Chapter 46
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
SHORT
The next day, I return to the clubhouse feeling lighter than I have for the past few days. Last night, Bron, Trip, and I were able to have a family dinner, just the three of us. Stalker and Paint had stayed partying into the late hours and returned after we’d gone to bed. Loudly, it has to be said.
I didn’t feel I’d missed out. I’m more than content to spend a quiet evening at home with my family.
Especially after Bron had relayed to me everything the therapist had said.
Apparently, the ear defenders we’d landed on by accident were an aid that many people with sensory issues found useful, and since they worked for Trip, we should continue with them.
She’d advised we try some form of sign language, as in her assessment, Trip’s comprehension wasn’t lacking.
It was just his ability to form words. That he’d taken to calling me Dada gave her hope he might find his voice in time.
But for now, it was enough that he was listening.
She’d also suggested a school in a town, just eighteen miles away, that, along with mainstream education, provides special needs education.
He’d be there learning among regular children, but with a program that could cater to his needs.
While being with kids his own age would be, at first, a challenge for him, it might help him bloom.
It’s certainly worth investigating. Bron’s even said she’s going to see if she can visit the school today.
She’s impatient to get things moving. Firstly, and most importantly, because it will benefit Trip, and secondly, apart from school drop-offs and pickups, I won’t need to be Trip’s babysitter.
Not that I mind at all. In some ways, I’ll miss my little buddy being my shadow.
Because Bron’s probably going to need her car, I’m riding shotgun as Paint drives the truck, and Stalker sits in the rear, complaining he won’t be allowed to do anything.
He’s, reluctantly, on light duties due to him still healing from where Bron dug a bullet from his lower belly.
Fucker’s opened his wound up twice now, by doing shit he shouldn’t.
So there’s now a moratorium on him doing anything other than sitting behind a laptop, crunching numbers.
Prez has called church first thing this morning, so we can catch up on where we are and put a plan in place for how we proceed with the barn rebuild.
When I enter the meeting, I find that overnight, Hardcore and Lunatic have come up with architectural plans.
When Pippa has successfully connected their laptop to a large screen erected in the meeting room, just for this purpose, we can examine their work.
I have to admit, it certainly looks very professional.
Pippa leaves after she’s sorted the technical side, and together we sit, trying to translate lines drawn in two dimensions in our heads into an image of a three-dimensional building.
Hardcore stands and talks us through it.
The new structure will still be wooden, just like the original barn, but it now looks more like a two-storey hotel, with the second-level rooms no longer a loft but just as large as the ones below, and enough of them, so neither the club girls nor prospects would need to share.
The whole table erupts with cheers and praise for the designs that seem to be the answer to our prayers and then some. All except for Prez and the VP, that is, who encourage caution.
“Just how much is this all going to cost? And Stalker? What’s our financial standing?”
Stalker, balancing his new pair of glasses on his nose, opens his laptop, which he’d been given special dispensation to bring into the meeting.
He freezes, one hand comically hovering in midair.
Blood drains from his face. His mouth opens and shuts without speaking.
Then he drops his head down onto the table.
“Saint? You’re a medic. What’s fuckin’ wrong with him? Is it his stomach wound? Has he got a fuckin’ infection?” Bullseye’s halfway out of his chair.
The VP’s already on his feet, snarling at me, “Can you get Bronwyn in?”
But before I explain Bron’s at home, not at the club, Stalker straightens, shakes his head, and speaks for himself.
“I don’t remember getting a brain injury, but I must have hit my head hard along the way.
‘Cause that’s the only way to explain the figures I’m seeing.
I’ve got to be hallucinating. Words? You’d better get a decent coffin for me, as I’ve probably got a terminal tumour at least.” The VP rounds the table and goes to him as he continues, “I can’t focus on these figures.
They’re leaping over the page. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. ”
With one steadying hand on Stalker’s shoulder, Saint leans over and checks the laptop screen.
“Nothing wrong with your fuckin’ head or eyesight.
” He now claps the treasurer’s shoulder harder.
Then he pumps his fist in the air and enlightens the rest of the table.
“My fuckin’ ol’ lady has done it. We’ve got an extra two million dollars in our accounts. ”
There’s a stunned silence that is broken by Lunatic. “You guys want gold taps in your bathrooms?”
No one answers, they’re too busy cheering.
While we’re still processing the change in our fortunes, a sharp knock sounds at the door. Saint, already on his feet, goes around to open it.
Knight, our last remaining prospect, is standing there, awkwardly shifting from one foot to another.
“Er,” he starts. “I’ve got four bikers outside.
They say they’re from East Texas and they’re answering your distress call sent via Big Daddy.
” Knight pauses for breath, then adds, “They told me to say, while they know shit about construction, they know one heck of a lot about building barns. Their names are…” He consults his phone, where he’d written them down.
“Renegade, Rebel, LoneStar, and Hazard. Er, should I let them in?”
Seeing our gates have been busted open, one’s on the ground, and the other is only just about hanging on its hinges, it’s really not a question of letting them in, but them showing respect by staying on the outside of our compound and not just riding inside.
“For fuck’s sake,” Prez snarls. “They’re our brothers. Bring ‘em on in.” He waits until the prospect’s left us, then bangs the gavel. “Since we all approve the plans, and apparently have the funds to go ahead, church is dismissed. Let’s go greet our East Texas brothers.”
With more hands on deck, I start to feel more optimistic that we’re going to have the new bunkhouse built without too long of a wait.
Of course, I’ve an ulterior motive. The sooner Stalker and Paint move out, the quicker I’ll have the space to fuck my woman uninterrupted, and without having a resident pint-sized cock block.
The four Texas brothers have ridden twelve hours to get to us, though they broke the trip last night to sleep in a roadside motel, before continuing on this morning.
But they’re still thirsty and tired, so we whip up the club girls to cook a brunch and get the coffee flowing for them, or beer from the bar.
Whatever they want, we’ll show our appreciation by providing.
I don’t miss the grins Trixie and Star shoot toward the California brothers, and assume they found themselves a comfy bed last night.
But I also note how they quickly turn their assessing glances toward the new brothers entering.
And when the leading man tips the cowboy hat he’s sporting, and utters a, “Howdy, y’all,” I swear they start drooling.
Prez steps forward and greets our visitors. They’re not total strangers, since I’m sure we’ve met with them before at the annual June biker rally held in Anarchy, the town in California, the home of our mother chapter.
“I know your faces,” Prez tells them as he completes the round of man hugs and back slapping. “And I’ve heard your names. Apologies, but I can’t match the two.”
“I’m Renegade, road captain.” He gestures to the man by his side. “And this is Rebel, our tail gunner. Here we’ve got LoneStar.” He’s the one wearing the cowboy hat, I notice.
Renegade looks like he’s ignoring the fourth man, but I can see the patch on his back.
It’s a single one carrying the word Prospect, so I reckon he’s just having some fun at the youngster’s expense.
After a good few seconds have passed, he raises his nose in the air as if he’s smelled a bad odour.
He sighs. “This here is Hazard. He’ll be doing the grunt work. ”
“As we’re introducing ourselves,” Rebel leans forward and peers at the patch on Prez’s cut, “Bullseye, you want to return the favour? Of course, most of y’all we’ve probably crossed paths with before, but it was likely through a good few bottoms of beer bottles.”
“Saint, VP.” As he introduces himself, LoneStar sniggers. “You’re the fuckin’ famous one. You married a Fed.”
“Word to the wise.” Lunatic crashes the party, leans in, and stage whispers as if passing on a confidence, “Don’t go there, Brother. Not if you want to leave with your balls intact.”
At that, LoneStar casts a wary eye toward Saint, who barks a laugh. “Not me you need to worry about, but my Pippa knows several ways to castrate a man.”
Not knowing whether to believe him, the Texas members give a slightly nervous laugh, and more than one cups his crotch.
“Nah, she’s good folks.” Hardcore also steps forward.
“She’s just robbed the MDMC of two million dollars.
” He holds out his hand while giving Bullseye an apologetic grimace, and to the East Texas brothers continues, “We kind of jumped the gun, but I’m Hardcore, and this is Lunatic.
We’re from California.” Now there’s more backslapping.
Then it’s a free-for-all as we all move forward and introduce ourselves.