I kept moving. “You guys always this desperate to know who’s fucking you?”
Chase grinned. “Just wanna make sure you’re not a cop.”
“Look at me,” I said. “Do I look like a cop?”
Flip snorted. “Yeah. The kind who shoots his own partner for fun.”
Chase nodded. “Heard you iced a guy once, over a girl.”
“Wasn’t over a girl,” I said. “Was over a dog.”
They both stared, not sure if I was joking. I let the silence hang, then heaved the trash bag into the dumpster and turned to leave.
“Hey,” Chase called. “You ever, you know, want to chill? We hang behind the car wash. No bullshit.”
“Maybe,” I said, knowing I never would.
Back inside, the meeting room was empty, except for Vin. He was sitting at the head table, tracing circles into the scarred wood with his cigarette.
“Come in, Axel,” he said. “Sit.”
I did, across from him. The silence was heavy but not hostile.
“You handled yourself well tonight,” Vin said. “Red says you’re smart. I think you’re hiding something.”
“I’m not hiding,” I said. “Just waiting.”
He nodded. “That’s good. Most men talk themselves out of a patch before they even earn one.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “Listen. If you’re running from something, I don’t care. Just don’t run from me.”
“I won’t,” I said.
He smiled, real this time. “I believe you.”
As I stood to leave, he added, “Tomorrow, you ride with me. Collections run. Don’t be late.”
I left Church and made my way back up to the bunkroom. The other prospects were already asleep, shoes on, arms folded tight to keep from getting rolled for cash or cigarettes. I lay down and closed my eyes, letting the pain in my hands—the real pain, the kind that sinks in after days of bleach and scraping crust off urinals—remind me that I was still alive.
The club was a living organism, and I was just another cell learning its rules. I liked it better than I’d ever admit.
***
I showed up at sunrise, helmet in one hand and the other jammed in my jacket pocket to keep the blood circulating. The parking lot was wet from a night’s worth of hard rain, and the Royal Bastards’ bikes gleamed in a lineup, each one ugly-beautiful in its own way. Vin’s was up front, matte black, stripped of any logos or decals except for the RBMC logo on the tank, which looked like it’d been painted on with actual bone dust.
Vin was already out there, checking tire pressure and cleaning the mirrors. He gave me a nod, the kind that said, Don’t fuck up. I liked that about him—no drama, no need to perform.
“Gear up,” he said. “It’s not a parade.”
I pulled on my helmet, cinched it, and checked the piece I kept in my boot. Vin watched the move, then smirked. “Hope you’re better with a wrench than you are with that nine.”
“Depends on the target,” I said, swinging a leg over my ride.
He grinned, barely. “We got a collection at nine. That means we’re at the shop at nine, not rolling up hungover at nine-oh-five.”
We rode out in silence, engines loud enough to warn the next county. I followed close, learning the way he cut traffic and ignored red lights. The sun was just breaking through the smog when we pulled up to “Eddie’s Discount Electronics,” a concrete box wedged between a vape store and a check-cashing joint. The security shutter was half-down, graffiti’d with a spray-painted “Suck my dick” that seemed aimed at the universe.
Vin killed his engine, dismounted, and stretched. He reached into his saddlebags, came out with a beat-up duffel, and tossed it to me. “Hold that.”
I caught it. It was heavier than it looked.
