Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
“Heard it.” He was studying Trip.
“Whadya think?” Dutch asked the guy.
Even with his tattooed arms crossed across his chest, the man shrugged. “Maybe. I gotta prospect?”
Trip spoke up. “Been thinkin’ about that.”
Dutch turned toward him. “What you been thinkin’?”
Trip had given this a lot of thought. Especially since he was tired of being a club of one already. “Any Originals are welcome as long as they don’t hold any grudges. Long as they’re willin’ to start fresh. For now, any blood of Originals will be patched in, too. Anyone without any ties, gotta prospect first. Maybe do six months. Once the coffers are full and we got enough members, they gotta prospect for a year. But for now? Gonna be a little lenient.”
“There you go, then. Got your first member. Prolly don’t remember this one,” Dutch said pointing to the guy. “Younger than you. Ol’ lady kept my boys away from the warehouse as much as possible.”
Trip’s eyes slid from the guy to Dutch. “He’s your son?”
“Yeah.”
Trip turned to the guy who still hadn’t straightened away from the car. He had his ankles crossed, too, like he was comfy right where he was at. He was also wearing a smirk Trip wasn’t sure he liked.
“Got a sled?”
“Dutch told you I did.”
Trip smiled, but it wasn’t a friendly one. “Yeah, he did. But since you’re a man, you need to speak for yourself just like a real man would.”
That got the guy on his feet and his smirk wiped away. He dropped his arms and planted his hands on his hips covered in greasy jeans. “Got a ‘75 FLHF Shovelhead.”
If it was in good shape, it was probably a sweet bike. “In good workin’ order?”
“Fuck yeah.”
“Want in?”
“Depends...”
“You want in, you’re patched in since your Dutch’s blood. Only offer you’re gettin’. Don’t accept it now, then you’ll need to prospect.” And Trip would make sure to have fun running him through the damn gauntlet.
“I’m in.”
Trip dropped his head, stared at his boots and once he could wipe away the grin, he lifted it again. “Thought so. Got a road name?”
“Cage.”
“Cage? How the fuck d’ya get that?”
“I gave it to him. Taught the boy to work on sleds. Prefers to work on cages,” Dutch grumbled.
“Pop thinks there’s an endless supply of bikes to work on. The garage would go outta business if we only worked on sleds. This ain’t the old days.”
“Hopefully that will change,” Trip murmured. “I’ll get you your colors. Get your mommy to buy you a cut and sew them on for you.”
Cage’s jaw went tight. “Don’t got a mommy, but there’s a fuckin’ tailor in town. Get me my colors and I’ll get ‘er done.”
Trip gave him a nod. “Good.”
Cage gave him an answering nod, then sauntered away.
Before he had gone too far, Trip called out, “Cage... One more thing...” He waited until Cage stopped and turned his head to look at him over his shoulder. “Gonna be your president.” He met the man’s narrowed blue eyes. “Might not want to forget that.”
“Know how it works,” Cage grumbled, then continued on his way.
“Doubt you do,” Trip muttered under his breath.
Trip turned back to Dutch, who was grinning. “Not sure where he got his attitude, musta been from his momma.” Dutch shook his head. “Was great at suckin’ and fuckin’ my cock, but the rest of the time, the bitch was impossible to live with.”
“His mother wasn’t Bebe?” Trip remembered Dutch’s ol’ lady. In fact, he remembered Dutch having a son around Sig’s age.
“Yeah.”
“She split when the rest of ‘em did?”
“Yeah, but left the boys behind. Never wanted to be a mother. And the club fallin’ apart was the perfect excuse for the bitch to escape. Left me raisin’ the two hellions all by my fuckin’ lonesome. And tryin’ to run this damn shop.”
“How old’s Cage?”
Dutch squinted as if he was thinking hard. “Don’t fuckin’ know. Lost track... Old enough to drink, not old enough to have a lick of fuckin’ sense. But then his older brother don’t have any, either. That’s my fault for tryin’ to raise those boys myself.”
It wasn’t Cage he remembered from back then, it was Dutch’s older son. Rook, if Trip remembered right. “Wasn’t Rook around Sig’s age?”
Dutch’s brown eyes landed on him. “Yeah, ‘bout there. And Cage was born ‘bout five years later.”
Trip did some figuring in his head. That meant Rook was about thirty-two now and Cage about twenty-eight. “Where’s Rook?”
“Somewhere where the sun don’t shine.”
“Fuck. Sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, But he’s a short-timer. Just got a month or so to go yet.”
Huh? “He ain’t dead?”
“Fuck no, boy. He’s in County.”
“Where?”
“Lycoming.”
“What’d he do?”
“Bought weed from an undercover pig, then fled.”
“That’s it?”
“And then took the pig to the ground.”
“And?”
“And knocked ‘im the fuck out.”
Damn. “Out soon, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s he goin’ after he’s out?”
“No fuckin’ clue. Rook does what Rook wants to do.” Dutch shook his head. “Though he’s a damn good mechanic.”