Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Zeke crab-walked his sled backwards until it was in line with the rest of his club’s and shut it down.
Yanking the black bandana down from the lower half of his face, he left it hanging around his neck.
After dismounting and shoving his keys deep into his front pocket, he walked the line to make sure everyone—all patched members, including the OGs and the prospects—was there.
Of course, he was the only one that arrived late. But, hell, he had a good excuse. Last night he had gone to Heaven’s Angels Gentlemen’s Club, a strip club owned by the DAMC, and picked up two of the girls, Opal and Cashmere.
It had been a damn good night, if he said so himself. This morning? Not so much. Unfortunately, a big greasy breakfast with a whiskey chaser hadn’t helped his latest hangover. Neither did smoking a blunt.
He had to wait until the pounding in his brain subsided so he could deal with the loud, rumbling exhaust from his straight pipes, as well as the vibration. Puking while doing over sixty-five miles a fucking hour was never fun.
Don’t ask him how he knew.
He came to an abrupt stop when at the end of the lineup of DAMC sleds, another club’s started.
Not the Dark Knights. Or the Blood Fury. Or even the Blue Pigs.
Fuck no, the goddamn Angels of Fury.
Zeke sucked on his teeth and one corner of his upper lip pulled up in a sneer.
A year ago, the women got a wild hair up their asses when they decided they wanted to ride with the DAMC.
Not as backpacks—fuck no—but on their own fucking sleds.
While that might be acceptable for the pussy-assed Blue Avengers—they weren’t picky since they weren’t a true MC, only wannabes—that bullshit was a no-fucking-go for the Angels, the Knights, or the Fury.
Tradition said no women could be members and non-members couldn’t ride in club runs unless they were a passenger. Even then, backpacks were limited to ol’ ladies, members’ crotch critters, and regular pieces. No sweet butts, strippers from Heaven’s Angels, or randoms.
Zeke spat on the ground in front of the AFMC’s president’s pink Harley.
Yeah. Fucking pink. Like pussy.
Zeke reluctantly admitted it was another damn good custom job by Badger.
While the whole women’s MC was Vi’s idea, she was only a member since she had enough on her plate managing In the Shadows Security. His red-headed, hot-tempered cousin, Lexi, had been voted in as president instead.
The members not only included DAMC women, but some from the Dark Knights and the Blood Fury. They even wore fucking cuts. With rockers and patches and fucking everything. They had an executive committee and monthly club runs.
Like a real goddamn MC.
They didn’t give two fucks about breaking fucking decades of tradition.
He didn’t like it.
The OGs didn’t like it, either.
At least they could agree on that.
He wound his way through the parking lot and headed toward all the activity.
First stop: the beer garden. He’d grab a cold one to cool down his annoyance with the all-women’s MC, then go listen to whatever local band was on stage.
When he found a break in the temporary fencing, he spotted one of their prospects sitting at a small folding table.
“Whataya doin’?”
Tick shrugged and pointed at the metal cash box on the table. “Collectin’ the entry fee.”
“Are you fuckin’ serious? They’re chargin’ to get in?”
“Yeah, it’s a fundraiser.”
“No fuckin’ shit.”
When he went to walk past, Tick stopped him with, “Hey, you gotta pay, Prez. Was told everyone’s gotta pay.”
“Are you shittin’ me?” he growled. “I look like everyone?”
Tick shrugged again.
“For fuck’s sake. How much?”
“Five.”
He jerked his chain wallet from his back pocket and opened it.
Empty.
How the fuck was he going to buy a beer without any scratch?
He thought back to last night. The little scratch he had he’d thrown on stage whenever one of the girls shook their massive jugs in his face.
Fuck.
“How much scratch you got?”
Tick opened the lid to the box and began to count.
“Not in there! In your fuckin’ wallet, dumbass. Jesus fuck.”
Tick pulled out his wallet and opened it. He glanced up. “Like, sixty.”
“That it?”
“All I got.”
“Throw a five in the box and gimme the rest.” He held out his hand, palm up.
“What?”
“Need your ears cleaned out? You fuckin’ heard me.”
“But—”
Zeke’s eyebrows rose. “Gonna ignore your president’s order?”
Tick’s chest puffed out, then quickly deflated. He pulled a stack of what looked like small bills from his wallet and slapped it into Zeke’s palm.
Zeke peeled off a five and handed it back. “There you go. Now, never stop your fuckin’ prez from doin’ anythin’ again. Not if you want your full set of patches. You fuckin’ got me?”
Zeke walked past him, not waiting for an answer as he stuffed the rest of the scratch in his wallet and tucked it into his back pocket.
The place was fucking packed. Good for the Walker Foundation, not good for his patience.
As he wandered around, he spotted some DAMC members working some of the booths. A couple of the DAMC women were selling baked goods made at Sophie’s Sweet Treats.
He’d hit that up after a few beers.
In the distance, he spotted Nix by one of the food trucks and headed in that direction. When he got there, they clasped hands and bumped shoulders.
“Brother,” Zeke greeted.
“Prez,” Nix returned in greeting.
“Lyric here?”
“Yeah, she got a tent set up. Doin’ flash tattoos.”
His younger sister was a master ink slinger, just like their father, Crow. Nix? Not so much. He tried to learn, but he only inherited the artistic gene from one of his parents, not both.
Crow and Jazz’s daughter now ran In the Shadows Ink, and because of her skills, business was booming enough that she had to hire three more tattoo artists.
He had no doubt there’d be a line at her tent.
“Where’s the beer garden?”
“Got it at the back and fenced off so they can card anyone who enters.”
“Your prez needs a fuckin’ beer.”
“Got ‘em in the beer garden.”
“Yeah, but don’t got any fuckin’ scratch. Doubt they’re gonna give me one for free.”
“Probably not since it’s a damn fundraiser.”
“Spot me a twenty.”
After a quick stare down, Nix sighed and pulled out his chained wallet, cracking it open. Before he could grab a single twenty, Zeke snagged all the bills and pulled them out.
“What the fuck!”
Zeke thumbed through the cash. “Got more than a damn twenty. Gonna borrow a Benjamin.”
“Can’t call it borrowin’ when you don’t ever give it the fuck back,” Nix grumbled.
“Got a roof over your goddamn head and all the fuckin’ food, booze, and pussy you’d ever want, right?”
“See you’re still as much of a fuckin’ asshole comin’ outta the joint as you were goin’ in.”
Zeke shoved the hundred into his front pocket and handed the rest back. “Not true. I’m rehabilitated now, ‘cause before, woulda kept it all.”
Nix snorted and shook his head. “My statement still stands.”
“Wanna buy me a beer?” Zeke asked with a grin.
Nix jerked his chin toward Zeke’s front pocket. “Just did. Hope you don’t fuckin’ choke on it.”
“Like Opal did on my dick last night?”
Nix smirked. “Gaggin’ ain’t the only thing I heard comin’ outta your room.”
“After eight months inside, tryin’ to clear the pipes.”
“Or tryin’ to clog those damn pipes with gonorrhea.”
“Wore a wrap.”
Nix lifted one dark eyebrow. “While she was suckin’ you?”
Fuck. He was done with this conversation. “Need a fuckin’ beer.”
“Might need more than a fuckin’ beer!” Nix laughed loudly as Zeke strode away. “Make sure to save enough of that Benjamin to pay for antibiotics.”
Zeke flipped him off over his shoulder.
He had to be getting closer to the stage since he could now hear the band over the crowds mixed in with the obnoxious noise of the carnival rides. Too fucking bad the music was country. He hoped the lineup would at least include some decent rock.
For fuck’s sake, did he miss Dirty Deeds.
Back in the day, Nash’s band was one of the best around.
They traveled all over. Could’ve even gotten a recording deal.
Then he and his pig husband adopted Beck and Bri.
So he could help with the kids, Nash had given up being on the road and Dirty Deeds now only played at the DAMC parties.
The twins had a shitload of issues when they were first adopted. Chaos was still a bit fucked in the head, which was why his road name was fitting, but his sister seemed to be a lot better.
She still had her moments, but didn’t they all?
Zeke was far from fucking perfect, unlike his golden boy, baby brother Zane.
The twinkle in his parents’ eyes.
Zeke was more like pepper spray in their eyes.
He passed more food trucks and trailers. More rides and games for the kiddies.
Next to a tent holding a silent auction and a raffle was a live auction with some guy shouting numbers so fast that Zeke couldn’t make out what the fuck the auctioneer was actually saying.
But one thing was for fucking sure: Dakota and Taylor had gone all out on this event. It might be their best fundraiser yet. No wonder the crowds were thick. He had no doubt that their fathers, former Shadows, were lurking in those crowds somewhere keeping an eye on things.
They might be way past their prime, but that whole six-man team was still scary motherfuckers. He couldn’t imagine Vi’s current crew was even half as good.
Vi might not be a member of the Dirty Angels, but since she was born and bred DAMC, she was still considered club property.
Her security and black op business certainly helped fatten the club coffers.
Of course, it also fattened Vi’s wallet because the jobs her Shadows handled cost their clients a fuckload.
For good reason. They took jobs that were questionable or no one else wanted.
Working his way through the throngs of people, Zeke finally saw the signs pointing to the beer garden.
As he headed that way, he stopped when he saw a ghost.
Or more like the person who ghosted him.
Was that…?
No fuckin’ way.
Was she back?