PROLOGUE - SILVER
MARCH 1996
“It’s official,”drawls Opie. “You’re one of us now.”
The club floor breaks out in cheers, raising their pints of beers and fist-pumping the air. Half of them are already drunk, the other half are well on their way.
Me and Tom might be the only two sober ones in the place. At least for now.
We share a glance, wearing grins and basking in the moment.
We’ve finally done it; we’refinallySteel Kings.
It was a long and hard road. They damn sure made us work for it. But out of all the prospects, we were the only two to survive.
That’s got to mean something.
Opie steps back for the prez to take his place at the front of the room. Everybody goes silent, their jeers and cheers dropping off.
Walter “Skull” Hurst means business.
He’s got a face that resembles his moniker, eyes dead and cheeks hollow, his lips always pressed into a tight line, never knowing a smile.
After serving twenty to life for some murders before I was ever born, it makes sense.
Rumor is, he sleeps in his basement because it most reminds him of his prison cell. But he’s returned from his hard time and resumed his role as Club Prez.
He stares at me and Tom like we’re hardly impressive. We’re bugs he can squash at any moment.
“What we’ve got here,” he begins in his Texas twang, “are two promising members. Jack Kingman and Thomas Cutler. Both young fresh meat.”
Some of the more bloodthirsty members bare their teeth in grins. Guys like Johnathan “Creep” Flanagan and David “Eggs” Smith.
Figures.
They’re the two assholes who made me and Tom eat three dozen donuts from the Donut Hole. Just one of many hazing tests we had to pass to advance.
To their disappointment, Skull goes on.
“But both have proven themselves. They’veearnedtheir cuts.” He nods at Opie, the sergeant at arms, who’s got our fresh leather vests waiting for us. They’re laid out on the head table like a trophy we’ve won.
Damn sure feels like it—we’ve worked our asses off to get to this point.
It’s what I’ve always dreamed of.
I’m not the son of a King. Unlike a lot of the guys in this saloon, my family’s got no affiliation to motorcycle club culture.
Mom was a bagger at Pulsboro Grocery and the piece of shit who impregnated her was some drunk who skipped town.
But I’ve grown up knowing it was what I wanted. To become a Steel King and finally make something of myself.
“Now,” Skull goes on, his heavy eyes sweeping across the club floor. “Everybody, you know what to do. Meeting’s adjourned. Which means it’s time to celebrate.”
The room erupts in their loudest cheers yet. Many guys raise their mugs and beer bottles in celebration before taking their drinks to the head.
Vice Prez Murphy “Pistol” Harlow, slaps a hand to our backs and then gestures to our leather cuts. “Put ’em on, boys. You’ve earned ’em.”
The party explodes on the saloon floor.
