Chapter 3
Pope
What a goddamn fucked-up day. Pope headed for the bar the moment they entered Joker’s Wild and reached for the bottle of tequila he always kept hidden on the bottom shelf, right beside Mark’s favorite bottle of Scotch, which the Prez was already pouring from.
Night had hurried into the kitchen to start whipping up food for the guys, while Kazzy and Bellamy rounded the bar and started pouring drinks for the rest of the crew.
A presence at his side reminded him of the newcomer in their midst, and he straightened up and offered Ocean a drink.
“I’d love a beer, thanks,” Ocean replied.
The heavy tread of guys still filtering into the club, coupled with the pissed-off conversations going on around them, meant talking in here would be difficult. Fortunately, Mark nudged his shoulder before jerking his head in the direction of the hallway that led to the game room.
“Wreck went to get Dalton; Saint and the rest of the old guard will join us in the back,” Mark said. “We just need a gopher, since Scout’s down at the shop with Cody, Creature, and Sinn, assessing bikes and putting together a parts list.”
“From what I saw, they’ll have their hands full for the rest of the night,” Pope grumbled and stood with his bottle.
“Unfortunately,” Mark replied as movement along the edge of Pope’s vision drew his attention to Roan skulking around without the man whose side he was supposed to be glued to.
With Doc having set up shop in one of the crash rooms at the end of the hall, it had likely been too crowded for the kid to be allowed to remain when he wasn’t injured. It would be best to keep him busy before he gets himself in trouble again.
“Prospect!” Pope bellowed, “Get your ass over here!”
He’d started heading their way the moment he heard the word Prospect and stopped, hands behind his back, shoulders squared, when he presented himself to Pope.
Silent. Alert. Focused. He made eye contact with Pope first, since he’d been the one to summon him, then Mark, acknowledging his seniority and position of authority.
Only then did his gaze flicker to Ocean, widening a fraction, the tip of his pink tongue poking out as he eyed the newcomer up and down.
Not that Pope could blame him. Ocean was a beautiful blend of tanned skin, tattoos, and a lithe build perfect for riding the boards he’d had strapped to the top of his Jeep.
His t-shirt hugged his shoulders, showing off the definition beneath, right down to flat abs and a trim waist. The board shorts he wore allowed Pope to study the jellyfish tattoo wrapped around his calf, tentacles extended across his shin in pale purple and blue shades, like the Jeep he’d been driving.
He had other ink in similar shades, all sea creatures of some variety, including an octopus riding a surfboard on the side of his neck.
Sun-streaked blond hair cascaded over his shoulders in waves, while expressive green eyes took in everything around him, betraying nothing of his thoughts or impression of them.
He looked every inch the California surfer boy he was, and yet there was an edge to him that was all Rip, even if the man had passed out of his life two decades ago.
If anything, seeing him standing there was like being struck by déjà vu.
The last time he’d laid eyes on Rip, he’d been just about the age Ocean appeared to be now.
Same shade of hair, same glittering green eyes, and the same impressive collection of ink etched into skin sun-kissed from riding the waves.
And then it hit him.
“Oceanus Monroe,” Pope chuckled. “Son of a bitch.”
If Pope putting two and two together shocked him, Ocean didn’t let on.
Yeah, his old man had taught him well.
“Prospect, you have one job this afternoon,” Pope declared. “Keep the bruthas happy. Food, drinks, or whatever they need, you get for them. No fucking around, no delays; you keep your trap shut, your head down, and your ass out of everyone’s laps, understood?”
“Got it,” Roan replied.
“I hope so,” Mark declared, leading the way to the back.
Inside, Dalton’s wheelchair was parked in the corner, while the man sat in a plush, overstuffed chair to the left of the head of the table, across from Saint.
Weathered faces, bushy white beards, and long hair pulled back in silver ponytails, the men and women who sat around the table were what was left of the original crew, put together during Mark and Saint’s father’s days.
In the heyday of the club, they’d been true one percenters, everyone having put in the work to earn the patches on their backs in ways that had landed many of them behind bars.
Now, they were living history books, never failing to remind the younger members of the principals the Jokers had been founded on.
Family.
Community.
Freedom.
It was a tradition Pope was proud to be a part of.
Race had never mattered, nor had gender, the color of anyone’s skin, or who they chose to take to their bedrooms. Damn near everyone in the club was a kinky motherfucker who enjoyed utilizing the dungeon below the building and the live entertainment held there and at the Joker’s Delight.
They rode hard, they played hard, and they protected one another with a fierceness both feral and passionate, even when they were feuding with a club member.
Mark dragged an empty chair to the head of the table, sliding his to the side to make room for two of them there.
“Come on, kid, everyone’s dying to meet you,” Mark said, plopping in his seat once Ocean was seated in the one beside him.
Pope saw Roan produce a notepad from his back pocket and immediately start working his way around the room, quietly, efficiently writing down their requests to deliver to the bar. Mark waited for him to finish and leave the room before addressing those in attendance.
“Most of you know what happened this afternoon,” Mark began.
“Thanks to Ocean’s quick thinking in memorizing the license plates of the cars who caused it, we know who to deal with about the damages.
As fucked as the whole thing was, in the middle of all the bullshit, Ocean provided a first aid kit and helped patch up fallen riders.
Figured that earned him the right to ask all the questions about his old man he wanted the answers to. He’s Riptide’s son.”
“Those of you who still keep up with the competitive surfing scene might recognize him,” Pope said, filling the silence that followed Mark’s words. “Since he’s currently ranked number three in the world. Meet Oceanus Monroe.”
“Well, I’ll be goddamned,” Dalton said, leaning closer, before digging around in the pocket of his flannel shirt. “Confounded things, never where I put them.”
He finally located his glasses and slid them up his nose, amid the rumbling of other voices in various stages of recognition.
“Where’s your old man, son?” Jester asked. “Is he still kicking around California?”
“No sir,” Ocean replied. “He passed away when I was seven. Got caught in a riptide in Malibu and didn’t make it out.”
“Son of a bitch,” Mark muttered. “Could just as easily have happened the day he rescued my kid.”
“He was just a kid himself when that happened,” Dalton said. “No more than, what, fourteen or fifteen?”
“Fifteen,” Mark replied. “Outswam me to get to the boy and kept him safe while they were swept along for half a mile before he could swim clear of it.”
“I remember when he headed out to California,” Sunshine said, elbows propped on the table as she studied him. “Knew then and there that he’d never be back.”
“Mom loved it too much to ever agree to leave the beach house he’d built for her,” Ocean explained.
“She passed away last year, in her chair on the deck. She’d been sick for a while.
After they told her there was nothing more they could do for her, all she wanted was to go home, watch the waves, and wait for my old man to come back for her. ”
“Was she your only other family?” Jester asked.
“Yeah,” Ocean replied. “I had a brother, but he was born with a heart defect and passed away when he was three. It wasn’t long after that Dad drowned, so it was just her and I.
Pops had a bunch of scrapbooks though, of growing up out here.
There were a ton of photos of the club and guys on the beach surfing together.
He talked so much about the Outer Banks and the surfing there that when I had the chance to sign up for the Duck Pier Classic, I jumped at it so I’d finally have the chance to check out his hometown and see if I could learn more about him than what’s in those books. ”
“You’ve come to the right place, then,” Dalton said. “Though I thought the Classic was three months away.”
“It is,” Ocean replied. “But showing up a day or two before the opening to test out the waves for the first time sounded about as stupid as waiting until the day of an event to surf the North Shore.”
There were a couple chuckles around the table before Sunshine nodded. “Sound thinking, if not a little surprising seeing the way you surf.”
“My old man used to say that there was a thin line between calculated risk and insanity,” Ocean replied. “I might toe that line, but I never cross it.”
Pope chuckled, knowing the saying well. “You know where he got that, don’t you?”
“No sir,” Ocean replied. “But it’s embedded in my soul.”
“He got it from my gramps,” Pope explained. “He and your grandfather were tight before your grandparents passed away. Your dad and I spent a lot of days on the beach together with Jester’s daughter and Sunshine’s twins.”
“Wait, so you grew up together?” Ocean asked.