CHAPTER 2
SNAKE
Ryker is the last one to sit at the table, the one which has been used for church since the Dogwood Ridge chapter of the Saint’s Outlaw MC was started. Ryker’s dad, Jackal, sat in the President’s chair and now his son does.
I know the man is proud. It’s pretty fucking obvious, considering the way Jackal struts around the clubhouse most of the time. Even now, from his spot along the wall, he looks pleased as punch.
Jackal and the other brothers who used to sit around this table as officers of the club don’t always show up for church.
They’re retired from the table, and we respect the fuck out of it.
Considering how much they each gave to the club, they’ve earned the right to relax.
Still, we’re not going to turn down their input.
“Let’s get this done,” Ryker rumbles. “I have a date with a shot of moonshine and some pussy.”
The grin he flashes is sinister and I can’t help but think he needs a challenge. Things have been too easy for the man, which I’m allowed to think that because he’s one of my best friends and my club brother. He’s not the only one who has been handed down a chair at the table.
Warden, my dad, sat in my chair once upon a time. When he handed it to me, he slapped me on the back, and then took my mom, Patsy, to see the world. They came home and settled into retirement. They’re loving it.
Right now, they’re over in Nashville for a concert. If they weren’t, Warden would be sitting next to Jackal with matching expressions of being far too pleased with himself.
I’m not planning to tell either of them to stop that shit any time soon.
They can be pleased, but we’re restless.
Ryker needs a challenge when it comes to a woman. The same way I do.
I’ve been turning down the club whores recently and people are starting to notice. No one has organized an intervention. Yet.
I’m just not into it. Fucking someone I know my brothers have all been with? I didn’t used to care, but I do now.
And the hang-arounds just think they’re going to get a property patch. Fuck no. Not going to happen. If they were going to become Old Ladies, none of us would have waited to make it happen.
“Dogwood Construction is going strong,” Ryker tells us. He goes first, something about leading by doing. I don’t fucking know. He read some fucking leadership book or something. “We’re going to start on the new apartments next month and they should be ready to go before fall.”
“That’ll bring in some good money,” Diesel pipes up. “Let’s meet about the timeline and when a spec apartment will be done.”
Ryker gives him a chin lift in acknowledgement. They’ll get the meeting on the books since Diesel manages the properties the club owns. Jackal started it by renovating a few homes that were going to be torn down. Turns out, they were more valuable as homes than rubble.
Even if it did take a shit ton of work to get the houses livable again.
Dogwood Construction was born out of those first houses. Not only does the community benefit since we provide homes for those who need them, but we open even more doors when people can rent to own if they get approved for the program.
Some days I wonder why we don’t get a damn parade in town.
Then I remember Sheriff Lyons and how much he hates the club. The man takes the law a little too seriously if you ask me.
“If anyone is interested in getting their house started in the compound who doesn’t have one yet, let me know.” Ryker glances around the table, but I keep my mouth shut.
I had my house built right after Ryker did. Even though I spend most of my time in the clubhouse, it’s nice to have somewhere to escape now and then.
And you better fucking believe that I’ve never taken a club whore out there. Hell no, that’s not peace, that’s inviting trouble.
“I’d be interested in getting a timeline on a house, and looking at some options for the build,” Playboy speaks up and I’m momentarily stunned.
When I take in the looks on the faces of most of the brothers around the table, I’m not the only one surprised by Playboy’s request. He groans and flips us off when he notices the shock which has rendered us momentarily speechless.
He comes by his road name honestly. But his love of women, and the way he chases them like a dog to a bone, doesn’t ever come before his role for the club.
He’s a damn good enforcer—strong and a little fucking crazy.
There’s never been a time when he was intimidated by the violence he sometimes has to dole out.
Not only is he an enforcer, but he runs Ridge Tattoos and is a damn good artist. He’s accomplished a lot at 28.
But I’m not surprised because he’s a club brat, same as me.
Wearing a patch was always going to happen and he found out where his talents shine early on.
That’s what happens when you’re always drawing.
“Fuck you guys,” he grumbles. “I love the clubhouse, but I want one of those California king beds and it won’t fit in my room here.”
“Sure,” Scratch, our Treasurer, and another second-generation brother, snorts, “that’s why.”
“Can’t see another reason,” Playboy deadpans.
Scratch doesn’t say anything else, just holds up his hands in surrender before going back to his tablet. I’m sure he’s looking at the numbers for the businesses the club owns. The man is meticulous about the books. Which is a damn good thing; there’s no way that would be me.
Give me a motor and I can make magic. Crunching numbers? Fuck, just kill me.
“We’ll set it up,” Ryker cuts through the brothers giving Playboy shit.
It’s not like I can blame them, I didn’t think he’d even consider moving out of the clubhouse.
“Wouldn’t mind looking into building on club land,” Whiskey, our secretary and the man who runs On Wasted Ridge Bar and Grill, throws out there. “I’m good with the place I have for now, so no rush, but I wouldn’t mind moving and having a little more land to work with.”
“You just don’t like Sheriff Lyons driving slower when he goes by your house,” Wrecker deadpans.
“You’re not fucking wrong,” Whiskey grunts.
“We can sit down with a calendar and see what’s what.” Ryker nods at Whiskey before looking at me.
“Things are good at Hank’s,” I tell him.
Sidewinder, who runs the business with me, and is the club’s Sergeant at Arms, pops up, “Yup. We should be getting that full remodel in soon. I don’t entirely know what condition it’s in since I couldn’t take it apart, but the guy is determined to have it restored.
Something about his mom and dad getting one just like it as a wedding present and driving away from the church in it.
His daughter wants to remake the photo when she gets married. ”
I let out a low groan. Not because the story isn’t cute; it is.
But because the guy is obsessed with making his little girl’s dream come true.
It’s a damn good thing he has deep pockets and lives in Knoxville.
It means he won’t be entirely up my ass.
Apparently, he has a buddy in another chapter, and we got the nod when he went looking to make the impossible possible.
Now the work is on us. Well, Sidewinder. He has the patience for restoration where I need instant gratification.
I give him a side-eye since he’s sitting next to me. As Playboy starts talking about Ridge Tattoos with Scratch filling us in on Over the Ridge Moonshine after him, Sidewinder leans closer to me. “The fuck is the look for?”
“You ready for that restoration?” I ask the question under my breath, not trying to disturb church.
Especially not with Jackal in the room.
The thing is, the club is solid. It has been for years. If we don’t make all our money legally, is it really anyone’s business but ours?
Transport, especially when you don’t ask questions, can bring in big bucks. The work is dangerous as fuck, though.
The small arms deals we do, usually to people who are preparing to defend their way of life, right or wrong when the money spends the same, don’t really pay the bills.
Probably because Jackal made the rule early on that you could have a screw a little loose, but if you had lost them completely?
And you have darkness in you? Fuck no, we don’t sell to those people.
That’s how your shit winds up on the six o’clock news involving FBI raids and shit. We have enough going on in our own backwoods.
Scratch’s family has been in those woods for generations, even before the club, making moonshine.
When the state legalized it, we monetized it.
Freak still runs the business along with his boys.
They’ll still head out to the woods sometimes to use the original still, even though we’ve modernized the fuck out of the process.
Freak insists there’s magic out in those woods. I think he just lives up to his road name.
Then there’s the Coyote Man legend.
“It’s gonna look brand new by the time I’m done with it,” Sidewinder mutters out of the side of his mouth.
“That guy is going to have a fucking aneurysm before the car is done. He’s so far up his own ass about making his daughter’s dream come true,” I grumble.
Sidewinder smirks as he sits back in his chair like he doesn’t have a care in the world. I know better and he’s going to come to me one day begging me to take over for him. There is no way I would ever agree to something like that. He’s always been better with the customers.
Well, except for the pretty women who occasionally roll through.
“We have a run coming up. I’ll be taking point and I want Sidewinder, Playboy, and Wrecker with me.” Ryker’s voice pulls my attention back to him and he gives me a chin lift in acknowledgement at me holding down the fort. “We’ll talk details soon.”
There are grumbles and nods around the table. Everyone is ready to be done with this meeting. I’m pretty fucking sure I hear a beer calling my name.
“Fine, fuckers,” Ryker chuckles, “get out of here.”