Boone’s laugh was a coarse blurt of sound as he tossed a garbage bag at one of the younger bikers to clean up the mess. “Don’t look at me,” he said and reached back to slap one hefty cheek. “Your cock ain’t big enough to reach my hole. Fuck, get Sonny to set you up once he’s conscious. He’s the one who owes you, and he won’t be much good for anything else till that leg heals.”
Ville looked uncomfortable at the laughter that eddied around the bar, but he brought Bass another beer. “You did good,” he muttered to him. “Shepherd’s pleased. If you keep your head down, keep on his good side—”
Bass plucked the bottle out of Ville’s hand and walked away midsentence. A couple of the brothers slapped his back as he crossed the bar, and Mick cracked his hand across Bass’s ass with a roar of laughter. Bass tipped his beer over the asshole’s head and left him to splutter through his drenched beard while he joined Shepherd’s table. Shepherd sat back, arm cocked over the back of the chair, and sipped his whiskey.
Bass dragged out a chair, spun it around, and straddled it as he sat down. “So am I in or not?”
Shepherd picked at something in his teeth with a bruised thumbnail and glanced around the bar as he judged the mood of the room. “Is that the only reason you helped? To get on my good side?”
Bass snorted. “What? You thought I did it because of my unrequited love for Sonny? He’s not my type.”
Shepherd chuckled and poured a second glass of whiskey. An odd, cold smile twisted his mouth.
“What do you say, boys?” he asked, his gruff voice raised to carry over the noise. “You think Sebastiani here has what it takes to be our brother? Anyone gonna vouch for him?”
Ville didn’t. It was Boone who shrugged. “Why the hell not,” he said. “It ain’t like he’s new blood. He grew up around here, stole his first car down the road, and got in his first drunken brawl on the street outside. If he hadn’t been sent off to juvie in fuckin’ Nebraska, he’d probably be a brother already. I’ll back him.”
“I’ll second him,” Mick said as he wrung foam out of his beard. “I figure none of you bastards would put theiractualass on the line to get me out of the shit.”
Shepherd pushed the glass over the table. “I’m good with it.”
There it was. Finally.
Bass picked up the glass and slammed back the shot to whoops and cheers. He smacked the glass back down on the table and grinned, sharp and hard edged, at Shepherd.
“I won’t let you down,” he told Shepherd.
“You better not,” Shepherd said genially as he got up. He clapped his rough-knuckled hand on Bass’s shoulder and squeezed down with hard fingers. The pressure made Bass’s collarbone creak, and he clenched his teeth against the dull pulse of pain. Shepherd leaned down and winked at him. “Because you’ll only do it once.”
Point made, he let go of Bass’s shoulder and clapped his hands. “Fuck it. Prop Sonny up in the corner and crack out some more bottles. Time to celebrate! Tomorrow we get even.”
Dragged up out of the chair by eager hands, Bass was bounced around the group as his new brothers hugged, slapped his shoulders, and punched him. Mick pulled him into a headlock, fist tucked under his jaw and sweaty armpit pressed against his cheek, and baptized him with a warm beer.
Bass blinked the liquid out of his eyes as he grinned and leaned into the friendly slaps. When he finally pulled himself free, Shepherd handed him the third patch for his cut. He gripped the stiff fabric in his hand, the edges sharp against his fingers as he grinned at the other bikers.
A full member of the club. One of the Corpse Brothers. This was the reason he’d put his tail between his legs and slunk back to Plenty in the first place. It made everything he’d done to get here worth it.
Right?
“FUCK.” BASSdropped the breaker bar as he barked his knuckles for the third time. It clattered against the floor as he pulled his hand out of the locked engine and shook it. His knuckles were bloody, he had a blister on the heel of his hand, and the old Chevy’s engine was still locked.
He kicked the tire in frustration. The car ignored him, probably because it was deader than a dodo.
The car wasn’t the problem. It wasaproblem, since Fat Boone’s aunt hadn’t replaced the oil since the Bush administration, but not what had Bass on edge. It had been near enough a month since he got patched in, the badges still stiff where Mick’s old lady sewed them on for him, and all he’d done was play mechanic and sit on his ass in the clubhouse.
It wasn’t exactly what he expected. Worst of all, now that he was officially one of Shepherd’s crew, no one in town would scratch his itch for a pointless brawl. His other itches… well, he could scratch those, but his heart wasn’t in it.
Bass had always gotten bored easily—at school, at work, most of his relationships. After a while it just started to feel like each day was a replay of the last, and he got the urge to kick the whole shitshow over. It never ended well, but that hadn’t stopped him yet.
He grabbed a chipped mug from the metal sink and poured himself a cup of black, six-hour-brewed coffee he sweetened with condensed milk from a pierced can. The hit of syrupy sweetness somehow made the coffee taste more bitter, and the aftertaste snuck up on you and hung on in there once the sugar was gone.
Bass drank it anyhow as he stared blindly at Shepherd’s office and weighed his options.
“Don’t,” Ville said.
“What?” Bass asked as he glanced over. The Porsche was up on blocks, with the logo pried free, the doors unhinged, and the engine lifted in a heavy-duty sling. Give it another hour, and the car would be spare parts on the net—what Shepherd’s contact hadn’t already put dibs on—and all the original owner would get was an insurance payout.
Ville wiped his hands down his stomach and scowled. “Fuck this up just to see what would happen.”
