Page 28 of Gator (Bourbon Kings MC #1)

The holiday festivities were finally over, and I counted myself lucky to scrape by with only a minor bloody nose, because when my m?man saw my actual gift for Devlyn, I was pretty damn sure she was gonna finish breaking my nose.

Something about a gator hatchling not being a proper first-time Christmas gift for the mother of my children.

While my woman laughed and actually loved the little critter, one of my brothers didn’t.

Thore.

I should have known the animal-loving pain in my ass would pitch a fit and sulk.

Fucker wasn’t happy unless he was tending to or nursing some critter back to life.

He was downright unconsolable when they died.

Just thinking about standing through another service in the pet cemetery gave me the willies.

As it was, Thore was refusing to talk to me.

Despite his sulking, Thore still managed to commandeer the gator hatchling, giving it a new name—Boudreaux—that was until Devlyn nixed the idea, saying it was her gator, and she liked the name Jerky. Thore didn’t care and took the critter under his wing.

I didn’t fight him on it. To be honest, the little guy looked happier in Thore’s care than he ever would be in Devlyn’s. My woman might love her unconventional present, but I doubted she’d signed up for gator parenting as a prelude to motherhood.

Still, Thore’s silence was getting under my skin.

I tried everything I could think of to get him to talk—offering him the last piece of pecan pie, letting him pick the music on the jukebox, even taking his side in a heated debate over crawfish boils versus crab boils, which I didn’t even believe in.

Nothing worked.

“You ain’t paintin’ his toes nails!” Thore shouted, grumpily following my woman up the stairs of The Bourbon Bar as she held Jerky in one hand and a purple case in the other.

“He’s my alligator, and I can do whatever I want.”

Ignoring the bickering duo, I leaned against the bar toward Juju. “Any word from Uncle Sixx?”

Juju slightly shook his head, placing a beer in front of a customer just as Enigma, Scribe and Henley walked into my bar.

Smiling wide, I greeted them, “ Laissez les bon temps rouler , my friends! Welcome to The Bourbon Bar.”

“You ready to go, Gator?” Enigma asked as I watched Henley wiggle her fingers at Donut, who winked then blew her an air kiss, causing Scribe to growl, pulling his wife closer. “Mitch said he’d meet us at the track in an hour. Romeo said he would meet us there.”

“Where’s Devlyn?” Henley asked, looking around the bar.

“Upstairs painting Jerky’s nails.” Juju smirked.

“I’ll show Ms. Henley upstairs,” Donut said smoothly.

“You are not showing my wife anywhere,” Scribe challenged, stepping in front of his beautiful wife.

Had to admit, the Never sisters were something to look at.

Purdy as a peach the both of them.

“Ya skerred of some competition, Scribe?” My brother slowly stood.

“I’m not scared of shit,” Scribe said, removing his bowie knife from his hip.

“Aw, would ya look at that, Donut?” Braveheart chuckled. “Scribe has a nail picker.” Then he proceeded to remove his sword and place it on top of the bar. “Now that’s a knife.”

“I don’t know, Brave. I’m kinda partial to these,” Donut said, holding up a shiny new pair of throwing stars, before he threw one in the blink of an eye. The star landed right at the tip of Scribe’s boot, the morning sun glinting off the shiny metal.

“Who the hell gave Donut throwing stars?!” I shouted, looking at my brothers, who all shrugged and kept their traps shut. When no one spoke up, I growled and turned to the donut-eating maniac and pointed my finger. “If you land in jail again, I’m callin’ yer ma!”

Donut winked. “Who ya think gave ’em to me?”

The bar erupted in laughter, the kind that shook the walls and rattled the glasses hanging overhead. Even Scribe had to smirk, though his hand stayed tight around the hilt of his knife.

“Alright, boys, settle down,” I said, trying to restore some kind of order. “Last thing we need is the sheriff sniffin’ around here again. Braveheart, put that damn sword away. Donut, for the love of all that’s holy, quit showin’ off those damn stars before someone loses a toe.”

Braveheart sheathed his blade with a dramatic flourish, while Donut, ever the entertainer, pretended to juggle the stars before slipping them back into the waistband of his shorts.

Henley, caught somewhere between amusement and indignation, raised an eyebrow at the scene. “Is it always this... lively around here?”

“Lively’s one word for it,” Scribe muttered, shooting a glare at Donut before turning back to his wife. “But don’t worry, darlin’. You’ve got me to make sure these lunatics don’t get outta hand.”

“Aw, come on, Scribe,” Braveheart teased, his grin as wide as the Mississippi. “She don’ need you playin’ knight in shinin’ armor. We’re harmless. Mostly.”

Henley gave a small, knowing smile. “I think I can manage.”

The door swung open then, letting in a burst of bright sunlight and the distinct rumble of a Harley pulling up outside.

All heads turned as a figure stepped into the room, casting a long shadow across the floor.

The air seemed to shift, the rowdy energy from moments before replaced with a quiet tension that only came when someone important—or dangerous—walked in.

“Inner Sanctum. Now,” my Uncle Sixx muttered under his breath as he stormed past me and everyone else, heading downstairs to the Bourbon Kings’ church.

“Holy mother of God,” Enigma gasped as I headed straight for my seat at the head of the table. My brothers quickly found their spots as I watched Scribe and Enigma look around the Bourbon Kings’ inner sanctum.

This place was sacred.

It wasn’t for outsiders, but since Enigma was my cuz’s husband, and Scribe was technically going to be my new brother-in-law when I got around to marrying my woman, I figured he would be family, so why not?

If I couldn’t trust family, who could I trust?

Unlike most of the clubs I knew, the Bourbon Kings didn’t show off.

Me and my boys were plain folk. Wha’ ya saw was wha’ ya got.

We didn’t stand on formality, and our inner sanctum reflected that.

But make no mistake, this place, this holy ground, was strictly for brothers only.

Had lots of love for the womenfolk, but they wouldn’t understand.

“Is that a signed Drew Brees helmet from the 2010 Super Bowl against the Indianapolis Colts?” Scribe gasped.

“Holy shit!” Enigma damn near shrieked. “That’s a signed Walter Payton football! He was hands-down the greatest running back in football history.”

Scribe leaned closer to inspect the helmet, his fingers twitching as though he wanted to touch it but feared the wrath that might ensue. “I didn’t take you guys for football fans,” he said, his voice laced with surprise.

I smirked, leaning back in my chair. “We’re full of surprises, brother. Ain’t just about bourbon and bikes around here. We honor the legends, whether they’re on two wheels or the gridiron.”

Enigma stepped forward, his wide eyes scanning the room, catching sight of every artifact that told a story. He stopped at the wall filled with faded photographs and old trophies. “This... this is like a shrine,” he murmured, his voice reverent.

“Damn right,” Sixx said, reappearing from the shadows like he’d always been there. “Everything in here’s got a story. And every story’s got blood, sweat, and a whole lotta damn bourbon behind it. You respect the space, or you don’t belong.”

Scribe gave a slow nod, his gaze steady. “Respect,” he said simply.

“Good,” I replied, my voice firm but warm. “Now, let’s get down to business. What did ya find out?”

Slidin’ into one of the many La-Z-Boy recliners in the inner sanctum, Uncle Sixx began, “Well, Coltraine ain’t involved with the Mob.

Though there’s talk on the street that the Irish might be visitin’ soon.

Apparently, they’re lookin’ for a rat. Ain’t the Russians either, thank fuck.

I reached out to my Italian contact, and they ain’t never heard of Coltraine, but would like to talk to you about an upcomin’ shipment, so give Cesar a call when you can. ”

I nodded.

“What about the Mexicans?” Worm asked, typing away on his computer.

Sixx shook his head. “Ain’t them either.”

“Then that leaves a club, boss.” Braveheart sighed, shaking his head. “Hate it when it’s brothers.”

“Don’ think it’s them either,” Sixx spoke up. “The Biker Federation are holdin’ their breaths right now ’cause of what happened to Sypher.”

Yeah. That was a nut punch.

A few weeks back, the Biker Federation was rocked to its core when we all learned that Sypher, a brother in the Golden Skulls and computer genius, damn near died in an explosion in New York City. As it was, the last we heard, it was touch and go.

“Fuckin’ shame.” I frowned, leaning forward, then asked, “Any word on how he’s doin’?”

My uncle nodded. “Still the same.”

“So if it ain’t the usual suspects, then that means we’re dealin’ with a new player. A civilian maybe? Someone too big for their britches?” Donut questioned.

“If that’s the case, boss, we’re screwed,” Thore grumbled. “You know how many big business fuckers stroll in and out of our city every day?”

“Too bad we can’t talk to Beau anymore,” Worm muttered, then grinned.

“What’s going on?” Scribe asked, looking around the room as he leaned against a recliner.

“Got a missing shipment,” I blurted, then looked at my uncle and asked, “Garland Coltraine?”

My uncle shook his head. “Haven’t found him yet.”

“So, no one knows where my shipment is, and Garland is hidin’ like a little bitch.” I groaned, then looked at Juju. “What do the bones say?”

My VP shook his head. “Bones ain’t talkin’, boss. Whoever’s got the shipment is keepin’ it under lock and key.”

Leaning back in my chair, I took a deep breath and let it out. “This ain’t good. That shipment needs to ship out in three days.”

“Could narrow it down if you knew where it originated from and where it was going,” Enigma muttered to no one in particular.

Looking at the man, I asked, “How so?”

Taking a seat, Enigma explained, “I’m gonna assume whatever the shipment is, it’s hot, which means wherever it originated from and where it’s going is a clue. With that, you can narrow down your suspect list.”

“Who are you and what have you done with my brother?” Scribe exclaimed, gaping at the man.

“Shug’s got me watching Mafia Wives of Little Italy. Gotta tell ya, brother, those women scare the crap outta me. They are fucking devious. Of course, if you just tell us who the shipment belongs to, then maybe Scribe and I can help.”

Worm stopped typing and slowly shook his head.

“Can’t do that,” I muttered, looking around at my brothers, who all sat stone-faced and unmoving.

“Then your best bet is to look into where it came from and where it’s going.”

I looked at the men around the room, each one a piece of the puzzle that made up the Bourbon Kings MC.

To outsiders, we might seem like a ragtag crew of whiskey-soaked rebels, but each of these men had a mind sharper than a straight razor.

“Alright,” I said, rubbing my temples. “If we’re goin’ by origin and destination, then we need every set of eyes on this.

Worm, dig into the logistics and find me a manifest of outgoing shipments from our last known supplier.

Juju, I want you to work your magic—get into the heads of our competitors and figure out who’s desperate enough to intercept this. ”

Enigma leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he exchanged a glance with Juju. “You know, Gator, if this shipment’s hot, it ain’t just desperate competitors you should be worried about. Could be the Feds sniffing around, or worse, someone closer to home.”

There was a heavy silence in the room, the kind that settled when unspoken truths hovered just out of reach.

Worm kept typing, the clack of his keyboard the only sound filling the space.

Juju broke the tension with a low chuckle.

“If it’s someone close, guess we’ll find out soon enough.

My bet’s still on the competition, though. Desperation makes men stupid.”

Thore nodded in agreement. “True, but whoever it is, they’re playin’ a dangerous game. Messin’ with the Bourbon Kings ain’t exactly a career move that ends well.”

I smirked, leaning forward in my chair, my elbows braced on my knees. “Good. Let’s make sure they remember why.” My gaze locked onto Worm. “I want updates every hour. If there’s even a whisper of interference, I want to know about it.”

Worm didn’t look up, but his reply was steady. “You’ll have it.”

Juju stood, stretching as he grabbed his jacket. “Guess I’ve got some heads to get into. Don’t wait up for me, boys.”

As he moved to the door, Donut called out, “Just don’ forget—those heads you’re gettin’ in to better still be attached by the time you’re done.”

Laughter rippled through the room, but it was short-lived. Each of my brothers knew the stakes, knew that this wasn’t just about a shipment. It was about keeping the name Bourbon Kings MC untouchable. And failure? That wasn’t an option.