Diablo is a mean motherfucker who runs his club on fear. My club is run how a true brotherhood should be, on loyalty and honor. That doesn’t mean I haven’t earned my road name, Chainz. After two tours in Afghanistan, I hate fucking guns. I carry my weapon of choice wrapped around the handlebars of my bike. When that icy steel tightens around someone’s neck, it brings even the meanest motherfucker to his knees and I’m not afraid to wield that power when I have to.
When Tank and I roll into town, people cut sideways stares at us riding along Main Street. I smile and rev my engine just to give them a reason to scoff. The people of this town labeled the Krymson Destroyers as trouble the moment we showed up on our bikes. That didn’t stop the club from buying the abandoned warehouse on the far edge of town. I’ve always enjoyed working with my hands, so I didn’t mind the long hours spent remodeling it into something usable: The Krymson Destroyers, Pennsylvania Chapter Clubhouse.
Investing in legitimate businesses takes a shitload of money. Half this town owes their livelihood to our club and the influx of cash I’ve sunk into failing businesses. This is my town. My club owns the auto body shop, the tattoo parlor, the gym, and the local bar. I keep people working and those businesses offer a moderate cash flow that keeps the law off our backs. It’s the money we make running guns for the Demon Sons that make those investments possible.
When we reach the far end of town, the clubhouse, or compound as we call it, comes into view. To others, it’s an eyesore of pavement and concrete, to the club it’s a sanctuary. Inside these walls, we live by our own rules, we’re free to be as fucked up as we want to be.
Tank and I roll up on the entrance and spot one of the two Prospects on the other side of the barbed wire fence. He’s half asleep and kicked back in a lawn chair with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Everyone here has a job to do. Some jobs are shittier than others, but they all are important to protect the club. If this is how he handles guard duty, he won’t last long. When he hears the bikes approaching, he jumps up, tosses his smoke to the ground to unlock the gate. He hangs his head low, not making eye contact with either of us. The scowl on my face tells him he’s fucked up. If that’s the only wrath he faces, he can consider himself a lucky son of a bitch. Right now, my focus is on one thing, talking to Fuel so we can figure out how to get the Demon Sons their damn guns back.
Tank and I drive past the cage vehicle, a dark-colored van with blacked-out windows, and the crash truck before pulling into the bay to park. I take inventory of who's inside by the bikes out front. It looks like everyone is here except Fuel, his parking spot is empty. Dismounting our bikes, we make our way inside the clubhouse. What I find plunges my sour mood even farther south.
The music is amped up so loud I’m surprised the speakers haven’t blown. Everyone is passed out on the couches and the floor. There are brothers tangled up with naked patch whores while others are out cold on top of the pool table. Discarded clothes are hanging from the guard rail of the upper catwalk where our crash pads are. Empty beer bottles are toppled over on the bar. It’s not unlike the club to throw a rager that lasts until sun up, but this shit is out of control. No one hears the door slamming shut behind Tank. My VP is as pissed as I am. Tank silences the sound system causing brothers to grunt and roll over, but none wake up. I grab an empty beer bottle and send it crashing to the floor. The sound of shattering glass gets their attention. They jump to their feet, fumbling for their weapons.
“What the fuck, Prez?” Hound yells, jumping to his feet, clenching a knife in his fists. Like me, Hound is ex-military. He got his name because he can track like a bloodhound.
“I could ask you the same thing.” It’s not the party that pisses me off, it’s the fact they ignored the number one rule. Always. Protect. The Club. If I were an enemy, instead of the Prez, all these Motherfuckers would be dead right now.
“You know how it is, Prez. Beer and free pussy,” Crusher adds, motioning at the patch whores. Crusher is the newest officer of the club. I gave him the Captain patch only a few months back. He’s a big motherfucker who got his name because he can crush your windpipe with one blow. “Things got out of control.”
Crusher may be strong, but he’s as dumb as a bag of rocks talking that way. “No shit. Don’t forget who holds the gavel, you follow my rules. That means someone stands guard and not a Prospect with no respect for the job.”
Everyone is awake now, watching the heated exchange, but Crusher is the only one to talk back. “But Prez, Fuel was standing guard.”
The vein pulses in my forehead, a sure sign my temper will erupt. “That so? Then where the fuck is he now?”
Crusher’s mouth hangs open as he scans the room in search of another brother to back him, but they take one step back and keep their fucking mouths shut. I let Crusher take the time to process his situation, while I calm myself. I’m pissed as hell, but he’s still a brother and has proven himself worthy of being an officer of this club.
“You seem stressed,” Shawna, a regular patch whore approaches me, her fingers on the button of my jeans. “Why don’t I help you relax?”
Cat, our house mouse cuts her eyes at me. She’s never liked Shawna, but I haven’t bothered to find out why. Cat likes to tell people she got the name because her eyes are intense, like silver lightning, but we gave it to her because she gauges every move and is quick to pounce when she feels her family is being threatened.
“Not now.” I shove Shawna aside. Any other time I might take her up on the offer. The girl knows how to give a blow job, but today not even that can tame my lousy mood. “If you want to help me, make me a damn sandwich.” Shawna lets out a disdainful huff and steps back.
“Stay out of my fucking kitchen.” Cat cuts those haunting eyes at Shawna, “I’ll get it. And Chainz,” she tosses over her shoulder as she heads toward the kitchen to make this asshole a fucking sandwich. “Fuel hooked up with the waitress he’s been macking on at the bar. He never came home last night.”
I look around at the mess and growl, “Don’t just stand here with your dick in your hands, clean this shit up. And have Jizznap out there wash the mud off our bikes,” I order. “The bar opens in three hours. We have a waitress to find.”
I snatch the plate from Cat’s hand when she returns from the kitchen with a club sandwich, a pickle, and potato chips. I climb the stairs, chuckling to myself. Jizznap? That’s some funny shit. If that Prospect survives long enough to patch in, that’s his club name for sure.
When I reach the top of the stairs, I yell back to Cat, who doesn’t deserve my foul mood. “Cat, talk to me about this waitress.”
Things keep going from bad to worse. I need to find Fuel so we can honor our deal with the Demon Sons before we find ourselves in a war. If Fuel’s not here and not answering his damn phone, where the fuck is he?
