High on a shelf behind the private bar were four custom-painted Harley gas tanks. Two of them were full of Doc and Bear’s ashes, the club’s founders.
Another held Grizz’s ashes, along with his ol’ lady, Mama Bear. Their ashes shared the same tank. He swore they’d been together since the birth of baby Jesus and now they’d remain that way forever.
He glanced over at the end of the bar where Grizz used to always park his ass with a beer in front of him. Sometimes Zeke swore the grizzly old man’s ghost still sat there.
A chill shot through him.
The last tank belonged to Rocky, who died like Doc, doing life in prison without parole for murder.
“Down ’n dirty ’til goddamn dead,” he whispered before sucking down half of the Jack. Heat wormed its way down into his gut.
He threw his bag of belongings on top of the bar and dug through it, hoping one of those goddamn screws hadn’t stolen his most prized possession: Bear’s ring. His old man had passed down his great-grandfather’s ring with pride once Zeke patched in. Zak probably regretted that decision now.
Truthfully, Zeke was more like Bear than his old man. He wanted to carry on the founders’ traditions.
He slipped on the rest of his silver rings, pulled his necklace over his head and settled the silver skull pendant into place on his chest, before snapping his black leather cuff around his left wrist. He dug deeper into the bag again and was surprised to find his black diamond stud. He figured one of those motherfucking screws might’ve pocketed it since it was worth some scratch. He plugged the earring back into his left lobe.
Now he was starting to feel a little more like himself. A little more pot, a fuckuva lot more booze, and some warm, juicy pussy would take him the rest of the way there.
He just needed to find the right candidate.
He glanced over at Lucky. “Shimmer comin’?”
“Depends on how rusty you are givin’ dick.”
Zeke ignored the joke. “Like ridin’ a fuckin’ bike. She say how long ’til she gets here?”
Lucky glanced at his text messages. “Ten minutes.”
“What about my keys?”
“No answer from Chill yet.”
Chill.
His younger brother’s road name fit him. Zane might not look like a carbon copy of their old man, but his personality was similar. He was the exact opposite of Zeke.
They were like goddamn yin and yang.
After taking another swig of whiskey, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “There’s gotta be a fuckin’ master key ‘round here somewhere.”
“Maybe your old man knows.”
Zeke wasn’t ready to talk to his father. He’d prefer not to be served a shit sandwich for at least another day.
Chapter Two
Zeke jackknifed straight upand sputtered, “What the fuck?”
Getting hit by something cold and wet was enough to wake the fucking dead.
And with the way his head was splitting wide open, Zeke would rather remain a corpse.
Who the fuck?—
He blinked the water out of his eyes to see exactly who.
Shit.
