Chapter Five Deacon
“That’s it. Give me your best, you pussy!
” I antagonized, as I dodged the punches that whirled at my head.
Adrenaline thrummed in my veins, pumping energy through my arms and legs.
No drug or drink ever got me as high as fighting.
I dug the feel of my fists connecting with the hard bone of the jaw or the soft flesh of the abdomen as things escalated quickly into a whirlwind of hits.
My boots dragged across the canvas of the boxing ring as I made quick footwork. They didn’t make the best choice for sparring, but when I had come down to the Raiders gym to check on business, I hadn’t expected to fill in as the chief second, or the head trainer, for Bishop.
While I’d learned to use my fists to survive on the streets, Bishop had honed his fighting skills in the ring.
Before the Raiders bought the gym, Preacher Man had often brought us here to work off steam.
It wasn’t long before Bishop was knocking out seasoned fighters.
He’d won several division titles and probably could have gone pro, but the higher he rose in the sport, the more people wanted to stick their nose into his private life—primarily the club.
To the average onlooker, the gym, with its boxing and martial arts training, looked legitimate, but it was all a front.
For the club, it was a way to manage interstate gambling on fights and races.
Bishop didn’t want to do anything that would bring heat down on the club, so he continued boxing in the lower divisions.
Even as stealthily as Bishop moved across the floor, deflecting my hits and throwing his own back at me, I could tell he was off his usual game. “This is turning into quite a walkover, little bro.”
“Easy fight my ass! You’re panting and in a sweat,” Bishop challenged.
“These jeans and boots aren’t exactly lightweight.”
Bobbing and weaving in front of me like a cobra, Bishop anticipated my next move. When I remained still, he shrugged. “I just had a late night, that's all.”
“Dumbass, you know better than to bang crow eaters the night before a major training day.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Then what kept you up?” I asked.
He dodged my unexpected jab and flashed me a wicked smile. “Guess you could say I’m hot for the teacher. I kept jerking off to Miss Evans.”
I froze on the spot. “What the fuck did you just say?”
Bishop’s laugh echoed around us. “Yeah, I’m man enough to admit I was jerking off rather than fucking some sweet butt pussy.”
When I continued staring at him, Bishop stopped hopping around.
“Come on, bro, after you’ve seen a fine, white-bred piece of ass like that it’s hard to take some sloppy seconds to your bed.
I mean, I only got to see her for like five minutes, but you had your hands all over her.
” He closed his eyes. “Can you imagine how fucking tight she would be?”
I threw a hard right hook to his jaw before I could stop myself. Bishop staggered back. Shaking his head, he rubbed his gloved hand along his reddened jaw. “Deacon, what the fuck, man?” he demanded.
“Don’t be talking like that about Willow’s teacher.”
“Well, I sure wouldn’t do it in front of her, but I thought you and I were on the same page when it came to pussy.”
Shaking my head, I growled, “Not about hers.”
Bishop leaned back against the ropes. “Are you trying to tell me you don’t think she’s hot as fuck?”
I closed the distance between us to where I was once again up in his face.
“You got a hearing problem, little brother? I said don’t talk about her like that.
” Shoving him, I said, “You got another thing coming if you think you’re going to turn on your sweet boy charm to try and tap her ass. She’s fucking off limits. Got it?”
Bishop’s blue eyes widened. “Oh yeah, I think I got it.” He stood toe to toe with me. “I get it loud and clear. But maybe next time you should piss on her leg to mark her as yours?”
I threw my head back and laughed. “That ain’t it.”
“You sure? Cause I sure ain’t never seen you get this fucking twitchy over someone sniffing around Cheyenne.”
My teeth ground together in frustration. “Doesn’t the old adage ‘don’t shit where you eat’ mean anything to you?”
“Suppose so.”
“For reasons I don’t even begin to fucking understand, that Miss Evans means a hell of a lot to Willow. If she gets scared off because some douchebag uses her, then that hurts Willow. Not to mention the fact that this bitch has me by the balls with CPS.”
Bishop processed my words. “Okay, okay, I’ll keep Miss Evans for my spank bank.”
Rolling my eyes, I cuffed the back of his head. “You’re a disgusting fuck.”
Just as we were about to start running through a few more combinations, Archer, one of the prospects, came sprinting up to the ring. “Prez just called an emergency church meeting. Wants you guys there in ten minutes,” he said, his words coming in wheezing pants from his exertion.
Snatching off the sparring mitts, I pushed away the feeling of overwhelming foreboding and hustled over to the ropes with Bishop on my heels.
We slid underneath them and then hopped down.
I thumped Archer on the back before heading outside to my waiting bike.
I cut the usual ten minute drive to the clubhouse into five.
Bishop, followed by Archer, stayed on my tail.
When I threw open the clubhouse door, I found the inside as silent as a tomb.
None of the usual retirees were lounging around the bar, throwing back beers.
The pool table balls were racked and ready to go, but no one was around to play.
Prez must’ve put the word out that we were not to be disrupted.
Off to the side of the main meeting area was the room where we held church—the name for our club meetings.
When Bishop and I ducked inside, we found the others already assembled.
Our meeting table was a true throwback to the old cotton mill days.
Most of the business decisions by the former cotton barons had been made around it when it was in the boardroom.
Now we used it for slightly less than honorable business dealings.
My still sweat-soaked ass slid across the plush, leather-seated chair.
My old man had insisted on spending a pretty penny on the chairs.
“I ain’t scrimping on some piece of shit that breaks your back and pinches your nutsack.
I don’t want anyone squirming around during church.
Your attention should be fucking focused on the club and only the club,” he’d said.
A smile tugged at my lips at the memory.
At the head of the table sat our grim faced President “Caisson” or Case, for short.
His shrapnel-scarred neck, arms and legs told some of the story of how he’d gotten his road name.
He’d served for four years as a part of the 3rd Infantry Division.
He was planning on making a career out of the army until the caisson he was manning got hit and almost killed him.
As Army proud as he was, it was only fitting he take a name associated with his service.
He and Preacher Man had been part of the original charter members of the Georgia chapter of the Hell’s Raiders.
They were barely twenty when they patched in, but it didn’t take long for them to climb the ranks to the highest offices.
Case had taken over as President when Preacher Man went to prison.
And even after Preach went AWOL on the MC lifestyle for many years, Case demanded that Preach take over the presidency when he returned.
“Ain’t no body better to lead than Preacher Man,” he had said.
He once again had to take over for his best friend when Preacher Man was killed.
I loved my old man, but I also loved Case.
At his right was the new Vice President—Rev.
Leaning forward in his chair, he rapped his fingers over the hardback cover of the latest book he was reading.
Rev constantly battled the angel and devil on his shoulder.
If he’d been born to another father, I’m sure he would have ended up a doctor or lawyer or some fancy shit profession like that.
He sure as hell had the brains. He’d even used the money from his service with Uncle Sam to get a two-year degree from the community college.
In the end, the pull of our world was too much for him, especially for his loyalty.
For Rev, his tender heart was both his salvation and his undoing.
All the best of Mama Liz had gone into Rev, but it was often overshadowed by Preacher Man’s dominating DNA.
Barry “Boone” Michaels, our treasurer, sat across from me at the table, twirling a skull and crossbones cigarette lighter between his fingers.
He was just a few years older than me, although his salt and pepper hair and beard made him appear even older.
We’d both gone through our prospecting period together, and we’d been patched in the same night.
He liked to give me shit that as the President’s son, I’d had it a lot easier.
The truth was Preacher Man had them go twice as hard on me to prove my worth.
He wasn’t going to let any son of his just get by on who he was.
Next to Boone sat our secretary, Steve “Mac” McDonald. His tattooed hand sat poised over a notepad ready to document everything that happened. At forty-five, he’d patched into the Raiders twenty years ago. He was a good bridge between the two distinct generations in the club.
A tense silence choked off the air in the room. Something heavier than we had faced in a long time had gone down or was about to go down. Unable to stand the quiet any longer, I demanded, “So what’s shaking, Prez?”
Case shifted in his seat like he was physically affected by the news he had. “Nordic Knights are stirring shit. Again.”