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)
“Coop wanted me to do inventory and restock.”
Zeke’s brow dropped low. “That’s what fuckin’ prospects are for.”
Lucky tipped his head. “That’s what I fuckin’ said.”
“So, why the fuck ain’t they doin’ it?”
“‘Cause they’re all a buncha fuck-ups.”
“‘Course they are. That’s why they work for free. They got a year to get their asses straightened out.”
Lucky winced. “Ain’t tellin’ me nothin’ I don’t know, Prez. Still remember that first year like it was fuckin’ yesterday.”
Zeke silently agreed. That first year was rough. Even for him: a prospect expected to step into his old man’s boots once old enough.
He beelined toward the club’s private bar. It backed the commercial kitchen used for both the club and the bar. “Any sweet butts around?”
“Nope.”
Fuck.
He’d text one if he had his goddamn phone! First prospect he spotted, he was going to send him to go buy a new one. “Text Shimmer and tell her to get her ass over here within the hour. Tell her not to waste fuckin’ time on all that makeup and fake eyelashes bullshit. Just needs to make sure her cunt’s clean.”
Lucky snorted. “Then maybe you shouldn’t pick Shimmer.”
His step stuttered for a second, then he shook his head and moved behind the bar. “Just fuckin’ text her.”
“You got it, Prez.”
“That shoulda been your first fuckin’ answer.”
Lucky chuckled as his fingers quickly moved over his phone’s screen.
“Tell her I don’t give a fuck if her hair’s a rat’s nest, either. I can cover her face with a fuckin’ pillow if I gotta.” He grabbed an opened bottle of Jack Daniels and a clean glass. That was when it hit him. “My room’s still mine, right?” It better fucking be.
“Yeah. Soon as you went inside, your brother locked it up so no one could fuck with it.”
While that should be good news, right now it wasn’t. He didn’t have his fucking keys.
Goddamn it.
Someone had to have a master key. “Text him next and ask him where my fuckin’ keys are.”
“You got it.”
Damn, did it feel good to be back in charge. Unlike in the joint, where he usually tried to stay under the radar. He’d learned from the past. If he tried to make a name for himself inside, he became a target and ended up earning an extended stay.
Unfortunately, the only pussy in prison were a few female screws. If he could find a willing one that didn’t make his dick limp, he held his fucking nose to bang one out.
He poured three fingers worth of whiskey, then turned to lean back against the bar. He lifted his glass in tribute to those who came before him.
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.