JOEL
“Church is in session,” I slam the gavel down once and sit down in a partially empty room.
Since the club is still fairly new and we’re recruiting, we’ve only had the current officers in attendance. So the table built for twelve only has seven seats occupied.
“Boots,” I nod at my secretary, who starts taking roll call.
I shake my head at the fucker’s fancy ass pen. A BIC is to good for the asshole to hold in his manicured hands. The solid gold Montblanc glides across his ledger as he ticks off each member as he calls their names. His fucking cologne fills the air, the custom Creed scent annoyingly fresh and citrusy.
“Everyone’s here, Prez.” He caps his pen and lays it down on the table, crossing his left boot onto his right knee so that the fucking Prada label is in plain sight.
“You’re wearing three thousand dollar boots on your bike?” The thought of having that much money and nothing better to waste it on is nauseating.
“Yes, why?” The look of confusion on his face makes me want to punch him.
“Moving on,” I roll my eyes at Boots, who is still confused about how he got that road name, and look at my vice president.
“What you got for me?” I glance at the clock, wanting to be out of here in time for my night shift at the docks.
“Screw, let’s start with the Harleys.” I glance at the oldest man in the group.
A seasoned biker and mechanic, he runs our shop and is the only person allowed to work on our personal bikes. Screw and Tank don’t get along, so they’re sitting across from each other.
There isn’t a tenser room on the planet than one with an ex-cop and cop killer in the same room.
Screw’s father-in-law was a dirty cop who tried to set him up to take the fall in a bad drug deal. He was a newlywed at the time with his first child on the way. His wife came home early and walked into the deal gone wrong. When everything was said and done, Screw was in handcuffs, and his wife and child were dead.
His father-in-law followed soon after from the screwdriver lodged in his temple. He spent fifteen years in jail before the manslaughter charges were overturned. He’s the only member who came into the club with his road name.
“Fucking tariffs are killing us, but the shipments are coming in on time. Should be done in the next few weeks.” I nod at the man as he sits back down.
“Bars, update us on dues.” I catch his eye and shake mine slightly so he knows not to bring up the missing money just yet.
I want to sweat them out and see if anyone cracks under the pressure.
He runs off balances and other information, but none of the men in the room give me any signs of being guilty. It’s all so status quo. I pinch the bridge of my nose as I keep listening. Math has always given me a headache.
“Prez, you good?” I wave Twister off.
“Fine, let’s move to the nomad.” My voice comes out a little growly, which has everyone in the room looking at me sideways.
“Prez has had a status change. He claimed an Ol’ lady. Boots, can you please record Haven “Azreal” Demato, President of the Baltimore Royal Harlots, as claimed.” Twister smirks throughout, speaking as he stares me down.
The other members bang their fists on the table and shout congratulations my way, which, under normal circumstances, I’d appreciate, but the noise makes my headache flare.
“Alright, yes, thank you, now shut the fuck up! My head is pounding.” That pushes our Medic, Stitches, into action.
“How long have you been in pain, Prez?” He snatches up a backpack leaning against the wall as he approaches me.
“Not long, I’m fine.”
He frowns, and I sigh.
“Go ahead.” I sit back and let him check me over.
“Apex is currently our acting tracker. He’s got a problem with local law, so he likes to keep moving,” Tank says as I watch the blood pressure cuff, Stitches slipped up my arm, inflating with a curse.
“Well, that’s high as fuck.” The medic’s disapproving tone makes the room go quiet.
