Chapter 4
Austin
Six Months Later
Six months in and the club has become the thing I do instead of thinking. That's not an insult to it. It's the highest compliment I know how to give, because I needed something big enough to fill the space that Savannah left, and the Black Saints MC turns out to be exactly that kind of big.
I know the workshop the way I know my own hands now.
I know which bay runs cold in the morning, which light flickers, and which drain takes twice as long to clear as it should.
I know who arrives first, who arrives loudest, and who quietly does twice the work of the man next to him without ever mentioning it.
I know Knuckles takes his coffee black. That Pops has a bad knee he won't discuss.
That Cash and Ramsey communicate in a language that's made up mostly of looks and a shorthand that developed over years I wasn't here for.
I know Seb's tells when he's bored on gate duty, the way he starts tapping the inside of his wrist against his thigh in a rhythm that only he can hear. I know that Brick watches me more than he lets on and that the watching isn’t suspicion. It's something closer to the opposite of that.
I know where I fit here. After six months, I finally know where I fit.
What I don't know yet, what nobody has told me directly though I've felt it building in the way you feel weather coming before the sky shows it, is that Razor has been watching me too. Quietly, the way Razor does everything. Taking inventory.
Gate duty at night in November is exactly as grim as it sounds.
Seb and I stand either side of the main entrance for the first two hours barely talking, watching the road and checking our phones.
When the Eastside brothers finally roll through it's almost midnight and my feet have gone numb inside my boots.
We check their cuts, wave them through, and that's the sum total of the evening's excitement.
We get relieved at two in the morning and I'm heading back to my room when Razor steps out of the office.
"Prospect. My office." And the way he says it tells me this isn’t about anything I've done wrong.
I follow him inside and he closes the door.
His office is sparse, the way all of the Prez's spaces are sparse. There’s a desk, two chairs, and a filing cabinet that I suspect nobody has opened in years.
There's a map of the county on the wall and a photo of the original Black Saints above it, twenty years old at least. The men in the photograph are either dead or retired, or somewhere I can't picture.
Razor doesn't sit. He stands behind his desk with his arms folded and looks at me for a moment without speaking, and I've learned in the past few weeks that this silence means he's deciding what he wants to say rather than waiting for me to fill it. I keep my mouth shut.
"You've been here six months," he says finally.
"Yes, Prez."
"I've been watching you."
"I know, Prez."
"You know what I've noticed?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "You never complain. You never push for recognition. You do what's asked, you do more than what's asked. You put the work down and walk away without looking for a pat on the back. That's rare." He pauses. "It's also what I look for."
My pulse ticks up but I keep my face neutral.
"There's a situation we need handling," Razor says.
"Supplier over on the east side of Millfield.
He's been skimming from our arrangement for the past three months.
Small amounts, which is exactly why nobody noticed until now.
Small amounts add up." He looks at me steadily.
"I want you to go and have a conversation with him.
Bring back what's owed plus whatever you think appropriate in interest. Don't take anyone with you. "
I absorb this. "You want me to go alone."
"That's what I said."
"And if he doesn't want to cooperate?"
The corner of Razor's mouth moves. "Show him your cut, Prospect. Let him understand who's asking. Most men understand that."
I nod once. "When?"
"Tomorrow morning. Early." He moves to the door and opens it. "And Austin."
He's used my name. Not Prospect. I go very still.
"Don't come back with anything less than the full amount and an apology."
He doesn't look at me again. I walk out of his office with my blood running warm and my head already running through everything I know about Millfield.
The supplier's name is Gerry, and he's a wiry, nervous man in his fifties who runs a parts distribution warehouse out of a converted barn on a farm road that nobody uses in winter.
I'm there at six forty-five the next morning when he's loading his first truck.
He doesn't hear my bike until I've already cut the engine and I'm standing between him and the truck door.
He startles. He nearly drops the box he's carrying. Then he sees my cut and the box comes down to his side carefully.
"Morning," I say.
He swallows. "Morning."
I put my hands in my jacket pockets and look around at the barn, the trucks, the yard. "Nice operation you've got here."
"Thank you."
"Be a shame to have any trouble with it."
The box goes down on the ground entirely now. Gerry straightens up. He's nervous, but he's not stupid. He can see exactly what this is. "I've been meaning to square up," he says. "Things got tight over the summer and I moved some numbers around without thinking it through."
"Without thinking it through," I repeat. "I can see how that happens. Fortunately for you, we're not unreasonable people."
"No. No, I know that. The Saints have always been fair."
"We have." I meet his eyes and I let the silence run just long enough that we both understand exactly where this conversation stands.
"So let's get this squared up this morning.
The full amount, plus twenty percent for the inconvenience of one of our people having to drive out here.
And then we don't need to have this conversation again. "
Gerry nods rapidly. "Of course. Absolutely. I've got the cash in the office."
"Good." I step back and let him lead the way. "After you."
He walks fast and I walk easy. I keep my eyes on everything around me without making it look like I'm watching anything at all.
By seven fifteen I'm back on my bike with a sealed envelope in my inside pocket and Gerry standing in his doorway with the expression of a man who's just had a very educational morning.
I don't gun the engine when I leave. I just ride, and the road is empty all the way back.
Razor is in the garage when I get back, which surprises me.
He doesn't usually work the floor anymore, but he's leaning over the open hood of a '68 Chevelle that some townie brought in last week and he's got grease on his forearms and a look on his face that says he's actually enjoying himself.
He sees me come in, wipes his hands on a rag, and holds his hand out.
I put the envelope in it.
He doesn't open it. He weighs it in his palm for a moment and then tucks it into his chest pocket. "Any trouble?"
"No, Prez."
"Apology?"
"He was very apologetic."
Razor's mouth curves. "Good man." He turns back to the Chevelle. "Get changed. Church at noon."
I stop. "Church?"
"You heard me." He doesn't look up from the engine.
I stand there for another second with everything inside me very quiet, and then I go.
Church at noon.
I'm clean and changed and standing outside the church room at eleven fifty-five with my hands in my pockets and my pulse doing something embarrassing. Seb finds me there and looks at my face and raises his eyebrows. "What's happening?"
"Church."
"You're not a patched member."
"I know that."
He looks at me for another second and then understanding crosses his face. His grin comes slow and genuine. "My dad was from Australia and apparently Sprog is slang for baby," he says.
"Don't call me that."
"I will absolutely call you that." He claps me on the shoulder hard enough to make me take a step sideways. "Go on, then. Don't embarrass yourself."
The church room fills up around me, or rather, I stand outside it and watch it fill up through the open door. Razor takes his seat at the head of the table. Braxton on his right. Shadow to his left. Knuckles, then Cash, then Ramsey. Pops last, pulling the door halfway shut behind him.
Then Razor looks out through the gap. "Prospect."
I walk in. I close the door behind me and stand at the foot of the table where there's no chair, because prospects don't sit at Church.
Every face around the table is looking at me.
Knuckles has his arms folded and his expression is the same one he always wears, which is somewhere between irritated and mildly entertained.
Cash has a toothpick in his mouth and he's leaning back with the lazy confidence of a man who already knows how this is going to go.
Ramsey is watching me the way Ramsey watches everything, quietly, like he's cataloguing details.
Shadow says nothing, which is normal for Shadow.
Pops is the only one who looks directly warm, and even he's keeping it contained.
Brick is at the far end of the table. He's not looking at me. He's looking at the table, and something about that deliberate absence of eye contact tells me more than anything else could.
Razor sets both hands flat on the table.
"Six months ago you came to this club as a prospect with your uncle's voucher and nothing else to recommend you.
Some men coast on a voucher. You didn't. You've done every piece of work that's been asked without being chased.
You've handled yourself when it counted.
You've kept your mouth shut in public and spoken up in private when you've had something worth saying.
" He pauses. "This morning you handled a piece of club business alone, cleanly, without drama. The full amount came back."
He looks around the table.
"We're going to vote."
My hands are relaxed at my sides. I make sure of it.
"Cash."