Chapter 30
thirty
JUDE
Willa
Are you ever going to introduce me to Greer? Lyla Mae Arceneaux said she saw you two together last night.
Jude
I’m more interested in discussing the lock that appeared on the gates of the charter company at night. Care to explain that? Don’t worry, I’ve already remedied the situation.
Willa
I’ll talk to Rob. He’s not happy you’re taking so much interest all of a sudden.
Jude
Rob is an employee who is overstepping, and you’re letting him. And I thought Rob was pissed I’m not around.
Willa
Can’t I just have a normal conversation with you? Fuck why don’t you just let us buy you out and be done with all this?
Jude
I’ve seen the books. With the way your husband is spending money, you can’t afford to buy me out. I don’t know how he managed to slip it by me, but we’re not paying for that expensive ass truck. Tell him to take it back or pay for it out of your own pocket.
Something about the situation, his accusations, prickle the back of my neck.
I hate interfering in the daily operations of Bayou Blue Charters.
It’s always been a decent living for our family, but Rob is bleeding things dry.
A couple of bad seasons and we might not bounce back.
When our mechanic went out of business, Rob convinced Willa to start using his friend.
Now repairs are much more frequent and the bills are suddenly doubling.
The slush fund for new equipment went to “advertisement” and new logos, for which we coincidentally hired another friend of Rob’s.
There’s going to be nothing left for Braxton and Aiden to inherit at this rate.
What am I supposed to do, let Rob destroy everything my family’s built?
No, the business is going to be there for the boys.
Refusing to let my sister ruin my good mood, I pocket my phone.
The club’s wolf dog, Chloe, runs in circles around the black panel van.
“Are you coming inside with me?” I ask her.
She cowers away and lopes back down the path towards Sutton and Meadow’s tiny house.
With most of the patch holders in the clubhouse, it’s probably too much activity for the shy dog.
For the first time since becoming a prospect, I have no idea whatsoever as to what’s going on.
Normally, I know every detail a prospect is allowed to know, but I’ve been too busy falling in love.
I’ve known Greer’s mine since the moment I laid eyes on her. I’ve adored her, cherished everything about her. The chemistry is off the charts. Outside the bedroom, we click, truly enjoying one another’s company.
Now, though, after learning of our family’s shared history, it makes more sense, an even tighter tie to one another. She’s a piece of my soul that’s been missing for far too long. I can’t wait until she’s wearing my patch and a gold band. Call me old fashioned, but families should share a surname.
Loading the beer onto the dolly, I roll it around to the side of the clubhouse and onto the exterior lift.
The first time I unloaded the liquor restock, Folgers waited until I’d carried the entire load up the steep steps of the raised building before enlightening me to its existence.
After pressing the button to bring the metal cage up to the first story, it comes to life with a chorus of squeaks.
“Last one,” I call out as I wheel the heavy cardboard cases through the kitchen.
“You left the cases of tequila on the porch, right?” Meadow asks.
“And the whiskey. Are we expecting guests or something?”
“You know, I think Odin’s just entertaining someone from the city,” she admits.
Uh-huh, now we’re getting to the bottom of things. With the secrecy, it’s probably the head of the Gaming Commission. I’ve heard that Odin grew up with him.
Kinda funny when you think about it.
Meadow draws back the tin foil on one of the containers, and the smell of cooked beef with brown gravy fills the room. “My favorite,” I say with an exaggerated sniff. The roast beef po-boys they make are the best I’ve ever eaten.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to put one aside for you,” Meadow offers.
“Thanks,” I say, leaving the kitchen with a whistle, pushing the light burden to the bar.
An L-shaped mahogany wet bar dominates most of the room. The wood is aged with time and topped with black granite. Hanging dead center on the back wall is a pub style sign with the white wolf head of the Loup Garou.
After decades of biker parties, the room is far from pristine. For starters, there’s more than one random mark left from a knife, and two of the stools don’t quite match. It’s still one of my favorite rooms, nicer than most of the watering holes near Army bases for sure.
Looking around the now empty space, I ask Goldilocks, “Where did everybody go?”
“Special session of church. They didn’t have enough for a quorum last week.”
“Really? I had no idea.”
“That's because you’ve spent every available moment with your woman,” he accuses.
“What can I say? I’ve got it good at home.”
“At least you’re emptying your balls on the regular. It’s not healthy to go that long.” He picks up a cleaned whiskey glass off the tray and stores it behind the bar in the layered stacks.
I filch one of the tumblers Goldilocks is holding, and help myself to one of the warm sodas we keep as a mixer.
As I scoop ice into the liquor glass, the etching on the glass catches my eye.
Laissez les bons temps rouler - Let the good times roll.
The often used Cajun phrase encompasses not only Louisiana culture but also MC lifestyle.
Too many clubs forget their roots and become business partners that call themselves brothers.
Every drink served is a reminder that the Bayou Dogs aren’t joined by money, but the camaraderie and respect we all share.
I’m double checking the inventory in the beer fridge when I hear a sharp “Band-Aid.” Couyon is standing in the room, his approach unheard. He nods for me to follow. His body language is bland, almost distracted.
“What’s going on?”
“Folgers needs a chat.”
For some reason, I look to Goldilocks, but his body’s still with surprise. He has no idea what’s going on either. A massive knot grows in my stomach. This is it. The vote.
I’ve known it would happen soon, but I thought for sure it would be another week or two.
Couyon walks ahead, and I ball my hands into fists to keep them from shaking as I’m led toward the chapel. This is it, one way or another. My heart is beating loudly in my ears, a drum beat that will lead to either brotherhood or the biggest failure of my life.
Distant murmuring turns to a still silence as we walk past the ornately carved doors of the chapel, the weight of what's inside pressing heavily on my chest.
My first thought is of Greer. Will she be disappointed if I’m not voted in, or relieved?
I scan the room for Folgers, but he’s standing next to Prez in the back of the room.
All the other members are seated around a large cypress table.
Some look down, others wear blank expressions.
Only Flinch makes eye contact. As a third generation biker, certain things are instinctive to him that others have to learn.
Like now, when not a single microexpression reveals any hint about what’s coming next for me.
I’ve spent fourteen months of my life prospecting, and another year before that working as a civilian employee. My entire life since I’ve left the Army has revolved around the club and these men.
I take metered steps toward Folgers and try to summon a greeting, but the words knot in my dry mouth.
I mask the fear that washes over me when Folgers pulls out his pocket knife and starts to cut off the blue prospect patch from my cut.
He leaves the thin strip of embroidery on the table next to us before his lip jerks up for the slightest of seconds. He takes a long, quiet step away before Odin begins.
“Folgers brought your membership up in church today. You’ve shown us hard work and loyalty for over a year now.
Done your time, worked hard. Congratulations, you’ve been unanimously voted into the Bayou Dogs Motorcycle Club, Mother Chapter.
” He reaches onto the table next to him and brings back a wrapped bundle. My bottom rocker and name plate.
I’m in.
The thick fabric feels light in my hands, no measure for the importance it represents.
My body feels like it collapses in relief.
Odin shakes my hand, then passes me the bundle before stepping back to let his VP speak.
Folgers, my sponsor, the man who risked his own ass to bring me into the fold.
He places a hand on my shoulder. “Proud of you…brother.” He gives me a hug and a pat on the back as the men around the table start to applaud.
“Take off that cut so we can get those patches on before Odin takes them back,” Folgers teases.
I shrug off my cut, and hand it to him.
“You made me carry in the booze for my own party,” I realize, my tone an accusation.
“You weren’t in yet,” Folgers points out.
He steps back to make room for the others.
They’ve moved to a standing position, men of all ages and walks of life.
While most of us work for White Dog in some capacity, others have very different occupations.
Odin’s father, Solomon, is in his sixties and runs a sugar cane farm.
Sully’s a doctor. Couyon’s family still lives off the land, hunting alligators for their skin and meat.
Whether we grew up rich or poor, here everyone is a brother. Now I’m one of them.
The other officers greet me first. Mudbug, the road captain, Farm Boy, the treasurer, and Couyon, the Sergeant-At-Arms. One by one, my new brothers welcome me, slowly clearing the room.
Odin comes back with my cut, holding it on his index fingers to show off all three back patches. He rotates his arms to show the new Parran chapter patch above the left pocket. “Wear these colors with pride. Never shame the club or your brothers in them.”
“I can only hope to do them justice.”
“While I was at the patch shop, they mentioned Greer’s property cut was ready as well. It’s upstairs in your room.”
He helps me put on my colors, then pats me on the back.
“Buzzkill has you booked out for your club ink. We’ve already made the changes to your work schedule so you can be there.
” He pauses for a long moment, then says, “While you’re on the table getting your club ink, are you going to get your old lady brand at the same time? ”
I arch an eyebrow in his direction, my hackles raised, half curious, half guarded as to what he’s about to pronounce.
Since I’m just now an official member, I don’t have any club ink yet.
Now that I’m patched in, I have two weeks to have the Loup Garou etched on my back, a ritual of brotherhood.
“Yeah, figured I’d get it done and over with in one go. ”
“Our traditions are important. They keep us connected to one another, teach us who we are and what we stand for as men. But sometimes, as times change, it’s best to let certain things go and learn from our past experiences.
I’m not telling you what to do with your old lady, but I’m asking you to look at the past and decide for yourself if you really want her branded. ”
The thought never once crossed my mind. Everybody knows how Odin lost his mother. She was discovered outside our perimeters during war by a rival MC, the Kings. The tattoos gave her identity away, and she was killed.
“I think a property patch and a wedding ring will suffice,” I answer.
He nods his agreement, then turns his attention toward the stragglers waiting in the doorway.
A click click click noise draws my attention to the Cypress table that’s the heart of the room.
Flinch is the only person still sitting, turning his Zippo in his fingers.
The heavy chair scrapes across the floor as he stands.
Flinch’s jaw tightens, then he pulls in a breath of resignation.
In a bland voice, he says, “Congratulations.”
What the fuck is his problem?
Whatever the issue is, this isn’t the time to deal with it. So I offer my hand and say, “Thank you.”
He takes it in his hand and clears his throat. “There’s some things we’ll need to discuss. Can you find me before you bunk down for the night?”
I try to play it cool, but I rush outside, climb on my Harley, and kick it to life. We ride out two by two, with the officers in the front. This is far from the first time we’ve traveled together, but this time, we do it on equal footing.
It’s worth every minute of the sacrifice, blood, and sweat I’ve given to the club.