Connor
Another long day of construction had come to an end, and I sat on the edge of my bike drinking a Corona beer.
I was getting a bit exhausted of working construction as much as I had; I’d gotten into it because I knew it would whip my ass into shape faster than any other profession and because, contrary to what many people might have thought, the money was good. But now that I had a club and enough of a financial cushion that I wasn’t deciding between food and heat, it didn’t hold the same appeal as it had before.
At least I’d gotten a couple of coworkers to join the club. That shit was kind of cool.
I had church at the clubhouse in about an hour. Around me, the other guys piled into their trucks, wishing the others well and saying they’d see them at six a.m. sharp in the morning. I ignored them; I liked to keep to myself.
Even within the Black Reapers, I was a man who was only known by myself, and I liked to keep it that way. The world saw what I wanted it to see. That was true in the Reapers, and that was doubly true at the job.
“Connor!”
A coworker named James, but someone that I merely called Brick given his prospect status at the club, came up to me. He smiled at me like he had a question stowed up in anticipation and couldn’t wait to deliver it. My face, as it usually did, barely changed.
“What?”
“Just checking in, man. Are there going to be any club parties soon?”
“How should I know?”
“I…I just thought since you were a club officer and all—”
“Probably this weekend,” I said.
I liked the parties, like any man with a pulse. Hot chicks, topless chicks, naked chicks. There were three damn good reasons to go.
But part of keeping to myself meant I didn’t have any ambitions on manning any fucking social chairs or that nonsense. And then there was the whole issue of who parties put me around, and why that presented its own whole host of problems.
“Cool, man!”
“Don’t get excited; nothing is fucking official,” I said, but Brick had already strutted back to his truck, excited at the prospect of getting laid.
Someday, Brick, you’ll learn that it’s just something to do. It’s nothing to get excited about.
Most especially when so-called hot girls would mock you and make a fool out of you out in public.
I waited until Brick had left, leaving me by myself at the construction site with half a beer to go. I took my time sipping the damn thing. We were on the west side of the mountains leading into Albuquerque, meaning that the odds of a Bandit attack were slim. They weren’t none; we had fought them in Reapers in the heart of downtown, and I knew they weren’t caged animals in Santa Maria.
But I was far safer here in the middle of nowhere than anywhere else. I never let down my guard, but I could relax within it here.
After I finished my beer, I found a porta-potty, left the glass bottle inside for someone else to take care of, and headed for my bike. Tomorrow would bring more backbreaking work, more hours blistering and sweating under the sun, and another early afternoon exit—but only because of the early-ass sunrise.
But you know? If it kept my ass in shape, if it made me not ever have to be that twelve-year-old mercilessly ripped on, if it literally kept up my appearances, I was more than happy to get up at six a.m.
Shit, I might have done so at four a.m. if I knew it was the only way.
* * *
When I arrived at church, Brock was on the phone. He had a stern look on his face. Steele was sitting outside the clubhouse, having a beer. Garrett was nowhere to be seen, but with his status as daddy, he’d earned the right to come in late if he had to—and as long as he didn’t abuse it.
Steele nodded to me as I walked inside. I gave a short nod of acknowledgment to him. Zack and Mason were playing cards one on one, a setup that boded disastrously for Mason. Everyone thought of Zack as a genius. By no means was he going to go to Harvard in the fall; he wasn’t a fucking crazy brilliant genius. But compared to us assholes who half dropped out of high school and half only graduated because four years ran out, he might as well have been fucking Einstein.
Which, for Mason’s wallet, was a very bad sign in cards right now.
“Stand over Professor Smartass’ shoulder, would you, Connor?”
“And still lose to me?” Zack shot back.
