Page 9

“ D ude, you even listening?” Grim asks, but there’s no malice in his voice, just curiosity.

“Nah, man. Guy’s eye-fucking the chick across the street.” Lucky laughs on my other side.

We were going over what I wanted to add to the club for the outer layer of protection.

It’s been a few weeks since I arrived. We’ve had ten brothers walk.

Not because they were in the sex trafficking ring with their last boss but because they refused to do shit.

And that might work outside the club life, but when the boss says, “Jump,” you say, “How high?” Most were pissed, especially about giving up their patches for life.

A few dumb fucks tattooed the patch on themselves, so, of course, we had to remove it.

I could have just scratched over it with my tattoo gun, but crossing out my patch isn’t something I’m comfortable with.

I gave them the option: Burn it off or cut it off.

Every single one cried; a few even wet their pants.

One more was removed permanently. Another’s on ice.

After my swearing in as president—aka, I said I was in charge, and there were no challengers—I took an unofficial victory lap.

Meaning, I went through the entire place and looked at everything.

Nothing was safe from inspection. Some grumbled about privacy—those were the ones we eventually kicked out.

The rest stayed quiet, knowing it needed to be done .

And it proved to be the correct plan, as we found evidence on two of the brothers who were some of the quietest in the bunch.

Before I produced the evidence, I had Bane give me details on the brothers in question.

Sure enough, they were both brought in under the last VP and spent more time with him than the rest.

All I was going to do was question them.

To start anyway. But when I came back to the commons area after going through the living spaces, one made a run for it.

Rooster pulled his trigger faster than I think a man could blink.

The body lay on the ground, the headshot bleeding out everywhere.

The other one just sat in a chair, pale, as he watched his friend’s blood pool on the ground.

Lucky had the guy up and in the holding cell below the main floor in less than five minutes.

He might have been a stupid fuck for leaving evidence in his room—the kind that had pictures of girls with price tags on the back of each picture, as if he was making a sick fucking collage of all that he took or trafficked—but for all his dumbness, the guy was zipped up tighter than a foot in the ass.

He said nothing. He cried, pleaded for mercy, but gave us shit.

Just kept saying he didn’t want to do it over and over again and that Cast Off made him.

That all he did was take the pictures, nothing more.

And for the last few weeks, he’s kept it that way.

My patience is getting thin, and I know I’m not the only one.

Not only with the guys, but Casper too. We know there were more involved.

There had to be. Despite the guy saying he only took pictures, he’s in most of them, holding the girls down for their “photo shoot.” So is everyone else we’ve identified as being involved.

Some solo shots, others in group settings.

So that leaves one simple question: Who’s taking the pictures?

While we wait for the guy to crack—and he will if we keep putting him through the wringer like we are—we need to fix the clubhouse. Nothing’s too bad inside to fix. We’ll put new locks and alarm systems in place to keep track of everyone coming and going. What we really need is a gate.

It won’t keep the worst out, as my clubhouse in Kansas found out earlier this year when the mafia and then C8 walked through our fencing as if it wasn’t there.

Even so, we need something. Right now, it still looks like a hotel.

Anyone can drive up. Hell, the strip mall across the street uses our parking lot for their overflow.

Bane just shrugged when I brought it up, said it was never something he worried about.

Then again, he let a sex trafficker into the club, so it’s fair to say he didn’t think a lot about anything.

I know the guy ain’t that bad, but I’ve just got a bad taste in my mouth with him.

Casper knew him before all of this. Maybe at one time he was an okay guy.

And maybe one day he will be again. But right now he’s doing shit duty like a prospect. Like half the damn club.

A few have proven themselves already, Grim being one of them. The guy has the makings of a club officer for sure. He’s only been a Hound for less than two years, but he’s good. He gets the brotherhood more than most who’ve been in for three times as long.

He’s still on shit duty, but not as much as the others.

Some might be on it for years with the attitude they keep giving me and my team.

At least with Grim, he does his shit and then asks what else we’ve got.

He ain’t a brownnoser, but he knows the clubhouse needs a cleanup, and he’s stepping in.

That’s why I pulled him in to talk about fortifying the club with a gate or something.

I wanted to know how his mind worked, see if he notices the holes in security around here.

I was listening, really I was. But then I got distracted.

I saw the garage across the way when I showed up, but it rarely had its doors open, and there’s no sign on the outside that advertises what it is.

Figured it was abandoned or just closed forever.

But today was a particularly sunny day, all things considering.

And while I decided it was a good day to do a walk-around of the club, it seems I wasn’t the only one who wanted the fresh air.

I noticed the bay doors were open and was a bit thrown when I saw sculptures and not cars in the garage bays, but it was cool.

Even saw the guy working on a few pieces during the day.

I liked what I saw from here and figured I’d reach out to get a feel for them.

Always good to know your neighbors. Hell, they might have even seen something before I got here.

I already did it with the rest of the places on the street.

Learned early on that just because you’re in a club that doesn’t advertise for people to come knocking, that doesn’t mean you won’t find nosy bitches peering in any chance they can get.

So far, no one has turned up anything useful, other than that a chair is open at the tattoo shop, and they’re willing to let me use it as needed.

When a car showed up and a woman hopped out, I thought nothing of it.

But I paid attention. From the distance, I couldn’t make out the metal worker’s features when they lifted the face mask.

But when they took off their coveralls? Yeah, I noticed.

Noticed big-time. Might not get the specific details, but a body like the one the sculptor has is art in itself.

Hourglass figure, sharp lines, and legs that seem to go on for days. I have to hold my mouth to keep it from dropping open and letting the drool come out. I feel myself salivating for a taste. The stress of the job is a bit much, and I want—no, need a release.

We haven’t let the vamps back in yet. I was serious about the club needing fresh ones.

Even have an open house of sorts on New Year’s Eve to attract a few new girls.

The boys are excited about it; a few are even putting in extra work to make sure they get a taste of what’s on the menu that night.

They all know that those still on my shit list will get a duty that takes them out of the club during the party.

Catching the chick’s eye across the street has me thinking I don’t have to wait till then to ease some pressure. I might not be known as a ladies’ man to my friends, but I can pull my own when I try. Never had one turn me down, and I ain’t about to now.

I hear the guys making fun and trying to pull me back into the conversation. Any attempt at being coy was gone the second we locked eyes. I see her mouth draw up to an O shape and grin. Then I start walking over.

“Hi,” I call out the second I cross the street.

She gives me a chin lift but says nothing. The other woman’s bouncing on her toes with a smile as big as the Sahara as her gaze volleys back and forth, looking between me and her friend.

“Name’s Domino. New chapter president of the Hounds of the Reaper Michigan sector.” I give her a smile that I know sets the girls off as I take her in.

She’s beautiful. Only caught a glimpse of her body from across the street before she put on a bulky sweater, but I can still tell she has feminine curves.

Her job might not be a sexy thing—welding ain’t for the weak—but that’s what makes it even hotter.

Her hair is pulled back from her face, but I pick up light blonde coloring.

I have a mild itch to wrap it around my hand and pull her close.

Her face is round but somehow still full of sharp lines.

Her dark blue eyes seem to sink into her face with the heavy eyeliner she’s used around them.

She must like that look, as I doubt someone does their face up like that when they’re behind a mask all day.

I like it. It gives her this “don’t fuck with me” look. Matching the vibe I’m getting off her quite clearly, as she does nothing but stare at me. And yeah, I’m vain enough to look down at myself to see if something’s wrong.