Chapter 1 #2
He stared at her profile again. “Why? You doin’ him?”
“Unlike you, I don’t eat where I shit. That can get messy.”
She had him there. “He as good as Brick?”
“He’s a MOS 0322 Reconnaissance Sniper. He’ll pick you off before you can finish your last breath.”
If Zeke was supposed to be impressed, he wasn’t. “Got no fuckin’ clue what that is.”
“I can tell you what it isn’t.” She glanced over at him. “Not you. You’re just a fuck-up.”
“Fuck that. Don’t go lookin’ for trouble, it finds me.”
Vi hooted. “And that’s why your prospect name stuck to you like fucking glue once you earned your full set of rockers.”
“Didn’t see a reason to fuckin’ change it.” He also didn’t give a shit what anyone called him. He’d heard it all, starting with his original nickname, Little Z, or LZ. He was glad that finally fell off. Especially since he was no longer little and he was nothing like his old man.
Zeke pinched the end of the joint, tucked it back into the case, then turned up the radio when Black from Pearl Jam began playing. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and soaked in the music, letting the last eight months of bullshit fade away.
An elbow to his ribs startled him awake. “You’re drooling.”
It had been a while since he’d slept that well. When doing time, he always slept with one eye open, especially when his cellie was a psycho.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glanced up to see Vi turning into the parking lot of The Iron Horse Roadhouse. Being early, Zeke wasn’t surprised the lot was empty. No doubt, it’d be packed later.
She parked haphazardly in front of the bar, which told him she wasn’t staying. “Got to go before my ass gets caught.”
“D will go on a rampage if he does.”
She shot him a huge smile. “He’d have to catch me first.”
Zeke snorted, climbed out, and grabbed his shit from the back seat. He flicked her a two finger salute as she squealed the tires and sped away.
Since he didn’t have the key to the bar on him, he’d have to hoof it around back.
He was relieved to find that the chain normally securing the gate separating the MC’s clubhouse and the bar wasn’t padlocked.
Wheels had picked up Zeke’s keys from Shadow Valley PD so his brothers could retrieve his sled from where it was left during his arrest. At the time, he was worried that his Low Rider S would be impounded.
He’d invested way too much scratch on his badass custom ride, lovingly named Black Betty, to have it fucked up, despite the fact that Badger did most of the work for no charge.
Wheels said he’d store it in the garage at Zeke’s parents’ house. He was not looking forward to the conversation he’d have with his parents when he went to pick it up.
Sometimes they forgot he was thirty-two-fucking-years old and he was president of an MC. A club with now over forty members when including the OGs, like Diesel, Hawk, Slade, Jag and the rest. His father’s generation.
As he turned the corner, he noticed very few sleds and cages parked out back.
He took that as a good sign that his brothers were probably wherever they were supposed to be for the day. But that also meant they probably weren’t throwing him any kind of welcome home party.
Fuck it, he’d throw his own private party. It didn’t need to be fancy. He only needed booze, weed, and wet pussy.
He paused in front of the steel door and glanced up at the weathered sign with their club motto. The one that hadn’t changed since the club was founded in 1974.
He yanked on the door, only to find it locked.
Fuck.
He pounded on the door, hoping someone was inside. Otherwise, he’d be sitting outside twiddling his fucking thumbs until someone showed up.
Worse, he didn’t even have his goddamn cell phone. It had been “misplaced” during his arrest. That was what the pigs claimed, anyway.
Not that he trusted a fucking word that came out of their snouts.
When some drunk asshole had pulled a gun on him, of course, Zeke kicked his fucking ass.
It was well deserved and should’ve been considered self-defense.
But, unfortunately, knocking the motherfucker into the next decade, as well as carrying a blade in his pocket, gave him a first class ticket back inside to finish out his sentence from a previous offense.
He glanced at his old Ford F-150 parked at the back of the lot. Of course, the ignition key was on the key ring with the rest. Hell, since his pickup had been sitting since last year, it probably wouldn’t start anyway.
Zeke sighed, pounded again, and leaned closer to the door. Since it was thick enough to stop bullets, he couldn’t hear shit through it.
Back when the Warriors were still a threat, the OGs had reinforced the clubhouse, as well as The Iron Horse; essentially turning it into a fortress. No fire bombs or bullets were breaching the exterior.
It was also why his old man had insisted on building a neighborhood for the older generation—the gated and walled community where he and his younger brother Zane grew up.
The perfect little middle class biker family, surrounded by other perfect little middle class biker families, as well as the Shadows and their families.
It was like a whole community of domesticated bikers. For fuck’s sake, they went from badass bikers to PTA meetings.
With a sneer, he spat on the ground to get rid of the bad taste in his mouth.
When the lock clicked, he stepped back just in time to avoid getting knocked over when the door opened. It swung outward so it couldn’t get kicked in.
“Holy fuck! Trouble has arrived.”
“Thank fuck you’re here,” Zeke said to Lucky.
After clasping hands and bumping chests, Lucky whacked him hard on the back. “You’ve been missed, you stupid asshole.”
Zeke opened his mouth to give Lucky shit, but quickly closed it instead. He couldn’t argue that fact. He was a stupid asshole. Pushing past Lucky, he shut the door behind them and locked it.
With his hands plugged on his hips, Lucky looked him over. “Speakin’ of assholes, how’s yours feelin’?”
One side of Zeke’s mouth pulled up. “Still sweet and innocent like a virgin.”
Lucky hooted. “Like you’d fuckin’ admit it if it ain’t.”
“Yeah, well, some shit should go with you to the grave,” he quipped as his gaze circled the empty common area of the clubhouse.
Fuck yeah. It was damn good to be home, despite no one being there to welcome him except for Lucky. “What’re you doin’? Too early for The Iron Horse to be open.”
“Coop wanted me to do inventory and restock.”
Zeke’s brow dropped low. “That’s what fuckin’ prospects are for.”
Lucky tipped his head. “That’s what I fuckin’ said.”
“So, why the fuck ain’t they doin’ it?”
“‘Cause they’re all a buncha fuck-ups.”
“‘Course they are. That’s why they work for free. They got a year to get their asses straightened out.”
Lucky winced. “Ain’t tellin’ me nothin’ I don’t know, Prez. Still remember that first year like it was fuckin’ yesterday.”
Zeke silently agreed. That first year was rough. Even for him: a prospect expected to step into his old man’s boots once old enough.
He beelined toward the club’s private bar. It backed the commercial kitchen used for both the club and the bar. “Any sweet butts around?”
“Nope.”
Fuck.
He’d text one if he had his goddamn phone!
First prospect he spotted, he was going to send him to go buy a new one.
“Text Shimmer and tell her to get her ass over here within the hour. Tell her not to waste fuckin’ time on all that makeup and fake eyelashes bullshit.
Just needs to make sure her cunt’s clean. ”
Lucky snorted. “Then maybe you shouldn’t pick Shimmer.”
His step stuttered for a second, then he shook his head and moved behind the bar. “Just fuckin’ text her.”
“You got it, Prez.”
“That shoulda been your first fuckin’ answer.”
Lucky chuckled as his fingers quickly moved over his phone’s screen.
“Tell her I don’t give a fuck if her hair’s a rat’s nest, either. I can cover her face with a fuckin’ pillow if I gotta.” He grabbed an opened bottle of Jack Daniels and a clean glass. That was when it hit him. “My room’s still mine, right?” It better fucking be.
“Yeah. Soon as you went inside, your brother locked it up so no one could fuck with it.”
While that should be good news, right now it wasn’t. He didn’t have his fucking keys.
Goddamn it.
Someone had to have a master key. “Text him next and ask him where my fuckin’ keys are.”
“You got it.”
Damn, did it feel good to be back in charge. Unlike in the joint, where he usually tried to stay under the radar. He’d learned from the past. If he tried to make a name for himself inside, he became a target and ended up earning an extended stay.
Unfortunately, the only pussy in prison were a few female screws. If he could find a willing one that didn’t make his dick limp, he held his fucking nose to bang one out.
He poured three fingers worth of whiskey, then turned to lean back against the bar. He lifted his glass in tribute to those who came before him.
High on a shelf behind the private bar were four custom-painted Harley gas tanks. Two of them were full of Doc and Bear’s ashes, the club’s founders.
Another held Grizz’s ashes, along with his ol’ lady, Mama Bear. Their ashes shared the same tank. He swore they’d been together since the birth of baby Jesus and now they’d remain that way forever.
He glanced over at the end of the bar where Grizz used to always park his ass with a beer in front of him. Sometimes Zeke swore the grizzly old man’s ghost still sat there.
A chill shot through him.
The last tank belonged to Rocky, who died like Doc, doing life in prison without parole for murder.
“Down ’n dirty ’til goddamn dead,” he whispered before sucking down half of the Jack. Heat wormed its way down into his gut.
He threw his bag of belongings on top of the bar and dug through it, hoping one of those goddamn screws hadn’t stolen his most prized possession: Bear’s ring. His old man had passed down his great-grandfather’s ring with pride once Zeke patched in. Zak probably regretted that decision now.
Truthfully, Zeke was more like Bear than his old man. He wanted to carry on the founders’ traditions.
He slipped on the rest of his silver rings, pulled his necklace over his head and settled the silver skull pendant into place on his chest, before snapping his black leather cuff around his left wrist. He dug deeper into the bag again and was surprised to find his black diamond stud.
He figured one of those motherfucking screws might’ve pocketed it since it was worth some scratch.
He plugged the earring back into his left lobe.
Now he was starting to feel a little more like himself. A little more pot, a fuckuva lot more booze, and some warm, juicy pussy would take him the rest of the way there.
He just needed to find the right candidate.
He glanced over at Lucky. “Shimmer comin’?”
“Depends on how rusty you are givin’ dick.”
Zeke ignored the joke. “Like ridin’ a fuckin’ bike. She say how long ’til she gets here?”
Lucky glanced at his text messages. “Ten minutes.”
“What about my keys?”
“No answer from Chill yet.”
Chill.
His younger brother’s road name fit him. Zane might not look like a carbon copy of their old man, but his personality was similar. He was the exact opposite of Zeke.
They were like goddamn yin and yang.
After taking another swig of whiskey, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “There’s gotta be a fuckin’ master key ‘round here somewhere.”
“Maybe your old man knows.”
Zeke wasn’t ready to talk to his father. He’d prefer not to be served a shit sandwich for at least another day.