Fire Meets Fire: Wretched Soulz MC

Chapter 31

Irap the gavel, bringing, or attempting to bring, the rag taggle group of bikers to order. They’re still full of excitement about the enrichment of our coffers, and full of ideas about buying new bikes. It’s been a hard job convincing everyone that we can’t just run out and spend our newfound riches, without drawing unwelcome attention of how we’ve suddenly been able to afford the better things in life.

Beard’s been helping us make good investments, and spending the money that comes via that route and legitimately to us. We’d made the right choices. The Dominators, undisciplined group that they are, immediately started splashing their windfall around, drawing the attention of the FBI who are always watching one-percenter clubs in the chance they slip up. Last I heard Ogre was firmly under investigation and, unable to explain the origin of the cash, was heading for a RICO indictment. Couldn’t happen to a better man in my book.

The thought makes the corners of my mouth automatically curve, but I bring myself back to the here and now as I see Claw trying to get my attention. I bang the table again to shut the assholes up so he can make himself heard.

Once there’s glorious silence, he wastes no time. “I’ve been looking at new premises. It’s in a better spot, gets a lot of footfall, should be able to expand the tattoo business. Maybe get another couple of ink slingers as well.”

“Everyone in agreement?” This is the kind of idea I’ve been looking for. Using the money to future proof the club.

We discuss that, then other business. Then when I think I’m going to be able to bring down the gavel for a final time, Weasel raises his hand.

“There’s that Soulz rally in California coming up.” He waves down the jeers. He doesn’t need to remind us, we’re all looking forward to that. He waits for the noise to subside, then asks, “Will old ladies be coming along?”

StoryTeller chuckles. “Yeah. But Sheri will be riding in the crash truck. Not having her on my bike when she’s pregnant.”

Weasel shakes his head as if he’s stating the obvious, and questions, “Helo?”

Not for the first time I note that while my woman’s Queenie in private, the brothers still use her handle as a mark of respect. And respect is certainly what they have for her. She’s probably the best mechanic we’ve ever had, being able to turn her hand to anything. For a moment I muse how she transformed Harold’s son’s bike. It’s just a fucking shame it hadn’t had the outcome we’d all ended up desiring. Her expertise, however, had made her a welcome, and permanent, fixture at the shop.

Realising I’ve zoned out, I pull my mind back to the here and now, and catch up on the conversation.

“…property rag, otherwise, she’ll be fair game. Prez has got to get his name on her.”

Pothead snorts. “My money’s on Helo if someone from another charter dares touch her.”

“That’s my point.” Legit bangs the table with his hand. “We’ll be mopping up blood—theirs, not ours—if she goes without any kind of ownership on her.”

Jesus.I stifle my laugh, realising the compliment they are paying to my woman. But it does make me think. I’d love to have my property patch on her, but Queenie’s not someone you own. I’ll never be good enough to deserve her, and I give thanks every day for whatever fates brought her my way.

“Okay,” I enter the conversation. “Are you fuckers suggesting that, if Helo comes to San Diego, she needs a patch?”

“We going to patch her in?” Mac innocently asks.

There’s a stunned silence. It had never crossed my mind to have a female member. Truthfully, if she had a dick, there’d be no question. She’s got all the qualities we’d look for in a brother.

“No fuckin’ way.” Bull’s the first to speak. “I have a fuck load of respect for her, but she ain’t a brother. She’s a bitch.”

“We’d be a fuckin’ laughingstock,” Fire states.

For a fleeting moment, I’d had a vision of her riding up front with the brothers. But there’s the rub. She can’t ride. And she’s not got the right equipment hanging between her legs. Two good reasons to exclude her. But hell, it fucking stinks. “She’ll go as my old lady.” I shut down this shit.

“So, she’ll need a property patch.” StoryTeller says through a laugh.

“Are you brave enough to tell her?” Claw directs the question to me with a smirk, miming slitting his throat.

“I want a front-row seat for that conversation.” Iron slaps the table, making some paperwork bounce.

I grimace. I can just imagine how that will go over. But they have got a point. While Queenie will fast disavow anyone for thinking her a sweet butt when we visit a different charter, she’s likely to speak with her fists if someone puts a hand on her. I have no doubt my woman can look after herself, but brothers in other charters aren’t going to look kindly on a club that can’t control their bitches. And that will blow back on the rest of us.

There’d be bloodshed and broken bones that’s for certain. On our fight nights there’s barely anyone who can take her. And on the firing range, we shoot beside her, but don’t let her enter our competitions at all. We’re men, for fuck’s sake, and we have to draw the line somewhere. Secretly we know she can outshoot any one of us.

A loud sniff makes me look up in time to see Skunk wiping his nose on his sleeve, then raising his hand. “I got a suggestion.”

“Hey, you got on new deodorant again?” Pothead asks from beside him. He sniffs the air. “You know, brother, for once you don’t smell too bad.”

“Sure have.” Skunk chuckles, bringing a roll-on out of his cut as if it was a prize possession. “It’s new forty-eight hour sports protection. I just have to apply it every couple of hours is all.”

I don’t need to ask if it’s another gift from Queenie. She’s made it her mission to find Skunk something that works. This must be try number fifty-two. It’s the little things like this that she does which have made my brothers as well as my self have high regard for her.

“What you thinking?” Bull asks the now, I think of it, fresher smelling man, when I’m too slow to.

“She has a rag with Chaz’s Queen written on it. Respectful to her, but shows ownership too.”

My eyes crease and my brow furrows. Not quite a property patch but will show who she belongs to. And it’s nothing but the truth. She is my queen, and I totally worship her.

“And,” Skunk continues, his gaze firmly on me, a side of his mouth suspiciously quirking. “She can carry a bag with the inscription, Chaz’s Balls.”

“Bag? Just a small pouch.” Fire interjects.

The table erupts. Beard snorts, Legend bends his head over, his belly laughs sounding loud. Claw’s trying to keep a straight face and StoryTeller’s trying hard not to crack up. Mac is regarding me carefully, our newest patched member not totally sure how I’m going to react, while Pothead just takes advantage of the break in proceedings to start rolling a joint.

“You fuckin’ done?” I roar, as the last of the laughter fades.

Luckily I’ve not completely lost my touch, as they go from yanking my chain to shifting uneasily in their seats. Skunk, in particular, seems to want to disappear into his.

“Yup,” Iron states, giving the table his best sergeant-at-arms glare. “I think they’re done, Prez.”

Thank fuck I haven’t lost my touch.

Momentarily I remember how at one point I thought I’d lost this, that I’d lost not only the respect of my club but also my patch. How I would have given it all up for Queenie.

But my brothers had come through for me. Lucky bastard that I am, I have everything.

I pick up the gavel and snarl. “Get out of my fuckin’ sight before I decide to prove to you all that my balls are firmly in the right place.”

I keep the stern expression and only grin when the room is empty.