Chapter 49 #2
We pose for pictures, I’m grinning like a loon in each and every one.
Especially when Slash pushes Flynn to the side and gets in between us, placing his arms around our shoulders for one of the shots — Flynn reclaims possession of me fast, but his glare fades when he’s given a guitar to pose with.
There are sensible, candid, and stupid shots, with his brothers, and ones with his whole club behind him. Then we’re hustled out, our time is up.
When we’re on our way back to the truck and the bikes, Bullseye’s phone rings. He holds his hand up for silence.
We all come to a halt, as he walks off to the side to take the call. When he finishes, he comes back, his face tight.
“That was Prowler. He’s invited us back to his clubhouse to celebrate your wedding.
” Flynn’s arm tightens around me. We’d planned to go out on the strip to enjoy tonight, a good meal, maybe take in a show.
Bullseye notices. “Sorry, Bro, but we’re in his territory.
Can’t show disrespect and reject his offer. ”
Flynn looks at me apologetically. I shrug. Can’t say I’m that enamoured to spend my wedding night in a club full of strangers, but I’ve married into the Kings. It comes with the territory.
Swallowing a gulp, I answer for us both. “That’s kind of him.”
But I don’t miss the way Flynn and his brothers look at their prez warily. Nor the way Bullseye looks uneasy.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
On arriving at the Nevada Chapter of the Kings of Anarchy, I can’t see anything amiss.
Prowler introduces himself as the president, then Bulldog his VP.
Ghoul steps forward telling us he’s the sergeant-at-arms, and a striking-looking man announces he’s called Monster, and is the road captain.
We also meet Boogeyman, Chef, Golden and Cipher.
Just when I’m getting nervous about all these strange men, three women step forward, Taylor, who’s apparently Prowler’s old lady, Cassidy, Prowler’s daughter, and Carys, who, lucky woman, has been claimed by Monster.
“Well, let’s get this party started!” Another man walks in, with a prospect behind him carrying some equipment.
“What the fuck?” The man I’ve just been introduced to as Ghoul snarls as he swings around and sees what’s being brought into their clubhouse.
“You lost the fuckin’ bet. Told you you’d be singing tonight.”
“Creed, I’m going to slap you around the head,” the sergeant-at-arms warns, as the other man begins assembling what looks suspiciously like a karaoke set up. “I’m not fuckin’ singing.”
“La di lah. You lost, fucker.”
Ghoul looks decidedly nervous.
My attention is suddenly caught by a strange flash of yellow in Prowler’s eyes. I blink fast, sure I must have imagined it. Then it’s gone, as he attempts to ease the tension. “Drinks all around. We’re celebrating tonight. Let’s raise our glasses to Rattler and his ol’ lady.”
Their prospect, whose name I hadn’t caught, or hadn’t been told, rushes around to fulfill the drinks orders and then Flynn and I are the centre of attention.
“We ordered food in,” Taylor, the woman who I recall is Prowler’s woman, tells me. “Sorry, it’s only pizzas, but we didn’t get much warning.” She frowns at her man, who literally growls. The sound sends shivers through me.
“Pizzas are good,” I tell her fast, though it’s a far cry from Flynn buying me a nice steak dinner in an upmarket restaurant in Vegas.
“How does this shit work?” their VP grunts in a deep tone, indicating the equipment that had been set up.
“Don’t know, don’t care,” Ghoul states, almost vibrating with anger as he marches over to the jukebox and selects a few tunes.
Taylor links her arm with mine. “Don’t mind him. His growl is worse than his bite.” She chuckles softly. “Let me show you the clubhouse. What’s the Arizona place like?”
Happy to get away from the undercurrent of tension, I walk alongside her.
“This is different to ours. Ours is an old farmhouse, with a clubroom, church, and kitchen downstairs, and the second floor has just five en-suite bedrooms. Supposedly for the officers, but Flynn and I have snagged one.” I chuckle, “Otherwise we’d be in the bunkhouse with the rest of the brothers, they only have shared bathrooms.” My grimace probably betrays what I think of that.
“Though some have, or are already building houses on the compound. We’ve just agreed to the plan for ours.
And there’s a proposal to build separate residences for all the brothers. ”
She stops and stares at me. “That sounds amazing. You must have a lot of land.”
“Yeah, we have. We back onto forest.”
She turns to look at her man, who must have excellent hearing, as he tilts his head toward her. “We’d love to have that here.” His answering chin lift suggests he wholeheartedly agrees.
“In a city you must be limited.” I’d not seen much countryside around.
I notice she’s paused. Hanging on the wall beside her, her attention is drawn to something.
Seeming to be in pride of place is a lighted glass shadow frame, inside of which is a black box with the Kings of Anarchy MC logo engraved on it.
“What’s that?” I ask, as she views it as if it has significance.
In a hushed and reverent tone she replies, “These are the ashes of Kansas, a brother we lost recently.”
Bereft of words, I respond inadequately, “I’m sorry.”
Still with her eyes on the monument, she shakes her head. “He died as he’d had wanted. Protecting the Kings.”
Flynn’s near-death experience still fresh in my mind, I shudder.
She notices and places a hand on my arm. “The brothers don’t have a death wish, but they’re ready if it comes calling.”
“I nearly lost Flynn,” I confide. “He’s still recovering.”
“I noticed his limp,” she says, in a matter-of-fact way. “But he’s still here.” Unlike Kansas, but those words go unsaid. Then she continues the tour. “So this is really it, bar, kitchen, church, and rooms for visitors to crash.”
We return to the men who seem to be arguing.
“Not me. I can’t sing for shit. Creed, you’re a fuckin’ asshole.” Ghoul’s temper hasn’t improved.
“And your mouth shouldn’t write checks your ass isn’t prepared to pay,” Creed argues.
“I’m going to fuckin’ gut you.”
There’s something about Ghoul’s answering growl that gets the hairs on my neck sticking up. It makes me want to appease him, which is the only reason I can give for throwing my man to the wolves. “Flynn can sing.”
My new husband turns to me with a look of horror on his face.
I nudge him, and say quietly, “Well, you can. They look like they’re going to throw down. Please, Flynn, I don’t want a fight on my wedding night.”
He looks at them, then at me, then whispers into my ear, “I swear, woman, you’re the only reason I’m doing this.” Then he strides forward, picks up the mic and asks, “So what you got lined up for me to sing to my wife?”
“Nah.” Prowler steps forward. “You made the fuckin’ bet, Ghoul, you fuckin’ go first.”
“Prez, I only bet he…”
Prowler slashes his hand through the air. “Don’t want to know who put who up to what. You owe him? You fuckin’ own up to it. Line something up, Creedence, your choice.”
Creedence picks up a remote then flicks through a menu on the screen. His face widens into a huge grin. “Think you should sing something close to my heart.” He leans in to their sergeant-at-arms, “Picked an easy one for ya.”
Moving to the area that had been cleared while Taylor and I had been gone, Ghoul looks at the screen. “Fuckin’ Bad Moon Rising?”
Shrugging, Creed informs him. “Even you can’t fuck this up. And whatcha know, these kind folks might sing along to help.” He waves his arm to encompass the Kings from Arizona, who, I belatedly notice, are tending to stick together, rather than mingling as I’d expected.
Looking only slightly appeased, Ghoul gingerly takes the microphone, as Creed presses the remote, and the intro starts. When the words start appearing on the screen, Ghoul starts singing. Or at least, rasping the words. Doesn’t take long to notice he can’t hold a tune to save his life.
Grunts, and what sound like yips start from all around me.
“Oh fuck, make him stop. My fuckin’ ears.” This comes from Monster, who’s capping his hands to both sides of his head.
“Creed, you asshole, you’re to blame for this!” Bulldog roars so loudly it barely sounds human.
“Fuckers!” Ghoul steps away from the monitor and thrusts the microphone at his tormentor. “You see if you can fuckin’ do better.”
Creed refuses to take it. “I didn’t lose…”
I’m not the only one to see Ghoul clenching his fists.
“Flynn,” I hiss into his ear. “Please. I don’t want a fight on my wedding night.”
With a pained look toward me that suggests he’d rather be anywhere else, and a whispered, “I just hope you weren’t lying when you told me I could sing.
” Flynn steps forward. “I’m willing to give it a shot.
” He grabs the microphone and remote, then steps up to the monitor, flicks through the suggestions, then his lips curve.
As the opening sounds of ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ start to play, he clears his throat.
I don’t think Creed has noticed he’s lost control of his karaoke equipment as he and Ghoul are body checking each other. Laughter and jeers are still continuing, while Flynn’s brothers are backing away as if to distance themselves.
Then Flynn starts singing. And, oh my God. His voice is everything I remembered. He’s not just fumbling his way through it like amateur singers I’ve heard at Open Mic nights, he’s putting his heart and soul into it, sounding just as good as the original.
Slowly the racket dies down, Creed and Ghoul stop their bickering and they, like everyone else starts paying attention to my man singing. When the final notes of the song fade away, the clubhouse is once again in uproar, this time with cheers, hands clapping and feet stomping.
Shouts start to go up of, “More.”