Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 93698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
His old man, the former president of the Dirty Angels MC, always hammered home the fact that fewer members spending time locked up kept their MC strong. Their club size alone was now a deterrent to keep rivals from fucking with them. Losing members for big chunks of time only weakened them.
Keeping them on the streets also kept their club accounts full because everyone worked in the DAMC’s businesses, but the most obvious benefit was it kept law enforcement off their ass and out of their club business, too.
Nobody wanted pigs breathing down their necks. He had enough of that shit from the screws at SCI Fayette.
When he was a kid, he heard more than a few stories about how they lost a lot of members back in the day. The war with a nomad, rival club, the Shadow Warriors, went on for decades. The Warriors wanted to claim the DAMC’s territory and no fucking way was the DAMC giving it up. It started with them taking pot shots at each other and destroying property. Then it turned into the Warriors kidnapping their women and children. As well as rape and murder.
Hell, his great-grandfather, Bear, was killed by those motherfuckers back in the mid-eighties. His great-uncle, Rocky, along with Vi’s great-grandfather, Doc, spent their lives in prison after getting revenge on the Warriors for Bear’s death.
History proved that the originals were badass motherfuckers.
Then came his father, Zak. He wanted better. He didn’t want to see his club torn apart so he did what he had to do to keep them whole. That meant big changes, like keeping the club as aboveboard as possible. He even made them rip off their 1% patches.
But the DAMC members weren’t supposed to be angels. They were supposed to be Dirty fucking Angels. For fuck’s sake, their motto was “Down & dirty ’til dead.”
Live for the club. Die for the club. That was how it should be.
Loyalty was important.
Hell, so was scratch.
No matter fucking what, following in his old man’s footsteps wasn’t fucking easy. He wanted to do his own thing, run the club his way, not necessarily the way his father had run it for decades.
Yeah, keeping the club on the straight and narrow—for the most part—helped keep the pigs off the club’s back.
But keeping the club legit was so damn boring.
When Zeke offered what was left of the hand-rolled to Vi, she shook her head. “You know I don’t smoke that shit. I need to stay sharp.”
Zeke huffed, “Like you go out and take jobs.”
“Sometimes I do.”
“Thought you had a full team now that you hired that new guy, Reaper, or whatever the fuck his name is. And won’t Scarlet be joinin’ the crew soon?” Vi’s youngest sister had to be close to done doing her time. Unlike him, her time served was in fatigues, not in a jumpsuit with an inmate number.
“As soon as she gets discharged. But yeah, Reaper’s the best decision I’ve made since taking over the business.”
He stared at her profile again. “Why? You doin’ him?”
“Unlike you, I don’t eat where I shit. That can get messy.”
She had him there. “He as good as Brick?”
“He’s a MOS 0322 Reconnaissance Sniper. He’ll pick you off before you can finish your last breath.”
If Zeke was supposed to be impressed, he wasn’t. “Got no fuckin’ clue what that is.”
“I can tell you what it isn’t.” She glanced over at him. “Not you. You’re just a fuck-up.”
“Fuck that. Don’t go lookin’ for trouble, it finds me.”
Vi hooted. “And that’s why your prospect name stuck to you like fucking glue once you earned your full set of rockers.”
“Didn’t see a reason to fuckin’ change it.” He also didn’t give a shit what anyone called him. He’d heard it all, starting with his original nickname, Little Z, or LZ. He was glad that finally fell off. Especially since he was no longer little and he was nothing like his old man.
Zeke pinched the end of the joint, tucked it back into the case, then turned up the radio when Black from Pearl Jam began playing. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and soaked in the music, letting the last eight months of bullshit fade away.
An elbow to his ribs startled him awake. “You’re drooling.”
It had been a while since he’d slept that well. When doing time, he always slept with one eye open, especially when his cellie was a psycho.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glanced up to see Vi turning into the parking lot of The Iron Horse Roadhouse. Being early, Zeke wasn’t surprised the lot was empty. No doubt, it’d be packed later.
She parked haphazardly in front of the bar, which told him she wasn’t staying. “Got to go before my ass gets caught.”
“D will go on a rampage if he does.”