The clubhouse was a hive when they rolled in, prospects scurrying like ants under Busk’s rapid-fire barked orders. Cherry parked his bike in its usual spot, the engine’s heat still ticking as he swung off, boots hitting dirt. He braced for the third degree of questions about where he’d been, who he’d been with, but Busk went straight to business, clapping him on the shoulder. “Meeting’s tomorrow. We’re gonna need a good solution for the fucking MC pushing our lines. The goddamned Azrael’s Scimitars, outta Lafayette. Gonna need the clubhouse space locked down.”
Cherry nodded, falling into step, the shift to work mode snapping him straight. “Prospects on perimeter until and during the meeting?”
“Until, during, after, you use your best judgement on prospects and probationary patches, but hangarounds are out. Our clubhouse is members only ‘til this shit’s settled. Let’s take it a step further and say only brothers in good standing are allowed in for the meeting. I don’t think we’ve got any deadbeat members, but this’ll be a good test of that.” Busk jerked his chin at a skinny kid hauling beer crates. “Yo, man. Get those inside, now. Shit should have already been handled.”
Cherry took over, voice cutting through the chaos. He pointed at several men in succession. “You. Finish setting up chairs for fifty, no, let’s say sixty chairs. You. Make sure the ice is stocked, and the bar is ready. Move.” The prospects jumped to work, giving Cherry time to organize the hangarounds to be cleared out within a couple of hours, and he felt the rhythm settle into him, the club’s heartbeat, steady under his skin. He spent time with each prospect, ensuring they understood their role during the meeting, and then just as importantly, during the family party, where all members and families would be present.
Busk picked that moment to shout across the yard, “Don’t forget to bring your Guy, Cherry!” and the entire crew hooted, a prospect snickering until Cherry’s glare shut him down cold. His face burned, but he raised a hand, owning it. Denis wasn’t a secret. And neither was he. Not anymore, not here, not with them.
He ducked inside, checking the meeting room where the main table was polished best as it could be with all the scars scattered across the surface. He verified the bylaws were pinned to the wall, ashtrays lined up on the table like soldiers. The Azrael’s Scimitars were a thorn, encroaching on IMC turf along the I-10 corridor, and tomorrow’s sit-down with the IMC chapter heads would set the tone. Push back or bleed out. Cherry’s fists flexed, the enforcer in him itching to swing, but he reined it in. Words first.Always.
***
Denis
Denis sprawled on his couch that night, beer in hand, the TV droning some cop show he wasn’t watching. His phone buzzed, Cherry’s name lighting the screen, and he grinned, thumbing it open. *Talk soon* had turned into *Meeting’s tomorrow, shit heating up. You good for the cookout day after?*
He typed back, *Wouldn’t miss it. Stay safe, biker boy.*
The reply was quick: *Always. Night, lawyer man.*
Denis set the phone down, staring at the ceiling. The IMC was Cherry’s world. It was rough and loud, a family forged in steel and loyalty, and Denis would be stepping into it mostly blind. He’d defended bikers before, knew the code, the stakes, but this was personal now.Cherry’s Guy. Busk’s welcome had been a shock, warm and bruising, and Denis surprised himself with how much he wanted in and wanted to see Cherry in his element, wanted to belong somewhere that fierce.
Sleep came slow, Cherry’s voice in his head, that low growl promising more.
***
Cherry
The meeting room was a pressure cooker the next day, air thick with smoke and tension. Chapter presidents lined the table with Hammond’s Prez, a grizzled bastard named Wildman, at the head, with their own Prez Ruger sitting beside, and Busk at Ruger’s right, Cherry standing behind like a sentinel. The Azrael’s Scimitars had balls, pushing weed runs into IMC territory, and Wildman laid it out cold: “They hit our edges again, we hit back. Hard.”
Cherry nodded, arms crossed, his mind half on Denis, safe back in his lawyer world, and half on the fight brewing. “Got a crew ready,” he said, voice steady. “Baton Rouge can hold the line.”
Wildman grunted approval, and Busk clapped Cherry’s shoulder. “Good. Keep ‘em tight.” The plan slowly solidified, with talk and planning continuing on for hours. Cherry agreed that the patrols would be doubled, and they’d planned a message to the Scimitars via a torched stash house the other club had claimed. No blood was on the menu yet, but the threat hung heavy.
When it broke, Cherry stepped outside, the night cool against his skin. He texted Denis, *Meeting’s done. Cookout’s on. You in?*
The reply was instant, *Hell yeah. See you tomorrow.*
***
Cherry
Standing next to his idling bike, Cherry watched as the members tapped for the run pushed through the thick layer of bushes next to the crumbling house. They’d already verified it was uninhabited, enough untracked dirt in the road it was clear nobody had been to it since at least the last rain. He saw the first member through a window, then the bloom of flame behind him.
“Looking good,” Busk said, standing next to Cherry.
“Long as they don’t have any explosives in there, this looks real good.” He grinned. “Confident Pony would have had the receipts if there were any boom boom in the room.”
“Smart man who trusts Pony.” Busk agreed.
The members returned, every ass was on a bike before Cherry gave the order to roll out. He and Busk were playing tailgunner for the home part of the run, knowing if there was any danger to the column, it would come from the back. Nothing happened, in fact the run home was so textbook it was nearly boring.
Wildman met them at the door, giving every member a rough greeting, telling them without words that Mother appreciated their good works of the night.
Tomorrow was the cookout.
Cherry smiled.
