The prospect eyed Steele with suspicion. He looked at me with just as little regard as he had Steele.
“I’ve never heard of you guys,” he said. “How the fuck am I supposed to believe that’s the case?”
“Because Cole Carter is the one that founded us,” I said.
The prospect arched an eyebrow at us.
“How come I’ve never heard—”
“Prospect.”
The booming voice that reverberated despite not being a shout reached across the entirety of the repair shop. It froze me in place as if magic words that could compel anyone that heard it to freeze.Butch.
“Go inside.”
The prospect didn’t even hesitate a second to give us a warning or to glare at us. Butch had that sort of aura to him, that everything got dropped and everything was done to make him happy. I didn’t think he was a “bad guy,” but he certainly wasn’t a guy to fuck with.
And when he finally did come into view, even though he had spent a great deal of time with us in New Mexico, he still seemed even larger here.
“What are you doing here?”
There was no malice in his voice, but I couldn’t pretend that meant it was warm.
“We’ve tried to reach you, and we’ve had no luck.”
Butch shrugged and looked at Steele like he needed a better reason for coming here.
“Where is Lane?” he said. “We need to talk to him about what happened to Cole.”
Butch glared at the two of us.
“Is it true he was attacked and is in a coma?” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “We saw it. He should make it through, but yes, he’s currently in a coma.”
Butch looked between the two of us. It seemed equally probable that he would crack our skulls for letting that happen to Cole as it was that he would call Lane and get him to help us.
“Wait,” he commanded.
He stepped around the repair shop, disappearing from view. Steele and I shared a look that seemed to suggest we were thinking the same thing.We’re safe for now. But this could all change in a heartbeat.
We stood on our bikes for what felt like an eternity, wondering if Butch was testing us, had forgotten us, or genuinely had trouble getting Lane to come. I understood that the Black Reapers of Springsville felt like they ruled the roost, but this was ridiculous. We needed to chat with Lane, and we needed—
And then we heard footsteps.
Lots and lots of footsteps.
And around the corner of the repair shop came what had to be the entirety of the Springsville chapter of the Black Reapers MC.
There must have been close to two dozen, maybe even thirty, men standing before us, many of them with their arms folded and their chests puffed out, all of them looking annoyed at our presence. Three men emerged from the front and walked toward us. One was Butch. The other had a clean-shaved face, brown hair, and a scowl that looked arrogant.
And then there was a guy who was a bit on the taller side, had short, black stubble for a beard, and a face that looked remarkably like Cole’s, just a little thinner and longer.
“I’m Lane, club president,” he said. “This is Patriot, my VP. You’ve already met Butch.”
He paused to look us up and down like he couldn’t believe that two people had driven all the way from New Mexico to talk. I had to agree with him. As quickly as we had said yes to this for Cole’s sake, it now seemed incredible that it had actually happened.
“What the fuck are you two doing here?”
