“You’re getting even grumpier in your old age, brother.”
I thumped his shoulder back with enough force to make him stumble a few steps in order to regain his balance.
“I’m thirty-three, for fuck’s sake,” I countered. “Stop making it sound like I’m over the hill with one foot in the grave.”
Teddy’s eyes gleamed with amusement. He was always like this—bouncing on his toes with energy, eager to move. He had no sense of self-preservation, absurdly confident in the knowledge that his big brother was watching his back.
“It’s nice to see some things never change,” Teddy replied. “Come on. I’ll help you unpack. Then we can get a beer and a bite to eat at the clubhouse.”
He grabbed a stack of boxes off my trailer, carrying them inside. I ignored the tight little knot in the pit of my stomach and started unloading boxes, piling them on the driveway. Leaving the Desert Howlers wasn’t an easy decision. I spent years alongside those men I called my brothers.
Now, I was starting over from scratch with a different crew.
Motorcycle clubs generally operated on a basic set of ground rules that everyone knew—respect for your fellow bikers, don’t touch another man’s Old Lady, and keep your mouth shut around cops.
But the culture of each club could vary depending on leadership. Some clubs I’d visited were hostile to each other, an all-out fight for survival. Others were more laidback, easy going, and didn’t bother enforcing any rules at all, which created another layer of chaos when discipline was never carried out.
There was no guarantee that I would mesh well with this set of bikers. If a club didn’t fit right, I had no chance of surviving as a Prospect, let alone earning my patch.
You are welcome to take a seat at our table anytime, brother,Teddy told me.
He wouldn’t make that offer if he didn’t think I would be a good candidate.
Two hours later, Teddy and I had emptied my trailer, distributing boxes into one of his spare bedrooms. It chafed at my pride to be moving in with my little brother, even though it was a temporary arrangement.
It highlighted how much upheaval I had experienced in such a short amount of time—losing Stevie and my club, packing up my life, moving away to a totally new town sight unseen, andnow I didn’t even have a place of my own to call home where I could lick my wounds in private.
Beggars can’t be choosers though. And I was grateful for the chance to reconnect with Teddy—a silver lining to this whole shitshow.
As I straightened my aching back, Teddy hooked an arm around my neck and put me in a friendly headlock.
“Come on, you gloomy sourpuss,” he said. “Let’s get you drunk so you stop brooding over that girl you left in California.”
I pried myself out of his grip and retaliated by ruffling his hair. He squawked in protest and skirted out of reach, smoothing his tousled hair with indignation.
“I’m not brooding,” I said.
“Pouting?”
“No,” I growled.
“Then you’re definitely sulking,” Teddy quipped.
I took a threatening step toward him. He cackled and headed for the door.
“Move your ass, big brother,” he called, his voice echoing through the house. “It’s time to meet your new family.”
***
The Reckless Order clubhouse was an old-fashioned brick building, formerly a fire station, repurposed into a biker hangout. The thick scent of tobacco and whiskey hung in the air. Worn leather armchairs and sofas clustered near a television set in one corner of the room. Along the wall was a bar, with a door leading away to what I assumed was the kitchen.
Teddy introduced me to a blur of faces and names and I only caught about half of them.
Bruiser. Hades. Psycho.
Then Teddy grabbed a chair, swinging it around to straddle it as he settled at a table with two older men. Their patches readPresident and Vice President. Teddy jerked his thumb over his shoulder in my direction.
“Brought you some fresh blood, Prez. This is my brother, Sean. I told you about him. He goes by Tarzan.”
