Chapter 16 Vin
Vin
The air in the clubhouse was thick with the stench of the unknown and the tension of impending war.
We were holed up at the scarred wooden table that had been brought in overnight by a couple of Prospects, strategizing like generals on the eve of battle.
Moab, Canon, Shivs, and I were brothers now, our camaraderie an unspoken oath that bound us tighter than the leather on our backs.
Amazingly enough, our new kuttes had arrived only hours earlier, the smell of new leather second only to the smell of the open road on a sunny day.
"Stansfield won't back down easy," Shivs grumbled, his words heavy with the knowledge of blood yet to spill. It helped that we all had a common enemy. It brought us closer together. That’s what men like us needed, it’s what made us whole. A woman walked from Moab’s room, waved, and then left the club.
Moab winked at the woman and then turned to us. "Then we hit first, hit hard." Moab's solution was simple, his massive arms crossed, as if ready to take on the devil himself.
"Security cams, patrols... we're gonna need it all dialed up," Canon added, his eyes scanning the room like he could already see the shadows of our enemies creeping in.
"Damn right," I affirmed with a nod, every line in my face etched by the life I'd chosen. “It’s not going to be like last night. That was much too easy. It’s almost as if Stansfield expected us and left the doors wide open. The little tussle we had was weak at best.” The clubhouse door swung open then, and a figure silhouetted against the fading light outside, casting a long shadow across the room.
Heads turned, hands hovered over hidden pieces, but the man who walked in wasn't packing heat—he was packing confidence.
"Vin Reed, I presume?" His voice cut across the silent tension, smooth and sure. I hated when a man knew me before I knew him. It gave him an advantage I didn’t have.
"Who's asking?" I got to my feet, eyeing him like a new patch on a rival's cut.
"Name's Arch Carter. But folks call me Bump.
" He stepped into the light, and fuck, the man had a presence about him.
Tall, built like he could handle his own in a scrap, with a smirk playing on his lips that told you he was no stranger to trouble.
The kind of trouble that fit in just fine with what we had planned.
"Got an interesting way of introducing yourself, Bump," I said, sizing him up as my crew watched on. "What brings you to our doorstep?"
"Looking for a home," he stated like the concept was as simple as choosing a bar stool. "Heard you might be recruiting."
"Recruiting's one word for it," I replied, the corner of my mouth ticking up despite myself. "Surviving's another."
"Good at both," he shot back, holding my gaze. "And I'm not just some hang-around looking to wear your patch. I've got skills you'll want when Stansfield comes knocking."
Something about the way he said it—no bravado, just cold fact—made me take a second look. I could feel the curiosity stirring among my brothers, the same question on all our minds: Could this Bump be the wildcard we needed?
"Take a seat, Carter. Let's see what you're made of." I motioned to the chair beside me, the rest of the club watching the newcomer like hawks eyeing fresh prey. This was going to get interesting.
Bump took a seat, his eyes scanning the room like he'd been here a hundred times before.
I leaned back in my chair, arms crossed, watching him with the same cautious intensity that Moab, Canon, and Shivs were giving off.
We were a tight-knit crew, bound by blood spilled on asphalt and secrets buried deep under the roar of our engines. This guy had to be more than just talk.
"Skills, huh?" I said, skepticism heavy in my voice. I glanced at the others. “I think we can safely say we’ve seen it all.”
"Seen anything like this?" Bump asked, a glint of challenge lighting up his eyes.
Without another word, he reached out towards the solid oak table that had weathered countless biker brawls and spilled whiskey.
I watched, ready to call bullshit, but then his hand.
.. it just passed through the damn table.
Like it was nothing but smoke. My jaw clenched tight enough to grind teeth to dust, and I caught the looks of shock painted across the faces of my brothers.
"Son of a bitch," Moab muttered, leaning forward as if expecting some magician's mirror or trap door.
"Did you just—" Canon began, his words trailing off into a stunned silence.
Shivs, ever the skeptic, got up and tried it himself, slamming his fist onto the wood, proving its solidity. "Damn, Bump. That's one hell of a party trick."
"More than a trick," Bump said, pulling his hand back and grinning at our dumbfounded expressions. "Comes in handy when you're not keen on being caged."
"Or needin' a ghost on recon missions," I mused, the gears in my mind already turning. Maybe this was exactly the kind of edge we needed. “You’re the same as us.” I looked around the table and realized our coming together was no accident. This shit had been predetermined.
Before I could grill him on the nuts and bolts of his little talent show, my phone buzzed against my thigh—a text from Jameson. Trust him to have timing like a grenade with a pulled pin. I swiped the screen, my eyebrows raising as I read his message about Bump and some other prospect named Toolie.
"Looks like you come with references," I said, tossing the phone onto the table, just shy of where Bump's hand had been. "Jameson vouches for you and mentions another recruit. Toolie ring any bells?"
"Sure does," Bump replied, the smirk returning. "He's a friend. Got his own set of surprises."
"Great," I said, the corner of my mouth tilting up in what might pass for a smile. "We're collecting a fucking circus."
"Sounds about right for a motorcycle club," Shivs chuckled, shaking his head. The rest of us couldn't help but join in the laughter, the tension easing slightly. But there was a new spark in the air now, curiosity and anticipation. Never a boring day as a biker.
"Guess we'll see what Toolie's got then," Moab said, glancing at me. And I knew we were all thinking the same thing—if this Toolie was half as interesting as Bump, we were in for one wild ride.
A bedroom door swung open with a creak that cut through the lingering laughter, and in walked Mama Celeste.
Mama Céleste didn't just enter a room; she claimed it, her presence sweeping over us like a cold front.
The air practically hummed with her enigmatic aura, eyes swiveling to her as if on bearings.
Although we were a bunch of large, badass men, none of us filled a room the way she did.
"Evening, boys," she greeted us, each word measured and sure, not waiting for a response before taking a seat at the head of the table, our strategy map now beneath her bony fingers.
"Vin," she said, my name rolling off her tongue like a spell, "I'll be needing Raven."
"Raven?" I echoed, the request lobbing a grenade into the mix of supernatural weirdness and club politics. Didn't take a genius to figure this wasn't a social call.
"Oui," she affirmed, those amber eyes never leaving mine.
I nodded and jerked my thumb at Shivs, who was closest to the door.
With a quick step, he went out to fetch her.
Didn't take long—Raven had a way of moving silently and swiftly when she wanted to.
She appeared in the doorway, her dark hair a stark contrast against the pale light spilling from the hall.
"Raven Stansfield, meet Mama Céleste," I introduced them, though I could tell by the tilt of Raven's head she already knew who the priestess was. "She's got something up her sleeve for you."
"Does she now?" Raven's voice was calm, but her eyes betrayed her curiosity as she stepped closer. We were all skirting new territory.
"Take a seat, child," Mama Céleste beckoned, the table suddenly feeling too small for the force of nature seated at it.
"Sure thing," Raven replied, sliding into a chair across from the priestess. We all watched, silent spectators to whatever game was about to unfold. But Raven? She was as cool as ice, even when facing down the unknown.
Mama Céleste's eyes flickered over us like pages in a book she was speed-reading, settling finally on Raven.
"Child, the path you walk is knotted with the roots of fate," she began, her voice as soft and certain as the roll of distant thunder.
“A serpent lies in wait beneath the magnolia, its venom poised to strike at the heart of the brotherhood. "
"Sounds like a bad country song," Moab muttered, his meaty arms folded across his chest. He glanced toward the entrance. I assumed he was expecting his old lady to return—if that’s what she was to him.
"Or a damn fortune cookie," Canon added, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
We all laughed, but it was the kind that didn't quite reach the eyes. There was an edge to her words that scratched at your insides, a prickle of something not quite right. She was going to drop the mother of all bombs on us.
"Laugh while you can, mes fils," Mama Céleste intoned, unfazed. "But know this: when the river swells, it washes away both the sinner and the saint. The tide is coming, and it will not be denied."
"Great, now we got biblical floods to look forward to," Shivs snorted, shaking his head.
"Something like that," Mama Céleste agreed, her gaze never wavering.
There was a knock then, sharp and unexpected, that cut through the tension like a knife through smoke. We all jumped, none of us expecting company. I glanced at Mama Celeste, who gave Raven a subtle nod. Raven stood up to answer it, moving with that same silent grace that marked all her actions.
"Expecting anyone?" I called after her, half-joking.
"Only the pizza delivery guy," she shot back without looking, her hand already on the door handle.