Chapter 1
(Butcher)
The rumble of thirty bikes roaring into a parking lot turned heads, especially when people saw the emblem on the kuttes of the men Garrett was riding with.
Leering Joker face
Exploding dice.
Colorful assortment of patches.
Menacing road names.
And somehow Garrett had wound up with one of the most terrifying monikers of them all based solely on his former vocation.
Butcher.
Had a roof not crumbled around his ears, he’d have still been behind the meat counter instead of standing on sandy asphalt surrounded by more leather and chains than he’d ever seen in one place in his life, which was saying something, considering the places he’d frequented in his younger days.
The average goth kid had nothing on these guys when it came to ink and metal, and not just the pieces connecting their wallets to their jeans either.
The collection of piercings in the flesh of those around him rivaled that of a metal video, though having discovered that the club owned a tattoo parlor and piercing shop, in addition to the strip club Butcher now worked as a bouncer at, had been somewhat mind-blowing.
A metal fabrication shop, a garage that specialized in motorcycles and classic cars, a bakery, a diner, and those were just a handful of the businesses owned and run by the club.
Learning that the Rollin’ Jokers weren’t the one percenters that they used to be had gone a long way toward easing the concerns he’d had about riding with them.
Or accepting the job they offered when he’d complained about being stuck sitting on his ass while waiting for the grocery store to reopen.
Hell, Mark had rubbed his chin and mused about the town maybe being able to use a meat market if Garrett were interested in continuing his former line of work.
The man was constantly on the lookout for a new venture and shrewd enough that Garrett already knew he’d do more investigating into whether or not the folks of Emerald Cove would be interested in one.
Garrett had turned him down with his thanks and accepted the position at Jester’s Delight instead, grateful for the opportunity to do something different, after five years of slicing tenderloin.
He’d never meant to make it a career. Hell, he’d never meant to stick around the tiny coastal town for as long as he’d had, but the rent on his apartment had been better than reasonable, and the old butcher had one foot out the door when he trained Garrett, so his retirement meant job security.
All that changed when a coastal storm dropped so much water on the roof that it collapsed, with two members of the Rollin’ Jokers trapped inside, along with over twenty other shoppers and the rest of the staff.
The way those guys had jumped in and carried people, helped set up chairs, and taken the time to help calm a frightened child, well, it had shown him that there was more to those kuttes than he’d been led to believe.
Now he was proud to say that he was getting to know them and coming to be accepted among their ranks, though having people stare was going to take some getting used to.
Their riding gear stood out among the colorful collection of board shorts, swimsuits, flip-flops, and beachwear, not that any of the Jokers cared.
Garrett was still learning how to follow their lead and keep staring straight ahead when people watched and whispered.
Hell, he was still struggling to think of himself as a Joker and answer to Butcher, which was why it took two bellows before he replied to Danger, who was the main reason he even knew these guys.
Well, him and his boy, Roan, anyway.
“Get your ass in gear, man; we want to get good spots!” Danger said, waving at him to hurry the hell up.
“Right behind you,” Butcher replied and started moving faster.
Pope led the way; the big biker engaged in an animated conversation with Mark and Saint, the Joker’s president and vice president.
Sons of one of the founding members, they sought to protect the family they’d forged by giving them the means to earn legitimately so they wouldn’t run the risk of landing behind bars, separated from the club and the rest of their family.
It was honorable. Self-sacrificing even, considering all the moving parts that were involved, as well as all the unique and somewhat off-the-wall personalities.
Be loyal.
Be truthful.
Be ready to put in the work when the club needs you.
Three simple rules to follow. Do that and you earned the right to patch in. What you looked like, who you loved, what faith you practiced, none of that mattered to them as long as you never tried to give anyone shit about their desires or beliefs.
Live and let live was a creed he could comfortably get behind.
Butcher spotted the reason they were all on the beach while the sun was barely over the horizon line.
Ocean was standing with a large group of surfers and several official-looking men and women with clipboards, sporting the Joker’s emblem airbrushed on the back of his wetsuit, making him completely impossible to miss.
“Over here!” Pope called and headed for a shaded bank that offered a beautiful vantage point of the water.
Even if the beach in front of them wound up covered in chairs, which was entirely possible considering the sheer number of people already flooding the sand, they’d easily be able to see over them.
Guess this whole surfing thing was a way bigger deal than Butcher thought.
He sat beside Danger, hoping that if he had questions the man would be knowledgeable enough to answer them.
If not, he’d have to try someone else, since this would be his first time watching a surf competition or any sort of surfing at all.
All he knew about the sport was that Pope’s pup, Ocean, was one of the top-ranked surfers in the world and that he’d recently decided to focus on East Coast competitions to be closer to the men he loved.
That poly relationships were so prevalent among the Jokers had been yet another shock when he’d started spending time with them. The tags some of them wore, marking who they belonged to as well as their status in that person’s life, were another thing.
Pope’s Pup.
Kong’s Boy.
Property of Scoundrel.
Some had more than one tag and more than one status. Some had tags saying they belonged to someone who had a tag saying that they belonged to someone else. Their layers of relationships ran deep and were heavily entwined.
Maybe he should have watched a few videos or something before coming out here with them today. That way he’d have at least familiarized himself with it a little, so he didn’t wind up looking like a jackass, bugging Danger every two seconds to explain some shit.
Too late now.
Four guys paddled out beyond the buoys, then sat, straddling their boards, until an airhorn blew. Two guys chased the same wave; one caught it, and the other smacked the water as his competition rode away with some slick serpentine movements.
Another surfer caught a wave as the first guy finished his ride and immediately headed back out to search for another.
“How many are they supposed to ride?” Butcher asked, feeling his cheeks heat up when, instead of Danger answering, Kazzy, one of the beautiful glitter dolls from the strip club, turned and flashed him a grin.
If he remembered right, he was Pope’s nephew, and until now, he’d never heard the man speak.
“As many as they can inside of twenty minutes,” Kazzy explained. “This is a regional qualifier, so it’s smaller than the international competitions. A horn will sound when it’s time for them to come in and the next four to go out. It’ll be a long day, so get comfy.”
“I take it getting flung off like that doesn’t score very high.”
“Nope, the longer they stick with the wave, the more opportunities they have to show off what they can do, which will reflect on the leaderboard. The better the wave, the more diverse the tricks, the higher the judges will score them.”
Butcher chuckled and regarded him thoughtfully, wanting to ask why Kazzy had never said a word to him on any of the nights Butcher had walked him from the club to his motorcycle at the end of his shift. There were too many people around for that right now, though.
“Gotcha.”
Sorta. But Kazzy didn’t need to know that.
It felt good to be included after five years of monotony.
Work. Home. Pause at the diner from time to time for a meal he didn’t have to cook.
All the miles he’d put on his Harley had been lonely ones.
They’d offered friendship and a chance to forge ties like the one he’d had growing up.
Staring at a rider spin at the top of a wave and keeping on riding it brought back memories of another beach further down the coast. His gut twisted, the taste of bile coating his tongue for a moment as he stared at the water.
“Wait for me.”
Stephen’s words echoed over the cheering and blast of the bullhorn.
Garrett had waited, but Stephen had never come back home.
One by one, their tight-knit circle of friends had splintered apart before drifting away.
Kenny enlisted. Braxton went to school for fashion design.
Pixey put a band together and went to Nashville, where their sweet little songbird was stealing hearts and living her dream.
Nash hadn’t gone further than the corner stool at O’Donnell’s, the local pub they’d all loved.
Aimee was out there somewhere; he had no clue where she’d gotten to.
She’d taken off not long after they’d received word of Stephen’s death.
It had crushed something in all of them until they’d had nothing left for each other.
Old memories rolled over him like the curl of a wave, only he knew he wouldn’t reach the other side unscathed.
They sucked him under, blotting out the sights and sounds of the day, replacing them with the best times in his life and the absolute worst.