Chapter 10
I amble into the bar, freshly showered and content after curbing my sexual appetite.
It’s filled to capacity. “Livin’ on a Prayer” comes on over the sound system, prompting more people to flaunt their dance skills.
Others entertain themselves playing pool, foosball, or darts. There’s even axe throwing.
Saturday nights are always crankin’.
A vintage jukebox sits in the corner, lending an old-time feel to the atmosphere. It’s rarely shown any love, though.
There’s a full-service kitchen too, and man, the grub is top-notch.
The kind that causes heartburn and clogs the arteries, but the greasy deliciousness is worth going to an early grave.
The garlic parmesan chicken wings with extra sauce…
that’s my poison. I can demolish a dozen in ten minutes flat.
Add some loaded curly fries, and I’m in glutton heaven.
Zeus didn’t just build a clubhouse—he built a legacy. After his rise to power, he brought in an architect like some hotshot Hollywood director, sketching out his empire in blueprints and concrete. The hulking structure has two main entrances: the bar and The Sanctuary.
We call it The Sanctuary for a reason—the first floor alone boasts a rec room, kitchen, dining area, gym, laundromat, and even a movie theater.
There’s also an office for Zeus. Twelve motel-style rooms span the second and third floors.
Each club officer has their own private room.
The others bunk out back in two barracks-style buildings.
Then there’s the rooftop—complete with pools, jacuzzis, and grills.
A space created for celebrations or escape, depending on the day.
Below it all, the basement holds an auditorium.
Two hundred patched brothers and counting gather there once a month, and every time, I still feel the weight of that number.
The bar is open to club affiliates—family, friends, anyone loyal to the Gods.
They’re welcome to eat, drink, and use one of the five bedrooms in the back—for a little adult fun or just to sleep it off.
But that’s where their access ends, unless Zeus says otherwise.
Breaking this rule will result in a swift ass whooping.
People learn real quick why disrespecting the Gods is a bad idea.
More often than not, we don’t need to make an example out of anyone.
Word gets around. Nobody crosses the brotherhood and lives.
Still, despite what outsiders think, it’s not all blood and mayhem.
Some days are downright boring as fuck. We watch over the neighborhood, attend local events, and even cut checks to charity.
Not exactly the Wild West fantasy people like to whisper about.
Earning a place in the brotherhood takes time, and for good reason. One rat could wreck everything. Recruitment’s no joke—truth serum, lie detector tests, extensive background checks. Zeus doesn’t cut corners when it comes to protecting the MC.
Civilians who show real interest get invited to hang around for a year.
During that time, loyalty isn’t requested; it’s expected.
Absolute obedience or you’re out. Only a unanimous vote from the executive board earns you the right to prospect.
Make it through two more years, and if you’re still standing, you earn your patch.
The board answers to no one but Zeus. He handpicked each board member, and our voices are the only ones with any weight. The rest of the brothers hear the final word at meetings—simple as that.
The MC is doing better than ever. Zeus owns a trucking company, a gentleman’s club (aka a prostitution ring), a crematorium, and a string of houses, apartment buildings, and gas stations.
All solid earners, but nothing touches the real money—guns and heroin.
The weapons come from shady dealers right here in the States. The H rolls in from Mexico.
Everyone gets a cut based on rank and time served. The businesses help clean the cash. The crematorium? That was bought with one purpose in mind—getting rid of bodies. No evidence, no investigation. Around here, the cops don’t chase ghosts, especially not the kind with rap sheets.
On paper, the crematorium belongs to Kirk, Zeus’s old marine buddy. Most people don’t even know they served together. That’s by design. Zeus nearly died taking a bullet for him, and Kirk’s loyalty is ironclad. He plays the part, keeps his head down, and never asks questions.
“Sandman.” The familiar timbre of Jiminy, aka Cricket, catches my attention above the din.
He hops off the stool at my approach, sporting a shit-eating grin on his lean face. We recently got our colors. I’m officially unofficially the club’s hitman, and I have to admit, I fucking love coming to work every day. Killing motherfuckers is my passion.
Of course, Cricket wasn’t going to let me leave Texas without him.
According to him, his guidance was essential for my survival.
Zeus, being financially well-off, didn’t mind adding another mouth to feed to his household.
Cricket’s uncle has three small children at home to provide for and was happy to get rid of him.
“What the fuck are you smiling for?” I grumble.
His name should be Smiley since his teeth are showing half the damn time.
“They were some juicy gashes.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Am I right?”
I lift my shoulder in a shrug. “They were okay.”
“Just okay. Cheri has a—”
“Cherry,” I correct him.
“What?”
“Her name is Cherry, not Cheri.”
“Fuck her name, bro.” He blows out an exaggerated breath. “Her name could be Fido for all I care. The point is that bitch has a super soaker and Ryan—”
“Riley,” I correct him again, but he ignores me and keeps talking.
“—has the longest nipples I’ve ever seen. Fuck, is that a birth defect or something? Shit, I don’t even give a damn. Them things are amazzzzing.”
Cricket has fucked every club twinkie. He doesn’t discriminate. All pussy is the same to him.
“Draco is pissed at you,” he states, changing the subject. “He could’ve spit nails.”
I snort. “When is he not pissed at me?”
Cricket chuckles. “True, true.”
“Where is he?”
“He left about an hour ago,” he responds.
“We should ride too.”
Church is usually held at The Sanctuary, but there’s an office for the scarce meeting at home too.
Some heavy shit must’ve gone down. I got two more missed calls from Zeus while showering.
We hustle through the crowd and step into the warm night.
A few prospects man the electric fence, ensuring no foes slip onto the property.
“What do you think happened?” Cricket asks.
“No clue, but it must be serious.” I straddle my Harley and slip my helmet on.
If any of our enemies stepped out of line, there’s going to be hell to pay.
I’m barely inside the foyer before Mayhem and Harley plow into me, nearly knocking me to the porcelain tile.
“Hey, chill out,” I gripe, but the spoiled Dobermans bark in protest, rearing up on their hind legs.
These two are always on me the second I walk through the front door.
Sneaking past them would take ninja-level skill.
I’ve had the sister and brother since they were pups, going on two years now.
Both have black-and-rust coats with amber eyes.
From a distance, it’s easy to mistake one for the other.
I stoop to my haunches, and wet tongues greet me in welcome.
“Nasty.” Cricket gags. “Dude, you’re gonna smell like dog ass.”
“Shut up. You’re ruining a beautiful moment.”
“Whatevs, butt-crack face. I’ll be in the living room,” he says and strolls down the long hall. Cricket is like a son to Zeus, but that doesn’t mean he’s allowed in Church.
“Got shit to handle right now, but I’ll take you delinquents on a walk later.”
They circle me in unrestrained excitement, catching on to their favorite word.
I give both a pat on the head before making my way to Zeus’s office.
I stop at the console table next to the closed door and drop my mobile device in the ceramic bowl along with the others.
I saunter into the room, and Draco promptly voices his grievances.
“We’ve been waiting over an hour!” he bellows, neck tendons stretching taut. “Your cavalier attitude ends today.”
He occupies the chair to Zeus’s left, and Jigsaw, the sergeant at arms, sits on his right.
Butch, Snake, Tank, and Buffalo are also seated around the long rectangular table, which has the club’s logo intricately etched in the center.
The rest of the opulently furnished office boasts a matching cherrywood desk, a cozy sitting area, a stocked bookcase, a liquor cabinet, and an electric fireplace.
I pad across the wool carpet and drop into the seat beside Snake.
“Well, I’m here now.” I wink at him, fueling his rage.
“You degenerate piece—”
“Leave off it, Draco,” Zeus cuts in.
“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” he spits, his nostrils flaring wide. “You allow this wild animal to run amok with no consequences.”
“We have more pressing matters to address,” Zeus reminds him.
“Why do you allow this—”
“Enough!” Zeus booms, and Draco’s lips snap together. The irritating fucker may be dumb, but he ain’t stupid. He don’t want no smoke for real.
Zeus’s fearsome reputation, coupled with his brawny six-foot-five frame, makes motherfuckers think twice before crossing him. I have witnessed hardened criminals sob and piss themselves when facing his wrath. He will lay anybody out, even his sons.
We went toe-to-toe about two and a half years ago. And he taught me “respect” with a black eye, broken nose, and three cracked ribs. But a lot has changed since then. It won’t be so easy to take me down if we square up again.
The sound of the gavel hitting wood draws my attention to the front of the table.
“I’ve called Church because we have a shit storm on our hands,” Zeus states gravely, then nods at Buffalo. “Tell them what you told me.”