Never Love An Outlaw (Deadly Pistols MC #1)(150)
Wasn't sure I could say the same about Rabid. He looked a little freaked out. But maybe he was just trying to figure out how the f*ck he was going to explain going after his new redheaded fixation to his favorite redheaded whore. He kept showing up at Christa's doorstep, ostensibly to keep tabs on her and make sure she stayed quiet after the shit that went down, but it seemed like he was going outta his way to do more than that.
“This is a brand new day for the Grizzlies MC,” Blackjack said, as soon as it was quiet, except for restless boots scraping the floor. “There's no need to sit here on my perch and recount the turmoil we've been through the past few months. Suffering under a tyrant, fighting the cartel off our throats, working with an MC we've spilled blood with...”
Several brothers in the audience growled. I wasn't gonna start loving Prairie Pussies anytime soon, but I didn't feel the old aching need to slam daggers into the backs of the sorry bastards who'd bailed our asses out either.
“Hold onto those memories. Then take your best blade, dig them out of your skull, and set them on fire.” Blackjack paused, letting his words sink in. “They're all done. Nothing but ashes now. Once upon a time, the Grizzlies MC was great. We had the tightest brotherhood from Billings to San Diego. No other club f*cked with us west of the Mississippi because they'd get swarmed before they even thought about drawing our blood.”
I looked through the crowd. The tired, worn out men with gray in their hair and beards knew those days. It was no surprise a lot of the old timers had deserted Fang first.
“With me heading national now, we're bringing those days back, brothers. There's plenty of shit ahead left to sort out – rogue charters, Mexican hit men, the cash flow situation – but we'll do it. We always do. The blood of every brother who's fallen for this club flows in your veins. Guard it the same way you guard your colors, and remember what it means. If you do that, boys, you're already halfway there.”
Men stood and applauded. I looked at Blackjack and gave him a stern nod. Had to assert my authority, after all. The man had a gift for gab, though, nobody in the room could deny it.
The meeting was way too big to be anything but a ceremony for crowning the new leadership. The real business would come later, filtering down the charters from border to border, dangerous and glorious as it always was, and always would be with a man in charge who deserved to be called Prez.
A couple minutes later, the bear claw came down with a resounding clack. “Church dismissed. Now, go rock the f*cking roof off.”
What would the biggest gathering of the club in years be without a sendoff party? I hung around and had a couple beers, shooting the shit with Rabid and a couple other guys. The whores rolled in about an hour later.
I passed Twinkie in the crowd a couple times, and she gave me a longing look. I turned my back and showed her the bear patch without hesitation. No f*cking way was my dick going in any * that wasn't attached to my old lady from now on.
No other * compared.
Maybe it meant I was growing up, or else I'd just lost my damned mind. Regardless, I was dead set on doing right by my woman and my club. Taking the VP patch seriously meant the days of getting stinking drunk and f*cking random sluts was behind me. They faded into smoke, almost as distant and unworldly as the ones I'd lived pushing shit into my veins.
“Brass.”
A hand fell on my shoulder and I turned, setting my empty beer glass on the bar. Blackjack stood behind me, decked out with a few more patches on his old cut.
“I've got something I need to give you, son. Come with me.”
I followed him down the long hall, passing several brothers with girls against the wall, their hands dipping between the bitches' legs. Loud rock drowned out almost all the sound, blasting through the clubhouse's sound system.
We stopped in front of the storage room. I gave him a dark look as he opened the huge door. The thing was slowly turning into a real storage room, changing from the dank and brutal dungeon it had been under Fang.
He walked me back to the end of two new shelves, and then grabbed a big black bag. “Right where I left it. Take it and get the hell out of here.”
It was awfully familiar. Heavy too. I looked inside and did a double take when I saw all the cash stuffed in there.
“What the f*ck? This is Missy's old inheritance.” I looked up, meeting his eyes. “I thought this shit belonged to the club's coffers now?”
“Not anymore. A million in cash is what your girls deserve for their pain and suffering through all this.” He reached into his pocket, plucked out a cigarette, and gave it a light. “This club's got to get its sins right. I'd give you the rest, but it's already been deposited and spent, laundered through our legit operations.”
“It's plenty.”
“There'll be more for her if she wants to work the club's books. We need an accountant who can keep her mouth shut. Barrel decided to go down with Fang's ship, and I'm not sure about any other brothers keeping watch,” he said, talking about our old club treasurer. “Fucker had been skimming money off left and right for years. So did Fang. Fat lot of good it did them in the end.”
I nodded. Blackjack looked at me and waved his hand.
“Go on, Brass. Get lost. You deserve a little fun before we come home to our war tomorrow, and I know you won't find it here.”