Page 4 of Hot as Hell (Royal Bastards MC, Montreal, Canada #2)

Chapter Three

Truck sat at the bar in the clubhouse listening to Player and Joker arguing over their favorite subjects, beer, broads, and bikes.

They sounded like two old women bickering.

Shaking his head, he wondered if the duo ever tired of arguing.

A large hand slapping him on the back almost sent him off his barstool.

Taking a long pull from his beer, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat.

He glanced back at Player and Joker, who were still locked in their usual back-and-forth, neither one willing to back down.

He give ‘em another hour before they started swapping stories about their ‘glory days’. Then they’d get back to arguing about who was the better rider, who could handle the most whiskey, and which of them had the best luck with the ladies.

Truck leaned back, his massive shoulders barely fitting behind the barstool. Watching the two brothers argue was like watching two dogs fight over a bone.

“Truck, where’s your sidekick?” The Veep asked him.

Setting his beer down, Truck answered Vicious. “He’s been pulling extra shifts at the clinic helping Razor out. You know Hemlock. If he sees someone needs help, he’s in. Doesn’t matter how much he’s already got on his plate.”

Vicious leaned against the bar. His gaze drifted toward the back room, but his mind was still on Hemlock.

The kid was relentless, like a pit bull that never let go.

“Is he still working at the hospital?” Vicious asked, walking behind the bar to grab a beer.

He only had a few minutes before he headed back to talk to Teller.

“Yep, and helping me with the detail business when he’s not at the hospital or the clinic,” Truck added.

Shaking his head, Vicious couldn’t believe Hemlock hadn’t gotten burned out yet. One day he’d realize he had nothing to prove. What did he know, Vicious thought, he was still battling his own past.

“The kid’s gonna burn himself out if he’s not careful.” Truck told Vicious.

“Yeah, well, he’s gonna hit a wall eventually,” Vicious said in a low growl. He rubbed a hand over his face, his fingers brushing over the stubble he’d let grow this morning. “Can’t keep running at full speed forever. We’ve all got our limits.”

Truck knew Vicious was right, but it didn’t make it any easier to watch. Hemlock was like family and seeing him burn the candle at both ends was tough. They had all been there, chasing something, proving something—until the day it caught up with you.

Truck picked up his beer as he agreed with Vicious. He gave him a half-shrug, not disagreeing with, but not fully buying it either. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s built differently. You ever think about that? Some guys just aren’t wired to quit.”

Not many knew the kid’s back story like he and Vicious did. Hemlock’s parents had been addicts. When what passed as a father died of an overdose on the street, Hemlock was left with a mother that barely remembered she had a son.

After his mother died, Hemlock ran away from the boy’s home and lived on the streets.

That’s when Truck met the kid. Hemlock had come around the clubhouse asking for work in exchange for a meal.

Not once had the kid taken food without working for it.

Truck took another sip of his beer as he thought about Hemlock.

Vicious stared at the bottle of beer in his hand, then set it down a little harder than necessary. “Yeah, maybe. But I don’t need to tell you, it’s the ones who burn bright that burn out the quickest.”

“Maybe he’s got something to prove,” Truck said, glancing over his shoulder. His voice lowered, not wanting to tempt fate with talk of the kid’s history. Hemlock’s past wasn’t something they usually dug into, unless they had to.

“Maybe,” Vicious muttered. “But he doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone except himself.”

Truck met his gaze. “You’re not the only one trying to keep the demons at bay, Vicious.”

The words stung, but Vicious didn’t flinch. He’d heard worse from better men. Instead, he just nodded, eyes hardening. “I know. The difference is I know when to walk away.”

“Doesn’t always mean you should,” Truck countered.

Vicious let out a breath, the weight of the conversation sinking in.

He wasn’t ready to admit it, but maybe Truck had a point.

Maybe Hemlock had his reasons for pushing so hard, reasons that even the kid didn’t fully understand yet.

Vicious twisted the top of the beer bottle.

Tossing the cap in the trash, he took a long pull on the bottle and enjoyed the cold liquid as it ran down his throat.

“All I’m saying is he’s gonna burn out.”

Truck toyed with the beer bottle. “I tell him that all the time. He wants to pay off the condo.” Peeling the label off the bottle, Truck balled it up and tossed it into the trashcan behind the bar.

Before he could say anything else, Hemlock walked into the room. Noticing the look on the brother’s face, Truck couldn’t pass up the opportunity to mess with him. When Hemlock sat down, Truck leaned over and sniffed the air. “What’s that smell, Hemlock?”

“What smell?” Hemlock looked over at Truck who was leaning in sniffing him. Shoving the brother away, Hemlock reminded Truck about personal space.

Truck knew how to get under Hemlock’s skin. Chuckling at Hemlock, who was smelling himself, Truck sniffed the air again. “Bro, you smell like… cinnamon.”

Hemlock tried not to laugh as he shoved Truck again. “Screw you.” He didn’t need Truck hassling him about Charlie. It had been just another failed attempt on his part to have an uneventful evening out with a woman.

“Oh, wait. You tried that with her and almost ended up dead.” Truck busted out laughing.

Vicious held his laughter as he leaned on the bar and watched Truck give the younger brother hell. “Truck, lay off Hemlock. He had a rough night.”

“Thanks, Vicious,” Hemlock said as he sneered jokingly at Truck.

“No problem, Lips.” Vicious laughed. Nothing was off limits when it came to giving one another hell. Vicious was all about joining in on some razzing. Especially since they’d all been in on his birthday surprise from Croon and Squatch.

“Hemlock, would you mind doing me a favor?” Vicious asked.

Hemlock knew this was going to be more razzing, but asked anyway. “Sure. What can I help with?” He watched Vicious reach under the bar, then he set an eight by ten photo on the bar. It was the picture Razor had taken of him with his lips swollen.

“Can I get your autograph? This is going up on our wall of shame.” Vicious laughed, handing over a pen to Hemlock.

Knowing the deal, Hemlock grabbed the pen. The wall of shame had at least four pictures of him on it already. What was one more? “I’m trying to get an even dozen on the wall,” he said with a smirk as he scribbled his name across the photo.

“You’re almost halfway.” Hemlock heard the Veep say as he picked up the photo.

“Thanks.”

Hemlock waited for someone else to comment, but Player and Joker had moved to the pool table. And Vicious was heading towards the office holding the photo. Picking through the bowl of Chex Mix on the bar, he waited for Truck to make another off handed comment.

When Vicious disappeared out of view, Truck looked back over at Player and Joker shooting pool. “Whatcha think? Can we take those two tonight?”

Hemlock scooped up a handful of Chex Mix from the bowl. Tossing a few into his mouth, he accessed the two brothers playing pool across the room. If they played a game of nine ball, he could make ‘em cry.

He chewed thoughtfully, watching the two brothers squabble over their shots, the occasional laugh breaking out between their disagreements.

He popped a few more pieces of Chex Mix into his mouth, savoring the crunch.

Hemlock had a way of making the game look easy, of getting into people’s heads without saying a word.

Hemlock wasn’t just a killer at nine ball—he was a tactician, a strategist. The way he moved the cue ball, how he set up the shot, how he read the angles, it was all instinct for him now.

But when he was a kid, it wasn’t about finesse or skill.

It was about survival. Every ball he sank was a little victory, a small rebellion against a life that had handed him nothing but the lessons of failure.

His old man was long gone, but the echoes of his voice—laced with whiskey and regret—still followed him around.

He learned how to play pool at the tender age of eleven.

His father had given him a pool cue and taught him everything he knew about the game.

Hemlock had learned quickly how to win after seeing his old man get his ass kicked for making bets his ass couldn’t pay.

He could still see his father sitting in the corner of that smoke-filled pool hall drinking a six-pack of long necks making bets on a kid that could barely hold the stick over the rail.

But Hemlock had learned and became a killer at nine ball. “Don’t make any bets.”

Truck knew how Hemlock felt about being put on the spot and would never do that to him. “No worries.”

“As long as we’re clear, let’s go run that table.” It wasn’t that he didn’t gamble, but tonight wasn’t the night to do it. Hemlock slapped Truck on the back. Picking up the bowl of Chex Mix. Movement behind him had Hemlock looking back as Razor came in.

He was about to holler at the brother when he noticed the look on Razor’s face and decided not to. Instead, he turned around and headed to the bar to grab a beer. As he did so, he watched Razor walk towards his private room. Must have been a shitty day at the clinic.

“Come on Hemlock, Truck said you’re gonna teach us a lesson in nine ball.”

“Yeah, I’m coming,” he said off handed while staring in the direction Razor had disappeared to.

He really should talk to the brother about bringing him on full time and getting rid of the older doctor.

The man was more of a headache than helpful.

A discussion for another day, he thought as he set down the bowl.

“Okay, who’s ready for an ass kicking?” he asked, rubbing his hands together. Like taking candy from a baby.