Henley, caught somewhere between amusement and indignation, raised an eyebrow at the scene. “Is it always this... lively around here?”
“Lively’s one word for it,” Scribe muttered, shooting a glare at Donut before turning back to his wife. “But don’t worry, darlin’. You’ve got me to make sure these lunatics don’t get outta hand.”
“Aw, come on, Scribe,” Braveheart teased, his grin as wide as the Mississippi. “She don’ need you playin’ knight in shinin’ armor. We’re harmless. Mostly.”
Henley gave a small, knowing smile. “I think I can manage.”
The door swung open then, letting in a burst of bright sunlight and the distinct rumble of a Harley pulling up outside. All heads turned as a figure stepped into the room, casting a long shadow across the floor. The air seemed to shift, the rowdy energy from moments before replaced with a quiet tension that only came when someone important—or dangerous—walked in.
“Inner Sanctum. Now,” my Uncle Sixx muttered under his breath as he stormed past me and everyone else, heading downstairs to the Bourbon Kings’ church.
“Holy mother of God,” Enigma gasped as I headed straight for my seat at the head of the table. My brothers quickly found their spots as I watched Scribe and Enigma look around the Bourbon Kings’ inner sanctum.
This place was sacred.
It wasn’t for outsiders, but since Enigma was my cuz’s husband, and Scribe was technically going to be my new brother-in-law when I got around to marrying my woman, I figured he would be family, so why not?
If I couldn’t trust family, who could I trust?
Unlike most of the clubs I knew, the Bourbon Kings didn’t show off. Me and my boys were plain folk. Wha’ ya saw was wha’ ya got. We didn’t stand on formality, and our inner sanctum reflected that. But make no mistake, this place, this holy ground, was strictly for brothers only. Had lots of love for the womenfolk, but they wouldn’t understand.
“Is that a signed Drew Brees helmet from the 2010 Super Bowl against the Indianapolis Colts?” Scribe gasped.
“Holy shit!” Enigma damn near shrieked. “That’s a signed Walter Payton football! He was hands-down the greatest running back in football history.”
Scribe leaned closer to inspect the helmet, his fingers twitching as though he wanted to touch it but feared the wrath that might ensue. “I didn’t take you guys for football fans,” he said, his voice laced with surprise.
I smirked, leaning back in my chair. “We’re full of surprises, brother. Ain’t just about bourbon and bikes around here. We honor the legends, whether they’re on two wheels or the gridiron.”
Enigma stepped forward, his wide eyes scanning the room, catching sight of every artifact that told a story. He stopped at the wall filled with faded photographs and old trophies. “This... this is like a shrine,” he murmured, his voice reverent.
“Damn right,” Sixx said, reappearing from the shadows like he’d always been there. “Everything in here’s got a story. And every story’s got blood, sweat, and a whole lotta damn bourbon behind it. You respect the space, or you don’t belong.”
Scribe gave a slow nod, his gaze steady. “Respect,” he said simply.
“Good,” I replied, my voice firm but warm. “Now, let’s get down to business. What did ya find out?”
Slidin’ into one of the many La-Z-Boy recliners in the inner sanctum, Uncle Sixx began, “Well, Coltraine ain’t involved with the Mob. Though there’s talk on the street that the Irish might be visitin’ soon. Apparently, they’re lookin’ for a rat. Ain’t the Russians either, thank fuck. I reached out to my Italian contact, and they ain’t never heard of Coltraine, but would like to talk to you about an upcomin’ shipment, so give Cesar a call when you can.”
I nodded.
“What about the Mexicans?” Worm asked, typing away on his computer.
Sixx shook his head. “Ain’t them either.”
“Then that leaves a club, boss.” Braveheart sighed, shaking his head. “Hate it when it’s brothers.”
“Don’ think it’s them either,” Sixx spoke up. “The Biker Federation are holdin’ their breaths right now ’cause of what happened to Sypher.”
Yeah. That was a nut punch.
A few weeks back, the Biker Federation was rocked to its core when we all learned that Sypher, a brother in the Golden Skulls and computer genius, damn near died in an explosion in New York City. As it was, the last we heard, it was touch and go.
“Fuckin’ shame.” I frowned, leaning forward, then asked, “Any word on how he’s doin’?”
My uncle nodded. “Still the same.”
“So if it ain’t the usual suspects, then that means we’re dealin’ with a new player. A civilian maybe? Someone too big for their britches?” Donut questioned.
