Chapter Seven
Twister
Monday morning smelled like dust and concrete.
I stood in the middle of the warehouse with Swift, Wheels, Hodge, Podge, and Gramps, watching the real estate agent fumble with the lights like she’d never seen a switch before.
The place was colder than I remembered. Big, open, and echoing with every step. It had been a month since I first walked it solo, but now that I had my guys here, the space felt smaller. Not physically, hell, the building was huge, but with five patched members and a future riding on it, the walls felt like they were closing in.
“This is the main floor,”
the agent said cheerfully, finally getting the flickering overhead fluorescents to sputter to life.
“Two offices in the back, a reception area, and that corner was used as a waiting room by the last tenant.”
We followed her as she pointed toward a cluster of rooms in the far corner. Nothing about them screamed rage room to me. Hell, they barely screamed useful.
The walls were drywall and thin. The carpet was stained. And the tile in the bathroom looked like it hadn’t seen bleach since Obama was in office.
“I know what you’re thinking,”
I said and glanced over my shoulder at Swift and Wheels.
Wheels scratched his beard.
“We’re gonna have to gut every inch of this.”
“Yeah,”
Swift muttered.
“Everything’s too soft. We need concrete, containment, and some real structure. No drywall for people to put fists through.”
Hodge walked into one of the offices, tapped the wall, and raised an eyebrow.
“This wouldn’t survive a toddler with a bad attitude.”
Podge walked past him and eyed the back wall with mild disapproval.
“Reception area could be useful. But we’d have to reframe it all. You don’t want customers wandering into danger zones.”
Gramps, surprisingly quiet, was the one who said it aloud.
“We’d be tearing this place down to the studs.”
I nodded. “Exactly.”
The real estate agent blinked.
“Well, that’s… one way to look at it.”
I turned to her.
“It’s the only way to look at it.”
She pasted on a realtor smile and clasped her hands.
“Well, if you’ve got a vision for it, that’s what matters. And you’re getting this at a steal. The city’s been wanting someone to do something with this property for years.”
“Yeah, well,”
I muttered, “we’re good at doing what others won’t.”
We spent the next hour walking the perimeter, opening every closet, storage door, and hatch. The place wasn’t falling apart, but it had seen better decades. The walls would need demo. The bathrooms would need to be rebuilt entirely. The floors had dips in a few places. But the bones were good, solid concrete slab foundation, exposed steel beams up top, and easy access to loading docks.
“I like the space,”
Hodge said, and ran a hand along a concrete support column.
“We can do something with this.”
“I just don’t know if we should do it all ourselves,”
Podge added.
“It’s gonna take months.”
“We already started the clubhouse,”
Wheels reminded him.
“And we’re getting through that faster than expected.”
“Yeah, because half the guys are pulling double-duty,”
Gramps said.
“But we can’t stretch ‘em thin forever.”
That’s when I asked what had been on my mind for days. “Gramps,”
I said, “we gonna hold out money-wise?”
He didn’t flinch. Just gave a sharp nod.
“You’re good.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“That’s not a number.”
“You want a number, I’ll get you one. But unless you start buying Lamborghinis and putting mansions on every continent, we’re good.”
A few of the guys chuckled.
Hodge smirked.
“He ain’t wrong.”
I shoved my hands in my pockets and nodded.
“Still feels like I’m bleeding money.”
“You are,”
Gramps grunted.
“But this whole setup was your idea. And you planned for this. Hell, Hank Bonds set you up to do this.”
My grandfather. Good ol’ Hank. He’d owned and operated the country’s largest landscaping empire. A billion-dollar green front for a laundering operation that made Wall Street look like child’s play.
When he died, the business died with him. But not before he scrubbed the money and handed me a trust so thick I’d need generations of reckless children to spend it all.
Or, apparently, a motorcycle club.
“I know what you guys want,”
Gramps continued.
“You want to say you built this with your own hands. You want to lay the bricks and paint the goddamn walls.”
“We’re proud bastards,”
Podge admitted.
“I get that,”
Gramps said.
“But we gotta be smart. If you hire a crew to handle the big stuff—demo, framing, electrical—you free up the club to lock down our place downtown. You make sure the clubhouse gets finished. The city sees us as a fixture, and not some transient crew of nomads.”
I ran a hand over my jaw, thinking.
It wasn’t a bad suggestion.
“We can still do the finishing touches,”
I said.
“Paint. Build the rage rooms out once the framework’s up. Customize each space. But yeah… letting someone else take on the heavy lifting might be worth it.”
Swift grunted.
“You sure about that? Letting outsiders near anything to do with club property?”
I shrugged.
“We’ll be here every damn day they are. We’ll control what they see, what they don’t. And we’ll vet every name on the crew.”
Hodge crossed his arms. “We vote?”
I nodded. “We vote.”
“Then I’m in,”
Swift said.
“With the right oversight.”
Podge and Wheels both nodded.
“Me too,”
Gramps added.
That was enough for now. We’d bring it to the table at church to make it official.
The realtor came back toward us, clipboard in hand, her eyes hopeful.
“Well? What’s the verdict?”
I looked at the guys. They all gave a nod.
I turned back to her.
“We’ll take it.”
Her eyes lit up like Christmas morning.
“Wonderful! I can have the paperwork ready within the hour. You want to come by the office, or should I send it digitally?”
“Send it,”
I said.
“We’ll sign and send it back.”
She shook each of our hands too long, too eager, but I played nice. It was a small city. No sense making enemies when we could keep everything smooth.
Once she was gone, we stepped outside into the morning sun. Bikes glinted in the light, lined up along the curb like a declaration.
I looked back at the warehouse. It was ugly beige with peeling paint and a cracked window near the top.
“We’re gonna need to spruce up the front,”
I muttered.
Swift grunted and pulled on his gloves.
“That’s something we can hire out. Get a real designer. Make it look like a business people actually want to walk into.”
Wheels snorted.
“Rage room with curb appeal. That’s a new one.”
I smiled and could already picture it.
“We’ll call around. Find someone who gets the vibe we’re going for.”
Gramps nodded and scribbled some more on his notepad.
“I’ll reach out to a few people.”
We climbed onto our bikes, and the engines roared to life one by one.
As I slid on my sunglasses, I looked back at the warehouse again.
It didn’t look like much now.
But it would.
We were gonna turn that shell into something unforgettable.
A place to let it all out.
A place to break shit without breaking yourself.
And just like that, our next step as the Saint’s Outlaws: Madison Chapter locked into place.