But, fuck, I felt much better about our new club’s future than I had a couple of weeks ago.
“Good,” Cole said. “I’ve seen what I needed to see. Follow me.”
Steele looked at me like he expected me to know what was going on. I didn’t have a fucking clue.
We followed Cole into the office of the repair shop, a small room that barely fit two, let alone three, people. Cole rummaged underneath an old hand-me-down desk and pulled up two black jackets.
No, not jackets.
Cuts.
“Behold,” he said. “Your first Black Reapers cuts. Your first step to becoming the Black Reapers MC: New Mexico Chapter.”
I looked at them with eyes wide open, a growing grin on my face, and pleasant disbelief. On the back was that Grim Reaper, pointing out from the cut, as if at anyone looking at the cut. And there, on the front, was a patch on the right chest that said one word.
“President.”
“As founder of this chapter,” Cole said, “I have watched how you all interact. Though I will leave it up to the two of you who the rest of the officers will be, the founder picks the president and vice president. My father picked my brother and I to be co-presidents, and though we had a few bumps in the road, I hope that by picking you, you will carry on the Black Reapers MC as we did in Springsville.”
“This is so fucking cool!” Steele said, suddenly sounding as excited as I was.
I looked closer at the cuts. There was a patch on the left side that said “New Mexico Chapter.” The cuts looked a little empty, but there would be time to earn or make many more patches.
“When you wear these, understand that it is a privilege,” Cole said. “You wear that, and it fucking stands for something. This is not something that you let your women wear or your friends wear. That is yours and yours alone. To let someone else touch your cut is akin to someone touching your bike. Don’t ever fucking let it happen.”
Put in terms like that, yeah, no one was ever fucking touching my cut.
But even had Cole not said that, I wasn’t sure I ever would have let someone touch my cut. Because… damn! I was the fucking president of an MC. Cole Carter from Springsville, California had designated me for this role.
I looked at Steele. He was no longer trying to look serious. He was smiling at me.
“Fucking cool, right?” he said.
“Let’s put them on.”
We both did. And though it was easy to visualize what it would look like, seeing myself with the cut and Steele with his was a transformative experience. We had retired the Bernard Boys andfinallybecome the Black Reapers.
“Glad you two get along,” Cole said. “I had to make sure before I made you all a chapter that there would be no repeat of what happened in California.”
We both laughed. It wasn’t quite that simple, but it was a great fucking start to forgiveness.
“Now then,” Cole said, pulling out an additional six cuts—but without patches. He reached down again and displayed four patches to be stitched on. “At this point, who gets what role will be determined by you. I have done my part in picking leadership; the rest is up to you.”
I looked at the names. “Sergeant-at-Arms.” “Secretary.” “Treasurer.” “Enforcer.”
Enforcer?
“No chaplain, huh?” Steele said with a snicker.
“Shocking, right?” Cole said with a wry smile. “No, think of enforcer as the brutal twin of the sergeant-at-arms, although really, you can make the role whatever you want. But you are in a town that has a far greater enemy than we did. At least in Springsville, we had the tactical and strategic advantage. Make no mistake, you are fighting as the underdog here. You need all the brute strength you can get.”
We understood that, even if none of us had ever admitted it out loud. Wearing these cuts didn’t give us magical powers; it wasn’t like we wore these and became indestructible or could fight with infinite ammo.
But it made us feel like men. We were not kids from the block. We were mean motherfuckers who did whatever it fucking took.
We had grown into our roles as protectors. Now it was up to us to follow through and defeat the Bandits and change Sheriff Davis.
Tara
