Chapter Six
P owerhouse
The brothers stand around, each holding our various patches, watching as our old, worn leather cuts burn to nothing more than ash.
It’s cathartic in a strange way. I never expected to experience this change-up in my lifetime, especially after being so loyal to the previous club.
I hadn’t imagined I’d feel this was right in any way, but here I am, content with mine and my brother’s decision.
We’re standing shoulder to shoulder with our new brothers, the members of the Oath Keepers Motorcycle Club, as we’re no longer any part of the previous MC.
Prez has quietly talked about patching over for years with each of us, and it’s finally happened for our club.
Our central Texas charter voted, then voted again to be sure, and has officially set it in stone.
All it took was for shit to hit the fan with Plague.
We’d called in for backup against the cartel because of it, needing the extra brothers to have our six.
Help never arrived when we’d asked the main charter of our last MC, and at that point, Prez brought the vote to the table to leave for good.
There was no fight over it—hell, not even a mere disagreement.
We all knew Ripper had been wanting a break from the last MC, and the Oath Keepers not only offered to watch our backs with our last run-in with death, but they’ve done so time and again in the past. From that point, I think we all knew it was only a matter of time until the change finally came.
The added bonus of being handcuffed on my Birthday for shit that didn’t concern us in the first place, pushed Prez over the edge.
The last run-in with the authorities put things glaringly into perspective.
We’d run out of time to decide on which direction to take, as Richardson clearly pointed out in Church, how we’d need to make a patch over or break up our club.
There’s no way in hell myself or my brothers will ever go our separate ways. We’ve woven our lives together to the point we’re bonded for the rest of our years. The club life is our life, and we’ll do anything to protect it.
If there’s any other rocker we want on our backs in the state of Texas, it’s the OKMC patch.
To not only be aligned with, but to be attached to a motorcycle club that has earned the amount of respect the Oath Keepers have, not only in Texas but in other states as well, has all of us standing a little bit taller in our new leathers.
My shoulder still tingles a bit from blacking out my old club ink, only to be replaced with the deep black and red OKMC brand in one of the few available places on my flesh.
Spin, from the OG-OKMC charter, has been here tattooing and branding us all damn day.
One after another, we’ve each sat for our respective turns, but I suppose it’ll take a few days for us to all make the change with our flesh.
The brother knows his line work, as I’ve grown picky over the years about who permanently marks my skin, and I was pleased by his skill.
I imagine a lot of my old ink will eventually be getting blacked out or covered up as I make time in my life for true art to cover my body, versus the old shit I have tattooed everywhere.
Over the years of living in the area, I’ve discovered the OKMC not only carries the admiration of others, but their fear as well.
Anyone with two eyes can see how heavy the MC’s presence affects the area.
Like Viking and Ares, the OKMC Prez’s have said, the bigger our presence is in Texas, the stronger we are together.
The more of a chance we have against fighting the cartel and any other enemies who may stupidly make their way into our state.
The hardest pill to swallow for Ripper is the way we make our money.
The Oath Keepers don’t deal in dope, only guns, and we make our money in powder—in selling the never-ending high to junkies and anyone else looking to score.
I figure if they’re foolishly willing to decide to buy, who am I to stop them?
I’m not their parents, and I’m damn sure not the little angel or devil on their shoulder weighing their choices for them.
I’m just another biker out here on the road, trying to live free.
If selling dope or anything else makes that happen a little easier for me, then so be it.
I’ve made most of my money fighting and betting, but my brothers can’t claim the same.
“We’ve come to business terms with Ripper and Blow,” Ares, President of the OG charter, rumbles, glancing at each of us.
He was once like me in his club, knocking heads when needed; now he’s the highest-ranking President of the entire MC.
“They claim you’re all on the same page.
” His words leave no room for argument; either you’re in or you’re out.
If you’re not wearing the OKMC cut or the tattoo, you’re a biker no longer welcome in Texas.
Having the Oath Keeper Nomad’s hunting you down is a scary fucking problem to have, and that’s coming from me, an overgrown, stubborn fucker.
I nod, shifting a quick glance at Prez and VP before landing on Angel.
My stare pins on him momentarily, making sure the moody fucker nods his agreement as well.
I know everyone else will fall into line, but he’s the type to stir shit up just because he can, and in this moment, I’m the one who has to hold him accountable should he choose to deviate.
Like he did with Blow’s ol’ lady, Sydney, for instance.
He locked her up in a hotel room, ready to bury her six feet under when he found out she could’ve been a cop, rather than talking through it with VP.
It was such a g-damn mess, and now they have beef simmering between each other, ready to explode at any given moment.
Ares rumbles, continuing, “Nothing is sold to minors. No heroin. Period. We’ve worked too fuckin’ hard to get that shit outta our area to ever allow anyone wearing our motherfuckin’ colors to be slinging that shit, you feel me?” He asks, shooting a glower around our group.
I’m rarely intimidated by anyone, but I wouldn’t want to fight him.
I went toe-to-toe with our now-OKMC-brother, Cain, back in the day, and I can attest they’re a club of mean motherfuckers.
We should mesh perfectly, given the chance and the time to work together.
I have no doubt this is the right direction for us, or else I never would’ve voted for any of it to happen.
Viking glares, “Cross us on the heroin rule, and I’ll chop your fucking head off. Afterwards, I’ll watch Saint bathe in your blood,” he promises. I’ve heard many of the crazy-ass stories through the grapevine about their club, so I don’t doubt his statement for a moment.
My gaze flashes to Saint, the light-haired, fair-skinned man who has always appeared somewhat harmless.
He wears a wide, fucked up, twisted grin, silently conveying that his prez speaks the utmost truth.
With his expression, I have a feeling he’ll enjoy every minute of getting bloody, too.
His partner, Sinner, stands close to his side.
He openly smirks at us with the looming threat, and my gut tells me nothing is as it appears, and they’re a cruel duo to fuck with.
Cain, from the OG charter, speaks up. He’s the vice president of their club.
“If you ever come across someone wearing an Iron Fist cut, you hit Twist up before putting a bullet in their head and starting a new war. Last we saw of them, they were in Oklahoma, steadily building their numbers back up. They’re a nasty fucking group. ”
I don’t miss the way Nightmare visibly pales at the mention of the other MC being in Oklahoma.
I wonder what the hell that’s all about.
More club politics, I’m sure, and I’ll probably never know them since we aren’t in either of their charters.
We’re close to both of their clubhouses, but still far enough away, about an hour or so, to keep our chapter and the location.
I don’t think Ripper would’ve left, even if he was told to.
I have a feeling he would’ve fought it until the others gave in and allowed us to remain with our group.
I mumble, but it’s loud enough that the others manage to overhear, “At this rate, I should’ve brought a notepad to take notes. I knew this was going to be a patch-over party, but not a fucking school session.”
Ripper glares, not amused at my shit-talking when he’s around two other presidents he no doubt wants to remain on the good side of, and maybe even impress if possible.
He needs to chill, though. The OKMC members have stopped through our club a lot, and they wouldn’t do that if they couldn’t stand being around Ripper, nor would they have allowed us to patch over.
Obviously, we possess some redeeming qualities to them if they’re welcoming us with new leathers and a party full of brothers.
Rather than causing the tension to worsen, my words make the group of brothers chuckle. Spider, one of the nomads, calls out, “Alright, who’s getting some strippers so we can get this party started? It’s been too long since I’ve been laid, and I’ve been around you broody fuckers long enough.”
Torch, their Death Dealer, huffs, “For fuck’s sake, you know Flame will have my ass over this shit. She’s going to set your fucking crib on fire if she gets wind of you bringing strippers around me, fucker.”
Odin, their VP, grins. “And I’m not helping you rebuild your pad. It’ll be your own dumbass fault. Cherry won’t bake you the bread you like, either. You know how jealous she gets with other chicks around me, especially naked bitches. My ol’ lady won’t have it.”