33. Kevlar
Kevlar
The space was small. Apparently, it used to be a mom-and-pop run bakery. That would explain the sugary smell throughout the place. However, Kid had better plans.
Kevlar stood back, watching his little brother’s eyes glitter with ideas as the Realtor showed him around. She mentioned knowing some contractors who could retool the shop for Kid’s needs.
This was a step in the right direction. Roots were taking hold. A legitimate business was exactly what they needed. Finally, something wasn’t a headache.
Excusing himself to let Kid and Kevlar explore by themselves, the realtor took a call outside.
“What do you think?” Kevlar asked.
Kid ran his hand along his smooth chin before he launched into an explanation of his vision.
Couches would be in the front. He figured they could get them at a thrift store or a flea market.
Flash art would go on the walls. Binder portfolios would be on a coffee table.
Kid wanted to paint the place in bright colors with neon signs.
The front counter would be retooled into a reception desk.
Stations would be behind it. He suggested four. He didn’t need a lot of people.
Kevlar’s smile made his cheeks hurt. He’d never seen his little brother so excited and animated. Setting up a tattoo parlor would be good for him. Grinning from ear to ear, Kid resembled every bit the child in a candy store.
“You’re going to make an offer?” Kevlar asked.
Kid nodded. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure I am.”
“You got it?”
His brother chuckled. “Of course.”
An outlaw biker wasn’t a millionaire by any stretch of the imagination, but the criminal lifestyle could be lucrative if done properly. Kevlar and Kid had done alright for themselves. They’d marketed their skills well before and after joining the Royal Bastards.
Making a legitimate investment for once would be nice.
“Going to offer ten below asking, but all cash,” Kid declared.
Nodding, Kevlar surveyed the place. “It’s going to need a lot of work to convert it.”
Kid shrugged. “It’ll be worth it.”
“I think so too.”
Kid didn’t have to worry about earning money. They’d make it other ways and funnel it through the shop. Even if he never tattooed a single person, as far as Uncle Sam would know, he’d be the best artist in all of OKC.
Kevlar hooked an arm around Kid’s shoulders and pulled him in for a headlock. Running his knuckles along his scalp, he gave his brother a few noogies for good measure. “Then let’s do this.”
Laughing and squirming, his brother escaped Kevlar’s hold. Not that Kevlar tried hard to keep him restrained. Taking a deep breath, filling his lungs, Kevlar watched Kid saunter out of the former bakery to tell the realtor his offer.
Yep. Things were looking up.
Kevlar didn’t consider himself an alcoholic. He knew when to stop. Being blackout drunk hadn’t occurred since he was in high school. He’d learned long ago it was better to stop when he reached a happy buzz.
Though the amount of time he spent at the Knucklehead as of late begged to differ. He nursed his beer. Did a few shots but never let himself lose control.
Presidents didn’t have that luxury. Their heads had to be on a swivel. Especially when at war. Carelessness would cost him too much.
Kevlar had to preserve his wits.
Unlike his father, he limited his consumption and kept his eyes peeled for anything out of place. Did this make him a bit paranoid? Probably, but he’d rather be prepared.
Sitting at the table in the back corner, with his fingers on the neck of the light beer, Kevlar zoned out while Eric Church’s “Round Here Buzz” played over the speakers. Friday night had the bar teeming with people, freshly paid and ready to blow all their cash on a good evening out.
Kid sat beside him, doodling in a sketchbook, ignoring the world around him. Torch was across the room chatting with a woman way out of his league while Lionel acted as wingman. Kevlar reveled in the calmness of it all. Every day wouldn’t be like this, but today was, so he’d sit back and enjoy.
“Hey.” A scrawny guy with a messy mop of brown hair nearly covering his eyes approached the table.
Kevlar lifted his chin as he sized him up.
Did he get in with a fake ID? The man looked like his balls hadn’t even dropped yet.
“What’s that about?” he asked, gesturing to the one percent diamond necklace Kevlar wore.
Kid glanced between them before returning to his drawing.
“Grown-up stuff,” Kevlar answered.
This guy should be worried about homecoming and chasing cheerleaders, not hanging out in a biker bar, approaching the president of a criminal chapter.
The kid furrowed his brows. “What?”
Kevlar leaned over the table, resting his elbows on it and joining his hands. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
Kevlar lowered his chin and glared at the youngster with an arched brow.
The kid’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he fidgeted, switching his weight from one foot to the other.
Oh, he definitely got in with a bogus license. Kevlar should probably inform Jerry. That was the right thing to do. No one wanted unnecessary heat on the place.
But…
Hadn’t Kevlar been guzzling beers here when he was a teen?
“I won’t get you thrown out,” Kevlar assured. “I just need to know for this conversation to move forward.”
The man before him nodded and lowered his gaze. “Nineteen.” His voice was low, barely audible over the music and conversation in the bar.
Kevlar didn’t buy it. Shaking his head, he considered the kid. “Come back in two years, and I’ll tell you about it.”
“But,” the guy protested.
Kevlar shook his head and waved him off. Reluctantly, the eager teenager trudged away and disappeared into the crowd. Maybe he’d see him again when he had matured a little.
While Kid and Kevlar got to prospect the Roughneck Riders super young, that wasn’t how Kevlar would run his club. Youth was riddled with impulsivity and volatility. They made poor choices and didn’t understand shit about loyalty.
Kevlar had decided long ago, before he was ever a Royal Bastard, that if he got the chance to run a chapter, he wouldn’t allow anyone below twenty-one to prospect, let alone patch in. It was too risky. He wanted solid brothers with good heads on their shoulders.
While he may hurt for members, he wanted quality, not just quantity.
As he lifted the bottle to his lips, his ass vibrated from the cell he kept in his back pocket. His hackles rose. Not many people had his number. If they were calling at this hour, it wasn’t good.
Putting the beer down, he reached for his phone and checked the screen.
Thank fuck Kelsey wasn’t contacting him. Not that he didn’t want to see her again but because that would mean Yogi was stirring shit up. At least the early morning message had been understood.
Tapping the green button, Kevlar brought the phone to his ear. “What’s up, Remi?”
She probably wanted to know if he and Kid were showing up to help at the shop tomorrow. They’d been doing that since they came home. They were in town; it was the least they could do.
“Who the fuck did you piss off?” she screamed.
Kevlar’s spine straightened. That list was long as hell. While Kevlar was only thirty years old, he’d been a criminal one percent biker since the day he was born. Pissing people off was his favorite activity.
“You’re going to need to be more specific,” he said.
He slapped Kid’s arm and gestured toward the back room—their makeshift clubhouse until they got something more permanent.
Kevlar plugged his ear so he could hear better.
“The cars outside the shop had their windows busted and tires slashed,” she announced as they moved through the crowd of people. “A few have bullet holes.”
Shit. That wasn’t good.
“Do you have any idea how angry my customers will be?” she seethed.
He could practically see the smoke coming from her ears and through the phone. It was understandable. Remi wasn’t involved. She and her business should be off-limits.
Unlike Yogi’s sister, Remi wasn’t harboring the Royal Bastards in her shop. They worked there from time to time, but that wasn’t the same situation. They didn’t sleep there. Merely a few hours a week shouldn’t associate them with the place. Except their name on the wall.
Fuck.
That’s how they knew.
Once Kevlar and his brother were in the back room with the door closed, the noise level dropped significantly. A conversation could be had in private.
On the small card table, Kevlar placed his phone and pressed speaker. “What makes you think I’m responsible for this?” he asked.
He was. Kevlar was ninety-nine percent sure of it, but there was a slim chance he could be wrong. If Remi had information, he wanted it.
Kid peered at him in confusion.
He obviously hadn’t heard the beginning of the conversation.
“I mean, you’re connected to the Dixie assholes. Paul’s a prick. Maybe it’s his fault someone busted out your windows.”
Unlikely, but he took a shot.
“Don’t play with me. I’m not stupid,” she sneered through the phone. “I have cameras. They were bikers. Scorpion something or other on their backs.”
The confirmation he needed.
Fury erupted in his chest. Anger bubbled through his veins. “I’ll make it right.”
“You abso-fucking-lutely will. I’m talking new shit for all my customers, on your dime.”
He nodded as though she could see him. That was the least of his concerns.
He should’ve known the Bloody Scorpions wouldn’t take their little good morning visit lightly.
Kevlar shouldn’t have antagonized them when they weren’t set up yet, but he had to.
They kept fucking with Kelsey. Shit like that couldn’t go unanswered.
“Tell me when and where to write the check,” Kevlar said as he ended the call.
There wasn’t anything else to be said. Remi was fine, just mad. He’d make her and her customers whole. That wasn’t the problem.
“Get Torch and Lionel,” Kevlar ordered. “We need to have our first official church.”
They needed to plan what the fuck they were going to do about their little Scorpion problem.