Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
The clubhouse was buzzing with the low hum of conversation as the brothers milled around. There was a feeling stirring in the air, Razor could feel it.
A hand gripped his shoulder. Teller gripped Razor’s shoulder as he got up and looked down at him, then at Hemlock. “Church in five minutes.”
“Hemlock, Razor. When Stick asks if there is any new business, be ready to present the idea about the chapter buying the building. This is something the two of you came up with. So, you need to present it,” Teller told them. He wouldn’t take credit from someone else's idea.
“Will do,” was all Hemlock said as Teller walked away.
When they approached the meeting room, Aries reached over and opened the door, allowing them inside. Razor let Hemlock walk in first.
The room was simple with rows of chairs and a long wooden table at the front where the officers sat. On the walls hung the club’s colors and code, nothing else. Brothers stood around waiting on Teller to call church to order.
The door opened as Teller walked in, followed by the chapter’s officers.
They moved as a unit past the pews, straight for the head table.
Teller stood in front of the table, making sure there was no doubt who was in charge.
He didn’t sit. That alone made the air feel heavier.
His cut stretched across his back; his hands stuffed in his front pockets.
His head bowed slightly, giving the appearance he was thinking of what he was about to say.
The chapter’s officers sat at the table, cuts tight across their backs, colors bold, a statement of loyalty. Each had a coffee or a drink in front of them, some both.
The rest of the brothers grabbed seats without ceremony.
Blackjack stepped forward, making sure the two prospects stood at their posts, then shut the door with a heavy bang that echoed off the walls. Locking it was a formality; everyone was supposed to be here.
“Call the meeting,” Teller told Stick the chapter secretary.
“Church is in session,” Stick said loud and clear.
A few boots shifted. A cough broke the silence. Then it was straight to business—no bullshit, no wasted words.
Razor sat next to Hemlock and Truck as Teller took a moment to look around. When his hard stare stopped on him, Razor adjusted in his seat feeling like he was under a microscope.
Everyone listened as Stick read the minutes from the last meeting. Teller’s gaze never left Razor’s, making him uncomfortable.
Once Stick was done, they moved on to new business. Teller cleared his throat.
“After church we’re taking a little ride. It’s something we’ve let slide lately. Rumor has it there’s other clubs looking at our territory. We need to be seen…in full color. Feel me?”
“Any idea who’s trying to push in on us?” Blackjack asked.
“No. but who it is will circle back around to us. It always does,” Teller said.
There were a few grumbles and shuffling of feet, even a few throats cleared. But Teller looked over at Vicious than at Razor. He wasn’t dealing with his brothers fighting over fuckin' women. They might have set it aside for now, but it was still simmering underneath the surface.
“Now is there any new business?”
Hemlock spoke up, “Yeah, I’ve got something to present to the chapter. A business venture.”
“Let’s hear it.”
It took a few minutes for Hemlock to explain the idea that they’d discussed.
Everyone voted on looking further into purchasing the building and creating rental property which would be revenue for the chapter.
* * *
Razor didn’t wait for anyone as he headed for his bike. If Teller wanted them to ride, he’d roll and probably put someone’s damn head through a wall with the way his mood was deteriorating.
When Teller stepped out of the clubhouse, he whistled loudly grabbing everyone’s attention.
“This is just a ride to take a look around. No show of force unless we have to.”
When most of the brothers laughed, Teller headed for his bike. Someone was gonna end up in the hospital or jail by the end of the day.
It was a great day for a simple run out of the city.
Hit a few bars, maybe grab food. Hell, maybe even visit a couple of the gentlemen’s clubs.
Sighing, Razor threw a leg over his bike and settled into the saddle.
Looking to his right he saw Vicious lighting a smoke.
Reaching out he waited for the brother to hand it over.
If he couldn’t have one damn day for pleasure, he’d smoke a little to ease the tension.
Taking a long pull on the blunt he passed it back to Vicious.
“We good?”
“Not yet. But we’re getting there.”
“Let me know when we arrive.”
“Maybe.”
Razor chuckled and passed the blunt to Truck, then climbed on his ride. They had business to attend to. No time for bullshit. Joker signaled for everyone to line up.
“Hey.” Vicious grabbed Razor’s attention.
“Yeah?”
Knowing Razor like he did, Vicious could tell he was on edge and probably hoping for a fight. So, he did something he normally wouldn’t do, he gave up the real reason for the ride.
“This is Tank’s patching up ride. No-one knows,” Vicious told Razor, then laughed when he saw the look on the brother’s face. “Now, fucking chill.”
Razor scrubbed a hand down his face, it was hard switching fucking gears so fast. But, even though Vicious said it was a patch ride, didn’t mean they weren’t scouting the area for other clubs.
One by one kickstands lifted as each bike fired up, engines growled like thunder rolling across the concrete. The scent of motor oil and exhaust clung to the air as they pulled out of the lot, kicking up dust.
It was a blur of chrome, denim, and black leather moving through the stillness of the street.
The line of bikes stretched down the road, each one gleaming beneath the sunlight, custom paint shimmering under the early afternoon sky.
The deep rumble echoed off quiet nearby buildings, a sound that sent a pulse through the ground.
They wound their way through back streets until they hit the main drag running through Montreal.
When they pulled up to a red-light Razor glanced around, checking his brothers.
It was quiet for a Sunday, but most people were still in church or bed.
This wasn’t a social call, this was a surprise attack.
Most clubs partied all weekend and recovered on Sunday. Which meant they were gonna be surprising a whole lot of drunk and/or hungover fuckers.
The traffic light turned green. Razor shifted into gear and rolled on with the line of bikes. The rumble from the bikes reverberating through the empty streets like a heartbeat in a silent chest. Old town was barely waking up as they passed through it.
The chapter was tight and disciplined, every rider’s posture taut with focus.
Something was off about the whole situation.
Razor felt out of the loop like something else was at play.
Then it hit him…Vicious wasn’t joking. The ride was to get everyone away from the damn clubhouse where the sweeties and the ol’ ladies could set up for Tank’s patching party.
Fuckin Teller. No one would guess it since it was a Sunday and not a Saturday night.
A few minutes later, Teller led them into an empty parking lot of a restaurant.
When the bikes shut off silence rang louder than the roar of the engines had.
“I want everyone to be cool when we go inside this place!” Teller shouted, then headed for the front door.
The last thing Razor noticed was Vicious talking to Tank and the other two prospects. He watched as Vicious and Tank headed towards the back of the building leaving the two other prospects out front. Definitely a patching in.
Hustling across the parking lot, Razor stepped through the restaurant doors and saw indeed it was set up for lunch. Teller was signaling for everyone to head out the back door leading to a grassy area.
Everyone lined up on the grassy area just as Tank stepped around the building with Vicious.
When Tank stepped on the lawn, Vicious faced the man. “Tank, are you serious about pledging your life to the Royal Bastards?”
“Fuck yes!” He’d been a prospect for a year now and had tried hard to show his loyalty to the club.
“Would you fight for the right to wear our colors?” Vicious saw the acknowledgement in Tank’s eyes.
“Yes, every fucking day.”
Vicious pointed to Teller, who now stood at the end of the rows of brothers.
He would have to get through them to get to Teller, who held up a full patch that read on the top rocker “Royal Bastards,” while the bottom read “Montreal Chapter” If he wanted to wear it, he would have to take it from his president.
“You want it…” Vicious stepped in front of Tank, blocking his view of Teller. “Go get it.”
Before Tank could make a move Vicious decked Tank, causing him to stumble back.
Tank refused to go down and lunged for Vicious. Grabbing him around the waist he managed to shove him back a few feet, only to get elbowed in his back by the chapter’s veep.
The two men fought until Vicious threw Tank into the rows of patch holders and the waylay began. The brothers shoved, kicked, punched, slapped, and all-around beat Tank, making every step he took one that he earned, proving to them he deserved his patch.
Tank never stopped going forward and after what he ultimately wanted: his patch. It wasn’t just a piece of fabric, it meant he belonged.
When he finally broke free of the group, he was facing Teller, a man he had never underestimated. Just when he thought Teller would simply hold out the patch, the chapter president lunged for him, taking Tank to the ground. That’s when the real battle started.
There was nothing soft about the way Teller fought. The brother held nothing back, he kicked, punched, and even bit Tank. He even pulled Tank's hair.
When he threw the last punch, sending Tank backwards, Teller laughed, then held out his hand to help the brother up. Pulling Tank in, Teller hugged him as his brother and slapped him on the back.
“Congratulations, brother.”
Tank took the patch with a shaky hand. His knuckles were split and bleeding. Grass and dirt were in his mouth, and he couldn’t see good out of one eye. Hell, he thought he might have a broken rib for a fraction of a second.
Teller, who was sporting a busted lip and bruised jaw shouted, “All right assholes, before we start celebrating for Tank, he still needs to sew that patch on his cut before we head back for the real party back at the clubhouse.”
“He’s still our bitch!” yelled Double-tap.
“My room still needs cleaning at the clubhouse,” shouted Sherlock.
“Shut the fuck up! I’m not finished, assholes.” Teller clapped Tank on the shoulder, squeezing it tightly. “Once he’s got that patch on, he’s no longer anyone’s bitch.”
“Lunch is being served inside. After we eat, we have a ride planned before we head back for the real party at the clubhouse.”
It was a lot more slaps on the back and a few brotherly hugs for Tank. Razor couldn’t be prouder of the guy. He’d come a long way in the last two years with the club.
“What about the social call?” one of the brothers shouted.
“This is the social call!” Teller shouted back with a chuckle.
That’s when it actually settled in for everyone that the social call was a ruse all leading to this moment for a brother that deserved to wear their colors.