Smitty slams his fist on the table again. “You’re walking a thin fucking line!”
Suddenly, the doors burst open, and Brody flies into the room, gun raised.
“What happened? Who am I shooting?”
All eyes are now on our prospect, whose eyes are wild as they dance around, ready to fight for any one of us, and the tension that was engulfing the room slips away as Smitty grins.
“Well, fuck. It’s about time we patched in this son of a bitch.”
The room remains quiet for a moment, the only sound is Brody as he starts laughing.
“Really? Do you mean that?”
One look at Smitty, and I can tell he’s going to say no. I can tell he was only fucking with him.
Well, fuck. I’m already on the outs with Nate. I may as well go out with a fucking bang.
“Damn straight!” I slap my hand on the table. “Call the vote, Prez.”
Smitty’s jaw ticks as he glares at me, but turns back to our club brothers.
“Alright, listen up!” Smitty calls, even though everyone is fucking quiet. “Next order of business is Brody Dean. He’s been kicking around here for a while now. Fucking our Doxies. Eating our grub. Sending us all batshit crazy over the way he makes up his own fucking lyrics for songs. But he’s also stepped up of late. So let me hear your thoughts.”
“His taste in music is questionable.” Spud speaks up first. “Fucking teenybopper shit does my head in. But, fuck, he’s had our backs.”
Fists pounding over hearts fill the room in agreement, and Brody fucking beams.
“Jesus Christ. He’s gonna get such a big fucking head over this,” JD mutters, “but as Road Captain, and the ugly fucker’s brother… I couldn’t be prouder of the way he’s stepped up to protect Abbey.”
Pounding fists over hearts sound again, no one but Smitty flinching at the fact my wife’s name was brought up.
“Little shit needs to learn how to fucking bargain shop instead of getting the big brands when he goes with the Doxies to the shops,” Tups, our Secretary grumbles, “but he’s not afraid to go in guns blazing when he’s ordered to.”
Again, more fists.
“How about you?” Smitty hisses. “Sergeant-at-Arms. What do you think?”
He already knows what I think, but this isn’t about my spat with Smitty. This is about our prospect becoming a fully patched member, so I drag my gaze from my bitter President, and lock eyes with Brody.
“You’ve bled for me. For my wife. You jumped through the window of a moving fucking van for me. For my wife. You’ve clawed at the dirt of the grave of my wife’s baby. You’ve helped protect my ma and mysisters.” I jab a finger in his direction. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ve been my club brother for a fucking while now. I’m stoked to make it official.”
Brody’s eyes turn glassy as his smile grows impossibly wide, and he thumps his fist over his heart, his eyes on me.
“Anyone else got anything to add or dispute?” Smitty snaps, and Vender steps forward, clearing his throat.
“Despite me and Mex trying to fucking claim Nessy for ourselves, you, a little fucking shit of a bloke, have been the voice of fucking reason.” Vender continues as Mex chuckles next to him. “You can be selfless when you need to be, so in my eyes, you make the type of club brother I want to ride alongside.”
More fists pound, and Brody grins like a fucking idiot, puffing out his chest.
“Alright. Enough of the lovey-dovey shit,” Smitty whines. “All those in favour of patching in Brody Dean, show us your hands.”
Every fucker in the room raises their hand, and Smitty doesn’t even bother asking if anyone is against it.
“Then it’s fucking done. This ugly fucker, Brody Dean, is one of us.” He points to Brody. “Get the fuck over here.”
Cheers ring out through the room, my club brothers slapping Brody’s back as he rounds the table, walking with his head held high.
This part of the patching in is shared by the President and Sergeant-at-Arms, so I move around the table, coming to Nate’s side, even though I want to punch him, and together, we present Brody with the full cut as Spud wrestles the prospect one off his back.
