Page 114 of Dirty Salvation

Rider's ideas had sat dormant until he was in a position to put change into practice. As a prospect he hadn't held a voice, you follow orders without question, he’d cleaned toilets until his fingers bled, ran errands, stayed up nights guarding old ladies. It was the prospect life and he’d done everything asked of him knowing what he was aspiring to, only Hawk had shared in his plans.

As a VP he had held more sway, but the then president still wasn't in favor of turning their outlaw operation into something legitimate on the outside to make more money than a few meager fucking dollars.

The last president had liked the bad reputation the club had. Fucking moron.

He'd waited, making contacts, laying the groundwork, ideas growing. Rider had wanted a real business, a whole fucking fleet of businesses. Cutting out the dead wood had taken longer than he'd estimated but he'd got there. He was surrounded by his boys he trusted to death, all on his same page. It would take longer to drag theSoulsreputation out of the mud the previous bosses had dug it into, but since Rider wasn't planning on going anywhere anytime soon, he had time to turn things around.

To help build the other chapters.

It had been Rider who had brought about evolution from within his ranks, Texas came along by chance with his help and a savvy eye for investments the finances had begun to swing in the right direction. Next he'd recruited Preacher, a hard worn ex-veteran who didn't trust a fucking soul, had looked at this young club President like he'd sprouted a third head, but he'd been sponsored by Grinder and silently followed his plans just to see what the fuck he was doing, taking to his bike as road captain, scouting out businesses for Rider and after a while even Preacher, the great loner nomad since leaving the military who had wanted that same brotherhood again placed his trust in Rider.

Within a year the club owned five bike shops dotted around Colorado earned with the illegal money they made from weed. The day the club could sustain the kinda money the smoke made he would happily let it go. He kept stock low, only sold out of the city, never within his own territories, all his chapters followed the same rule, you don't shit where you eat.

Survival was a hard bitch.

The club was going to survive.

He'd make sure of that.

There were smarter ways to run a business than dancing so close to the line but it got the job done. It was anarchy if even outlaws didn't have some rules. For the first time in thirty years, the Renegade Souls were not only making a profit, it was fucking flourishing.

And if they pushed those nice clean dollars into something felonious then all the greater for theSoulspockets to fatten.

It was all about the turnaround and how fast Rider could do it.

It took a lot of cash to keep them going. A little under the table illegal never hurt any outlaw, really.

He was unyielding as fuck though no guns, no hard drugs, and no selling sex of any kind.

Anything else was free rein if it made them a dollar.

Under the radar, the Renegade Souls had funded pawn shops, their own loan shark business, and then there were the bookies. All perfectly profitable illegal businesses shrouded in clean. To the outside world, the Renegade Soul MC was all above board, stand up citizens paying their taxes, even if they were still dragging with them the reputation of old..and that’s how Rider liked his outlaw status.

It was so much easier to be on the up and up with folk not knowing a thing.

Rider had gotten so close to skirting the law he was even acquaintances with the local sheriff. Charlie wasn’t dumb, he knew what was going down, most of the time as long as Rider pumped money back into the community the good sheriff turned a blind eye to things spilling over on his turf not because he was afraid of Rider, or that Rider was flaunting his crimes, the opposite, Charlie wanted the best for his patch, him and Rider had that in common, and as hard as the law looked into Rider's club they could never find anything to stick for long.

If they got away with theRebel'sfire ... that was something else on his mind, though they'd heard nothing about it for days he still had his ear to the ground for any whispers that were coming his club's way.

As tight as Rider’s ship was, shit sometimes became public, you couldn’t beat a man half to death and break his legs dumping him onto Main street from a moving vehicle for not handing over his loan repayments on time and not have some backwash come at you when the little weasel sang like a canary.

To the Armado Springs community, his club was a Harley aficionados MC who just had a bad reputation through no fault of their own. Of course, individuals who crossed them knew the hard truth but fortunately for them, they weren’t flapping their gums to shed light on theSouls. A reputation, as he knew, was often harsher than the truth. Word of mouth and people knew not to mess with him or his boys.

It took a lot of brainpower, steel determination and a fist of fucking rock to drag a dying club out of the Red and into something bigger, better that profited on the regular.

Truly fucking exhausting some days.

All down to Rider and his loyal men. If he was getting sprinkles of gray in his hair, he could lay blame to his lifestyle. No outlaw was decent enough for a good night’s sleep.

"You look’n tired, boy" A white nondescript mug came at him from the left and Rider grasped it, casting a look sideways at his uncle who perched against the desk.

He pointed to a chair so the old man would park it, his bones were not getting any younger

"I'm good. You should head back in, it's too cold out here for you."

His uncle snorted, sipping his own black coffee. "The day a bit of chill in the air bothers me, son, is the day you can plant me under the tomato bush Helen keeps watering even though it hasn't bloomed one damn thing all season. And now I gave you a minute to avoid, you wanna tell me what's got you pensive today?"

Rider smiled.