Chapter Seven Bishop
At the party in the field, I managed not to be alone with Samantha.
Although she was on her own with Marley running around for all the guys, she stuck close with Kim and the other women.
She seemed to get along well with all the girls, which if Marley did patch in would be in his favor.
No man wanted a woman who was trouble with the other club women, because in the end, it caused him too much grief.
I shot the shit with the guys and drank way too much, but I didn’t end up searching out a piece of ass.
Instead, I crashed, or maybe passed out, on the floor around five a.m. The next morning had us rising early.
I wasn’t sure whose bright idea it was to have the meeting at ten after a night of drinking and partying.
Although we were usually quiet from being hungover, we were especially quiet that morning.
I think we all felt the heaviness of the situation pressing down on us.
So we slurped down black coffee and tried eating some from the buffet.
When it was almost ten, we headed over to the boardroom.
Since only presidents and vice presidents were allowed in on the meeting, Rev and Deacon slipped inside while we were to wait to be called in when it came time for our motion to be heard.
As we stood outside the meeting room door, a nervous energy popped and crackled around us.
Of course none of us would have admitted to being nervous.
That would have meant we were nothing but a bunch of pussies.
Raiders would rather die than show fear.
Each of us tried in our own way to mask our anxiety— Boone shuffled the coins in his pocket to the tune of Bonanza while Mac chain- smoked so fast he lit one cigarette off the other.
As for me, I walked around the cramped hallway.
“Would you stop pacing?” Mac grunted.
Boone chuckled. “Forget it. B always paces before a fight.”
I gave the two of them a sheepish grin. “I didn’t even realize I was doing it.”
Mac stubbed out another cigarette. “I sure as hell wish this was just a fistfight. Somehow I think we would have better odds than waiting around to chitchat.”
“With you smoking like a fucking chimney, you’d be passed out in the first round,” Boone quipped.
“Shut up, fucker,” Mac snapped before taking another long drag on his cigarette.
As I chuckled, I felt some welcome relief from the tension. Unfortunately, the feeling didn’t last long because just then one of the Virginia Raiders stuck his head out the door. “All right, boys, you’re up.”
Mac cursed under his breath as he threw his half- smoked cigarette to the floor. After stomping it out, he made the sign of the cross and muttered, “Amen.”
After exchanging a surprised look with me, Boone reached out to stop Mac as he started for the door. “Seriously?” Boone questioned.
“Frankly, we need all the help we can get,” Mac replied matter-of-factly.
“Good to know we’ve got such a good Catholic boy on our side,” Boone mused.
The moment we stepped inside the room, the door closed and locked behind us. Smoke hung heavy along with the smell of stale alcohol and sweaty road-worn men. Around the massive mahogany table sat the presidents and vice presidents for the Southeast states.
While we represented the north Georgia chapter, there were also chapters from central and south Georgia as well. Boone, Mac, and I squeezed in to stand behind the chairs where Rev and Deacon sat.
At the head of the table sat the Southeast president, Rory “Rambo” Smithwick. With his long white hair and beard, he could almost pass for Santa Claus— if it weren’t for multicolored ink all over his neck, arms, and chest. We’d never had any issues with Rambo.
Back in the day, he and Preacher Man had gotten along really well. Their bond was cemented over the fact that they had both been in service. Although they were in different units, there was something to be said for a shared experience of being in combat.
It made strangers into a band of brothers.
Rambo let his gaze flicker around the table for a moment before clearing his throat. “The next item to discuss is a the
While many of the men were nodding in agreement, a lone voice
of dissent spoke up. “I have an issue with the way you disposed of
your gun trade.”
All eyes turned toward a scraggly looking man with a wiry salt-and- pepper beard. Although I had never met him, I knew who he was. Easy Eddy Catcherside was the east Louisiana president.
Throughout the years, he’d spent more time on the inside of a prison cell than he had on the outside. His club could be considered ragtag at best with many choosing to patch over to the Diablos when they started sweeping through the Southeast on a forceful membership drive.
After taking a sip of water, Rev calmly questioned, “What is your issue, Eddy?”
“You boys made a pretty sweet deal with the Rodriguez cartel.”
My breath hitched as I cut my eyes over to Rev’s profile.
He clenched and unclenched his jaw several times before replying.
I knew he was thinking about the reasons behind aligning ourselves with one of the Mexican drug cartels.
It had ensured Annabel’s safety from Mendoza, the psychopath who had held her as a sex slave.
Rev stared Eddy down for a few seconds to collect himself. “Yeah, Rodriguez and I made a deal. Considering the parameters,
I wouldn’t exactly call it a sweet one. It’s not like we pocketed any money from it.”
“You want to explain why you didn’t offer your gun business to your brothers first?”
“I don’t see how the deals we make are any of your business,” Deacon growled before Rev could respond.
Eddy smirked at Deacon. “I wasn’t addressing you.”
“I’m a patch-wearing member and officer, cocksucker, so anytime you question my chapter’s judgment, I have the right to answer.”
Rev put a hand on Deacon’s shoulder to both calm and quiet him.
He then turned his attention to Eddy. “I haven’t tried to hide the reasons behind why I made the deal with Rodriguez.
Nor do I think anyone could in good faith try to say that I have.
” Rev narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps if you spent less time trying to ingratiate yourself with the Diablos and more time on the business of your Raider brothers, you would know that.”
Eddy’s face turned purple as the veins in his neck bulged. He slammed his hand down on the table, the crack echoing through the room. “Don’t you dare fucking accuse me of being disloyal to the Raiders! I was a patch member before you were even born!”
With a calm, level stare, Rev said, “While that is true, I don’t believe there is a brother around this table who doesn’t know about your friendship with them.”
Eddy shot so fast out of his chair that it went slamming back against the wall. “This isn’t about me and the Diablos. This is about you running guns to wetbacks across my territory without giving me and my boys any compensation.”
Several growls went up around the table at Eddy’s use of the slur. Rambo smacked his gavel on the table. “Watch your racist fucking mouth.”
Eddy swept his hand to his chest. “My apologies.” He then narrowed his eyes on Rev. “Do you deny that you’re running guns?”
Before Rev could answer, Deacon said, “We’re not doing shit. The Rodriguez cartel is,” Deacon said with a smirk.
“But you let it happen.”
Rambo banged his gavel on the table. “Enough! Pipe the fuck down, Eddy.”
“But I—”
Jabbing his finger in the air, Rambo growled, “I don’t give two shits about what else you have to say! Take a fucking seat and respect the members of this table, or you’ll be going home without a patch!”
Eddy’s beady eyes widened at the suggestion of his cut being taken. After heaving out several frustrated breaths and shooting a death glare at us, he finally retrieved his chair and had a seat.
Rambo reached into his patch for a pack of cigarettes. After lighting one up and taking a drag, he said, “I would caution all of you to remember that what is done in your territory is your business.
When it affects the territory of other brothers, then it becomes an issue. Right now I see nothing wrong with the Rodriguez cartel running guns across Louisiana. At the very least, other clubs will assume all of the Raiders chapters have an alliance with the cartel, which makes us look powerful.”
Rev and Deacon exchanged a glance. I was sure neither of them had thought that the Rodriguez deal would actually have some benefit for the other Raiders.
Mississippi’s president nodded. “I agree with Rambo. I also don’t see any reason for Rev to owe anything to Eddy. We’re along the same route, and he don’t owe me a damn thing.”
Rev grinned as the other states chimed in their agreement. “I appreciate that sentiment, boys.”
“Total bullshit,” Eddy muttered under his breath.
If Rambo heard him, he chose to ignore him. “Since we’re in agreement on that, I make a motion to vote recognize that the Raiders will no longer be in the gun business.”
When I found myself leaning forward on my feet, I couldn’t help holding my breath in anticipation. One by one, the men around the table began to vote. Once the “yays” started ringing out, the breath I’d been holding whooshed out of me.
Not too surprisingly, the only nay came from Eddy and his vice president. “Motion carried. Meeting adjourned until next year,” Rambo said. He brought his gavel down hard to make it official.
As the men rose to their feet, we started shaking hands and thumping backs. When we were the only ones left in the room, we did some hugging of our own. “After all that fucking worry, I can’t believe it all went down so easy,” Deacon remarked as he lit up a cigarette.
“Considering what happened with Eddy, I wouldn’t say it went down easy,” Rev argued.
Deacon rolled his eyes. “Screw Eddy. His days as a Raider are numbered after he pulled that stunt.”