is your official, goddamned notice.”
Doug nodded.
***
Standing on the curb in front of a Fort Wayne strip joint owned by the club, Doug checked his phone for the third time. Slate was supposed to be incoming to pick him up with the intent to take him back to the clubhouse where Doug’s bike was. Doug had ridden to the business that morning with DeeDee, Winger’s widow. She lived in the clubhouse, something Doug still struggled to understand, and managed this business for the club, hiring bartenders, wait staff, and talent along with running the day-to-day stuff. Myron had asked him to go through the books with DeeDee, and he had, finding everything not only in order, but a great example for how things could be done better at a couple other of the club’s businesses.
Now, he was tired and hungry, and ready to head back to the clubhouse. It was strange being back in town. Familiar in ways he didn’t expect, and easier in others.
Like the clubhouse.
Without Winger, it was a strangely somber place.
Before he’d died, Winger and DeeDee would hang out until the party got going and then leave, usually taking their daughter Lockee, and her best friend, Melanie, with them. Now, with DeeDee and Melanie living in the clubhouse, most nights it was them heading to their suite that signaled the start of the real party.
The sound of an engine caught his attention and he looked up to see a run-down truck turning into the lot, Slate’s face grinning from behind the wheel. Rolling his eyes as he swung into the passenger seat, Doug settled himself before asking, “Where did you dig up this piece of crap?”
“Oh, hey now. I’m offended.” Grinding the transmission hard between first and second gears, Slate pulled onto the street and headed north, the opposite direction from the clubhouse. “Mostly offended.” The light ahead of them turned amber just as he jammed the gearshift into third, grinding gears again. “Slightly at least. I’m definitely slightly offended.” A high-pitched squeal accompanied the firm use of the truck’s brakes, and Doug winced at the noise.
“Where are we going? Brother, I haven’t had dinner yet.” There was no immediate answer as the light turned green and Doug watched as the strip malls and shopping plazas slipped past, the road leading them farther and farther out of town. “Seriously, Slate. Where are we going?”
“We’re—” Slate paused as he downshifted, the transmission complaining again at his handling of the clutch and stick shift. “We’re headed to pick up something for tonight. I needed the cargo room and muscle.”
“Okay.” Not that my agreement was needed. Doug shook his head as he looked out the windows, noting they were out of town and headed into the country now.
Two hours later, Doug was sweating and cursing as he and another prospect tried to wrestle an enormous karaoke machine into the clubhouse. It had taken him and Slate a solid twenty minutes to wedge it into the bed of the truck and strap it down, but now was taking twice as long to get it through the various doorways and hallway needed to finally make it to the main room.
Another hour passed before things were organized how Slate wanted, and finally, Doug got the go-ahead to collapse into one of the sofas ringing the room. Cold beer in hand, he watched as several men wandered up to where Slate stood next to Deke, flipping through the notebook of songs. According to them, this was a mandatory party, which meant Doug couldn’t hole up in his room tonight, no matter how tired he was.
Bingo sank onto the cushion to Doug’s left, pointing with the bottle he held as he grinned at the parade of men making their way between the bar and the music machine. “We haven’t done one of these in a long time. Glad to see Slate and Deke are bringing it all back.” This was another change. Bingo was now a past president, and Slate—fucking Slate who couldn’t seem to shift a truck to save his life—held the office of chapter president. He’d brought in more new members, and a couple of newer prospects who ranked lower t
han Doug did on the organization tree. Slate had also approved the acquisition of new businesses, one of them a pretty little family-owned bar called Marie’s.
Bingo passed the bottle to Doug who looked at the level, seeing the whiskey had been recently opened. He lifted it and took a swig, then a second one before passing it back. “Y’all do this a lot?” That would be a surprise, given the parties he’d been allowed to attend back when Winger was part of the club. “I don’t remember a karaoke night ever.”
“Been a while. Winger used to do it for his riding club. They’d bet on songs, drawing titles from a bowl. Always loved watching the guys make fools out of themselves.” Bingo lifted the bottle and drank, then passed it back to Doug. “We’re gonna have a party tonight. One for the books, I reckon.”
Taking a long sip from the mouth of the bottle, Doug settled it between his thighs while he drained his beer, setting the empty on the floor beside the couch. Bingo leaned over and bumped Doug’s shoulder as he climbed to his feet. “I’m just gonna go check on how things are going in the kitchen. Ruby’s got the girls cooking.”
“Ruby?” Doug looked up, already feeling effects from the whiskey, a solid coal of heat that had settled in his belly. “Want your booze, old man?” He lifted the bottle and rolled his eyes when Bingo waved it off with a broad grin. “Who’s Ruby?”
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