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Why had Kevlar put off this patch-in? Kid would never know for sure. However, at this point, it was water under the bridge. Instead, he focused on how their voted-in brother entered the room. Back straight, head high, and immediately surveying the room.

Confident. Strong. Smart. He was an excellent addition.

Grinning from ear to ear, as though this were his patch-in day, Torch slapped Pooter on the back and shook his shoulders gleefully before he took his seat at the table. If they had wanted to pretend they hadn’t agreed to it, that was out the window. Torch was far too excited to play those games.

Pooter’s gaze went to the rockers in Kevlar’s hands. For a brief moment, the corners of his mouth turned up in a half smile, but he quickly screwed his features into a more serious expression. Assuming a stiff stance, he parted his feet slightly and clasped his hands behind him, saying nothing.

“No need to drag this out,” Kevlar said as he approached Pooter. “This is a monumental occasion. The rest of us arrived in Oklahoma City, and this clubhouse, with history. Whether that is from the Royal Bastards or the Roughneck Riders. Either way, the four of us at this table have been brothers a long time.”

The men rapped their knuckles on the table in agreement. Torch had been a part of the Roughneck Riders before they burned to the ground, and Frog was a long-standing brother with the Royal Bastards.

“Pooter, you’re the first man to earn this patch outright,” Kevlar continued. “You’re an original. Which was why I didn’t want to rush it. I wanted you, the purest member of our Oklahoma City Chapter, to have a proper clubhouse to celebrate in.”

Pride filled Kid’s chest as his brother beamed with joy. Torch practically vibrated in his seat, while Frog sat back and watched the events while sipping from his beer.

“Your hard work, sacrifices, and dedication have paid off. You’re officially a Royal Bastard, with voting rights and an officer position,” Kevlar said as he extended the rocker patches to Pooter. “Welcome, Road Captain.”

Pooter relaxed and took the slivers of fabric meant to signify his status within the clubhouse. “Thanks.”

Kevlar leaned in and gave Pooter a hug with backslaps before he stepped back, allowing the rest of the men to celebrate.

Torch hopped up from his chair and hollered loud before he lifted Pooter in a bear hug. Frog raised his beer in salute. Kid shook his hand.

“Everyone take a seat.” Kevlar gestured as he moved toward his own spot. “We can now address the issue of the Colombians.”

Pooter scooted around the table and plopped into the empty chair beside Kid. Everyone turned their attention to Kevlar.

“As we all are aware, the Colombians are persona non grata with the Irish. The Irish have the market cornered with running the guns through Oklahoma. This makes them our direct competition. Everyone is using them.” Kevlar reviewed what they knew. “To make our situation more complicated, our only official alliance in the area, the Dixie assholes, are also friendly with the Irish.”

“We need the funds,” Frog pointed out. “Establishing a clubhouse took a lot of capital. We don’t have much coming in from our own endeavors.”

Kid nodded. Much was an understatement. None was more accurate. They hadn’t developed any business to bring cash in. Money was essential for growth. They had to go with this arrangement.

“We can’t wait,” Kid said through a sigh. “We need to set up something, but we don’t have to rush into it.”

“Is anyone else knocking at our door?” Pooter asked. As the newest member to the table, he wouldn’t be informed on such things. Prospects weren’t privy to that.

Kevlar shook his head.

When the entire room shifted in their seats, the heavy weight of this decision seemed to have settled upon them. Forming this alliance would put them at odds with a powerful syndicate—the Irish. Plus, it’d piss off the Dixie douche canoes. Paul had made that abundantly clear.

Unfortunately, Kid didn’t think they had a choice. They had to take the risk if they were going to stay afloat. The type of club they were couldn’t survive on dues alone. They would merely be a riding club if they did that. The Royal Bastards were more than a bunch of divorced dads who took out their Harley-Davidsons on the weekends. They got their hands dirty. That was the thrill of it all.

Kevlar huffed and glanced around the table. “Let’s put it to a vote. Who wants to make a deal with the Colombians?”

“Aye,” Frog voted immediately.

Kid nodded. “We have to,” he said as he flicked his attention between Torch and Pooter.

Torch frowned and ran his thumb across his forehead like he attempted to stave off a headache.

“This first one is always the hardest,” Pooter said. “No risk, no reward. I’m in.”

Torch nodded to himself. “Let’s do it.”

Kevlar slammed the gavel down. “It passes. I’ll set up a meeting with Arturo so we can go over details.”

The jovialness of the previous vote had left the room. Unfortunately, everyone at the table understood how dangerous getting in bed with the Colombians could be. The existence of a one-percent biker wasn’t easy. Movies and whatnot showed all the booze, parties, and drugs, but at what cost? The life was dangerous.