Kings Live Forever (Steel Kings MC #5)

Prologue - Silver

“It’s official,” drawls Opie. “You’re one of us now.”

The club floor breaks out in cheers, raising their pints of beers and fist-pumping the air. Half of them are already drunk, the other half are well on their way.

Me and Tom might be the only two sober ones in the place. At least for now.

We share a glance, wearing grins and basking in the moment.

We’ve finally done it; we’re finally Steel Kings.

It was a long and hard road. They damn sure made us work for it. But out of all the prospects, we were the only two to survive.

That’s got to mean something.

Opie steps back for the prez to take his place at the front of the room. Everybody goes silent, their jeers and cheers dropping off.

Walter “Skull” Hurst means business.

He’s got a face that resembles his moniker, eyes dead and cheeks hollow, his lips always pressed into a tight line, never knowing a smile.

After serving twenty to life for some murders before I was ever born, it makes sense.

Rumor is, he sleeps in his basement because it most reminds him of his prison cell. But he’s returned from his hard time and resumed his role as Club Prez.

He stares at me and Tom like we’re hardly impressive. We’re bugs he can squash at any moment.

“What we’ve got here,” he begins in his Texas twang, “are two promising members. Jack Kingman and Thomas Cutler. Both young fresh meat.”

Some of the more bloodthirsty members bare their teeth in grins. Guys like Johnathan “Creep” Flanagan and David “Eggs” Smith.

Figures.

They’re the two assholes who made me and Tom eat three dozen donuts from the Donut Hole. Just one of many hazing tests we had to pass to advance.

To their disappointment, Skull goes on.

“But both have proven themselves. They’ve earned their cuts.” He nods at Opie, the sergeant at arms, who’s got our fresh leather vests waiting for us. They’re laid out on the head table like a trophy we’ve won.

Damn sure feels like it—we’ve worked our asses off to get to this point.

It’s what I’ve always dreamed of.

I’m not the son of a King. Unlike a lot of the guys in this saloon, my family’s got no affiliation to motorcycle club culture.

Mom was a bagger at Pulsboro Grocery and the piece of shit who impregnated her was some drunk who skipped town.

But I’ve grown up knowing it was what I wanted. To become a Steel King and finally make something of myself.

“Now,” Skull goes on, his heavy eyes sweeping across the club floor. “Everybody, you know what to do. Meeting’s adjourned. Which means it’s time to celebrate.”

The room erupts in their loudest cheers yet. Many guys raise their mugs and beer bottles in celebration before taking their drinks to the head.

Vice Prez Murphy “Pistol” Harlow, slaps a hand to our backs and then gestures to our leather cuts. “Put ’em on, boys. You’ve earned ’em.”

The party explodes on the saloon floor.

Tom and I slide on our vests and check ourselves out in the dark reflection of the bar windows.

It’s surreal seeing myself wear the cut with the skull logo stitched onto the back and the moniker that was chosen for me—Silver.

At such a young age, my hair’s already started graying. To say we gray early in my family is putting it lightly.

But I smile wide anyway, feeling like I’m on top of the fucking world.

Tom raises his beer bottle for a toast. “We did it, Jack. We made it.”

“And to think Mr. Munch from second period chemistry said we’d never amount to shit.”

He laughs, taking a swig of his beer. “Just for that, we oughta steal his car.”

He’s joking… mostly.

I’ve known Thomas Cutler since we were both learning our ABCs, and he’s always had a rebellious spirit and dark sense of humor. He’s been a troublemaker since the time we were in first grade and he knocked some kid’s tooth out for calling his mom a homewrecker.

I’m the cooler head of the two. Still a troublemaker in my own right, but a little better about using charm and wit to fly under the radar.

The music blasts through the bar, all ’80s and ’90s rock hits everybody’s heard a thousand times before. The guys pound beers back like their livers are indestructible. Both the poker and pool tables are full.

A few Tits on Heels girls have already broken out the hard liquor and started doing shots out of their belly buttons. Something Kings like Rhett “Bush” Bushman and Bill “Shots” Cash are more than happy to take part in.

One of the girls, a brunette with long hair to her ass, winks at us. She’s got the typical come hither look, like she expects us to be drawn to her as easily as the others.

I glance over and notice the interested spark in Tom’s eye.

“Don’t tell me you’re falling for it already, Cutty,” I laugh. “You know we’ve got our first mission coming up, right? The Tits on Heels are nothing but a distraction.”

“You saying Skull and the top brass are setting us up?” he asks.

A grin almost crosses my face as I lift my beer bottle for another drink. “I’m saying we all know how it goes. They always watch the new members on initiation night—and it usually ends with our first mission.”

“Fuck if I care. We’ll get shit done either way,” he says, his gaze still set on the brunette. “You know things’ve been rough between me and Dana since the baby. It’s put a strain on us.”

“Bound to happen when you have kids as young as you two.”

He scoffs. “You know that wasn’t my first choice. After Logan, I wanted to wait a while. But Dana wasn’t having it. She wanted Mason so that’s what we got.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” He drains the last of his beer, then sets it down on the table next to us.

The brunette’s face brightens as she realizes what he’s doing. He’s going to her. He leaves my side and crosses the crowded barroom to go chat her up.

Probably the last time I’ll see him for the night. At least for a couple hours.

Most guys in the club aren’t faithful to their old ladies. It’s an unspoken part of the lifestyle and club culture.

The barmaids and club girls like the Tits on Heels are here solely for that purpose.

For the guys to enjoy them.

But there’s only one girl in the saloon who’s got my eye, and she’s no club girl.

My gaze naturally seeks her out among the dozens of other people. She’s up by the counter with a couple girlfriends, chatting and having a good time.

As if sensing my gaze, Rachel Roberts glances up. She looks right at me, her apple-green eyes brightening and her lips spreading in a smile.

My insides clench with nerves. The only damn girl in Pulsboro that has this effect on me.

That makes me fucking nervous with just a smile.

If Rachel were mine, I’d never do her wrong. I’d be faithful and devoted.

I’d be the happiest fucking man on the damn planet.

I tip my head at her, my version of a hello from across the bar. Not the first time we’ve traded looks and gestures from afar.

Rachel went to Pulsboro High with me and Tom. She was a varsity cheerleader and straight A student. She was also expressly forbidden from dating guys like me.

It’s a wonder she’s even showed up to the saloon tonight.

Her schoolteacher parents would probably have heart attacks if they found out. But it’s one thing I agree with them about—the Steel Saloon is no kinda place for a girl like Rachel.

She’s not like the others.

I’m half a second away from finishing my beer and heading over to talk when Opie appears at my side. He claps a hand to my back like an older male relative would.

“Checking out all the ass here tonight?” he asks crassly, cracking a toothy grin. “Help yourself, boy. The Tits on Heels love a newbie like you. Bet they’re sick of Gunny and his whiskey dick.”

I shake my head. “It’s not the club girls I’m looking at.”

“Ohhh. You’ve got eyes on one of the sweet ones.

Let me guess—the cute little redhead that looks like a damn Disney Princess?

” He hacks out a phlegmy laugh, then pounds a fist to his chest to clear it up.

“Might have to wait for another time. Skull and Pistol want to see you and Cutty in the office. Now.”

It’s half an hour later, and me and Tom are standing in the back office being given our first assignment.

Skull sits behind the big desk reserved for the prez only, while Pistol, his righthand, flanks him.

Both men look intimidating on a good day. But as they tell us what we’ll be doing, they look like executioners. Their faces are stony, their tones severe.

They speak to us not with the warmth that exists in the celebrations on the bar floor, but with an authority that signals one thing and one thing only.

We’re not really in the club ’til this is over and done with.

’Til we successfully complete our first real world mission. Fuck all the hazing and club chores we’ve been made to do the past couple weeks.

This is the real test.

“You got that?” Pistol asks.

I blink out of my thoughts and clear my throat. Tom’s half drunk, and I tuned out minutes ago. I give a slight nod and answer, “Uh… yeah, we got it.”

“Then get to it,” Pistol says. “Return here when you’re done. And remember what Skull said—don’t fucking get caught.”

Skull merely eyeballs us, his expression solemn and unreadable. He sits in his desk chair with a relaxed posture, almost like a king on a throne.

We’re his subjects.

The new guys that could easily fail tonight and face the consequences. He couldn’t give a shit if we live or die.

I know this as we turn and head for the door.

But I’m also more determined than I’ve ever been in my life to prove them wrong. Show everybody we can do this.

I can do this.

I’ve waited my whole life to become a Steel King, and I’m not backing down now.

We head to the lot together, the loud music spilling out into the dark night. I stride toward the driver’s side of my truck, Tom plodding a couple paces behind.

“I can’t deal with this shit tonight,” he grumbles. “I’m five beers deep, Jack.”

“Get in. We’ll manage.”

He snorts as if I’ve told a joke, but climbs into the passenger side anyway.