There was an desolate, crooked road back there that led to an old, abandoned runway where Bandit, our pilot, lived. He’d recently gone on and crashed the only plane we had, nearly killing Snare and himself. Bandit was as crazy as they come. Jameson bought two in its place and had Bandit hide them away in the old hangar. Just shows how much money we were making with all the changes that had gone on since his return.
I rounded the corner of the brand-new wrap-around that surrounded the property, greeting prospects and members as I reached the back door, the one that led to the new secluded meeting area. Jameson had made it known that only Exec members were allowed back there. We each got a code to the new keypad which we were supposed to guard with our patch. Scorn, or Sargent at Arms, considered it a Safe Room. All surveillance and any business were made from this room. It was a place you knew you could go to when shit went down.
Virgil had once been the Chaplain of the RBMC. After the shit that Rancid put us through, he stepped down and he’s taken his wife, Barythaya, and his little girl, Grace, away from the bloodshed that ensued. I didn’t blame him; none of us did. Hewas protecting his family and that was sacred within Club walls. He’d asked me to leave with him, but I had other battles I had to fight, and I stayed. Besides, it was pointless to leave. The Bayou was always my home, and it always had a way of pulling me back.
I’d fought worse enemies than the self-proclaimed President of the RBMC. Between Tick Tock and a few other, still loyal members, we figured out Bulldog’s death wasn’t an accident and had a pretty good idea that Rancid had executed his murder. The proof was there, the bruises, the impact that initially killed him… we just couldn’t solidify it. But we all knew what had to be done and it had to be done quickly.
Rancid wasn’t just any man. I was convinced he was a demon wrapped in flesh. I’d faced monsters before, but Rancid? That was a different kind of darkness, one I couldn’t exorcize. He was poison to the club, a danger to everyone who went near him, especially Jameson. When things came to a head, I did what I could. I considered myself a big brother to Jameson, but at the time I felt I’d let him and Bulldog down. Many of us kept loyal to him, and we’d kept our mouths shut and endured beatings and punishments from Rancid’s men when questions came about his whereabouts. When Poet, the VP of the Death Row Shooters MC, reached out. He let us know that Jameson was unharmed. We asked for his location, but Poet never once gave that out, he just gave us a number where he could be reached when the time was right. We made sure to keep that intel under wraps as we continued our fight with Rancid.
It wasn’t until years later, when we finally grew tired of Rancid’s reign, that we found our opening. Colt, the current VP, and Jameson’s so-called best friend, finally stepped up. Proving that he had never turned his back on us or Bulldog. It was all a guise to ensure he didn’t let his father, Guardian, or Bulldog down. Throughout the years, Colt had done his best to keep the bloodline within the RBMC, and he swore to himself that hewasn’t going to let go of his title, no matter what Rancid put him through. And trust me, that son of a bitch put that boy through hell. It wasn’t until Rancid had gotten paranoid and decided that his brothers had snitched him out to the FBI, that Colt reached out. The order was to kill us all and he wasn’t about to follow it.
At that time, we didn’t know who we could trust. The idea was to start putting word out to the older members. The ones who’d once ridden with Bulldog. Then eventually I’d given Colt the number Poet had given us. He then reached out to the only person Jameson would listen to…Knuckles. Knuckles had been in prison, blamed for helping Jameson, and he couldn’t wait to get his hands on Rancid as soon as they caught him for killing those girls. But that wouldn’t happen, because reinstating Jameson as the National President was quick, and he wasn’t going anywhere without his Sergeant at Arms.
Jameson was the only one capable of destroying Rancid, and we owed him and his father that. Tick Tock decided it was best to keep the truth from him, either way, he had the satisfaction of putting a bullet through that motherfucker’s skull. Not only did he do the honor, but he made damn sure that each of us got a whack at him.
Bringing him back was the best decision we made. Under Jameson’s control, things were tighter, more organized. He’s a good man, hardened by too much loss and too many years of carrying burdens that never should have been his. He quickly gained our respect, just like his father had done. Only a few of us who had been brought up within the MC understood the type of responsibility he now owned. It was hard for him to trust anyone, and none of us could blame him for it. Upon his return he slowly started putting his own trusted men in positions where he knew we would back him up. When the role of Chaplain came up, Sinnerman had been voted in. But soon after that, he’d suffered a tragic loss and left the MC without a word. Jamesonhad put out a BP on him, but he was nowhere to be found. At that point, he needed someone to fill the Chaplain spot, and I was the one who voted in. Not that I’d ever imagined myself as Chaplain, I was happy just being a member, but if it meant doing right by my brothers, I’d take the mantle. I knew Sinnerman would eventually return, and when he did, we’d see what fate had in store for me.
My hand rested on the keypad for a second before I punched in the number and pushed the door open. The lull of whispered voices filled the room as I stepped inside. Jameson sat at the head of a long table with the RBMC crest carved deep into it. The room itself had a dark aura to it, yet it held remnants of the past. A pool table sat near the back, the green felt faded from use. Neon signs buzzed faintly in the corners, and the signature Royal Bastards MC skull emblem glowing in the blood-red light.
The bar was now located upstairs but the old jukebox had been moved down here. It actually still worked when someone bothered to feed it quarters. The music, when it played, was always a mix of Aerosmith, Ozzy, and ACDC, with the occasional sounds of Chris Cornell or Eddie Vedder’s voices making the walls vibrate and the heart settle into a rhythm filled with nostalgia. On the right, behind Jameson, our Code hung above the door in black paint. The phrase Club is Family was bolded.
Jameson’s gaze was hard, a scar tracing across his brow from some long-forgotten fight. He nodded to me as I took my seat, and the others did the same. Leaning back in my chair, I folded my arms and smirked as I eyed the lineup at the table. Scorn, our current Sergeant at Arms, just glared at us like he was trying to find our tells and making sure he addressed them later. Which he always did. Powertrain, our numbers guy with a brain like a damn calculator, was slouched across from me, eyeing me with that deadpan face he’d mastered throughout the years. Tick Tock, our Road Captain, nodded as he tapped his fingers onthe table like a metronome, always antsy and ready for a fight. Bullet, our club’s Secretary, looked impatient, his foot tapping while Macabre and Riddick traded insults like they were back in high school. Snare, one of our Enforcer’s, just smirked, his eyes bouncing between everyone as if he were watching some reality show.
I leaned forward, banging on the table. “You boys done measuring dicks, or should I get a ruler?”
Macabre scoffed, shaking his head. “Please, Hellsing, we all know you’d come up short.”
“Short enough to still kick your ass,” I shot back, flashing a grin.
Powertrain snorted, “You’ve got a death wish, Hellsing? Or did that Superman t-shirt shrink your IQ?”
“Man, don’t diss the suit.” I tugged at my faded Superman T-shirt, emblazoned with a giant ‘S’ symbol. "If you clowns could rock half the hero vibes I do, maybe we’d get a discount on bail bonds.”
Scorn rolled his eyes, cracking a knuckle. “You and your superhero bullshit. What you are is a forty-seven-year-old man-child.”
“I may be a child, but at least I’m not as bitter as some of you assholes,” I said, unbothered, flicking my gaze over to Tick Tock. “Plus, I keep us entertained, unlike Mr. Time Bomb here.”
Tick Tock grunted, “Just keep up on the road, old man. I don’t slow down for grandpas.”
“Oh, bite me,” I muttered while they all chuckled, knowing damn well Tick Tock was a full decade older than me. Even Bullet laughed, although he looked like he’d rather be somewhere else.
Jameson’s stern voice cut through the noise. “Alright, listen up. We’ve got a situation going on in the French Quarter.”
“Ah hell, can’t we just catch a break, Prez?” Scorn leaned forward.
Powertrain chimed in. “Don’t you think we’ve been put through the ringer lately?”
Jameson nodded in acknowledgment, then hung his head in silent thought. His next words were deathly quiet. “Midnight Wytch got hit last night.”
Everyone went still, and you could feel the tension thickening.
Powertrain smirked, cutting his gaze over to me. “Ain't that where yourgirlfriendworks, Hellsing?”
I can’t stop the frown that tugs at my mouth. “She’s not my girlfriend.”
A silence falls, and I feel them all watching me, Powertrain grinned like he was the goddamn Joker. But they knew better than to poke further. They knew all about Grace Desdemone and what a thorn in my side she’s been since the day she was born.
Grace was a witchy spitfire who had driven me insane since the day she turned eighteen. With that long, dark brown hair flowing down her back, ending right at the curve of that fine ass of hers, she could drive any man crazy, and she did just that with me. I stayed away as much as I could, and I could tell she resented me for it. But what else could I do, she was Virgil’s daughter, and I respected him too much to go after his most precious property.
