Klutch
“Is this for real?” I glance over at Yukon who’s being uncharacteristically quiet and see the big bad enforcer’s mouth is hanging open.
I look back at the massive red brick building we’re moving into today and… Yeah. Mouth hanging wide open is an appropriate response because seriously. This place is not at all what I was expecting. “It’s fucking huge.”
“That’s what she said,” Yukon deadpans, making Beast snort.
Turning my head in their direction, I chuckle. “I walked right into that one.”
Yukon nods, eyes still trained on the clubhouse. “Right into it.”
“Yep,” Beast agrees.
Assholes .
Shaking my head, I look back to the building, then across the parking lot. This place really is amazing.
Not only is this massive warehouse going to be our new home but it also sits on a few acres of land that span out behind the building. There’s room to grow which isn’t something we’re used to.
The Saints were not fucking around when they said they take care of their family. Which is what we are now since we patched in.
Beast whistles low. “I can’t believe they bought this place for us.”
“Yeah, brother. Me either,” I admit, unable to keep the awe from my voice.
“Check that out.” I motion to the brand new hand painted sign that reads Bastard Saints MC hanging above the entrance. The logo of a skull wearing a blood-red crown with crossbones behind it sits proudly in the center.
Fuck yeah.
The Bastard Saints MC. A mix of pride and sadness fill my chest. Pride for how far we’ve come in such a short time and sadness at the family we lost when we walked away from the Renegade Bastards.
Pee Wee’s massive Ford dually coming through the iron gates pulls me from my thoughts. I turn and watch the VP’s reaction as he cuts the engine.
Not that he hasn’t already seen the property. He’s been here several times in the last couple of weeks working things out with the Saints, but I don’t think he’s seen the sign yet since he never mentioned how badass it was.
His door swings open and he hauls himself out of the driver’s seat. With a thud his heavy boots hit the pavement. The big man’s road name might be Pee Wee but at six feet four and two hundred and sixty pounds, he’s a goddamn monster.
“Fuck yeah!” He slams the truck door shut behind him. “That motherfucker is mint.”
Denali climbs off his Harley and nods. “The Saints really hooked it up.”
“Fuck yeah they did,” Pee Wee shoots back, eyes darting back and forth between the Prez and our new home.
Coming up behind me, my father claps me on the shoulder. “What do you think, mijo?”
What do I think? I spin around, taking in the sprawling property surrounded by the security fence topped with razor wire. “I think it’s nicer than anything we’ve ever had before. I think the Saints didn’t fuck around.”
“No,” he agrees, his eyes twinkling with satisfaction. “They did not.”
Denali nods toward the entrance. “Shall we?”
A chorus of ‘hell yeah’ is his answer.
Like kids ready to see what Santa brought us on Christmas morning, we follow behind him.
Denali steps in front of a high tech keypad and punches in a code. The lock disengages with a solid click. When he pushes the door open, my jaw nearly hits the floor.
“Holy fucking shit.” Beast shoves past me.
Holy fucking shit, indeed.
The inside is nothing like the aged exterior suggests.
Not even close. The wide open common room stretched out before us has been completely renovated.
The concrete floors have been stained in a deep red color, and the walls have that modern urban look thanks to the exposed brick walls.
There are industrial-style lights hanging from the high ceiling that cast a warm glow over everything.
Everywhere I look something shiny catches my attention.
The lights, stainless steel tables and stools, and other shiny fixtures and accessories
“This is fucking crazy, right?” I can’t wipe the perma-grin off my face as I glance over at Pee Wee to gauge his reaction.
“Bro…” He turns towards the massive oak bar that dominates the back wall, mouth hanging open. The dark wood is polished to perfection.
“I’m calling dibs on this spot.” Yukon smirks as he pulls out the black leather stool that sits at the corner of the bar top.
“They even sprung for the good stuff,” Undertaker says, nodding to the top-shelf liquor on full display behind the bar.
And sitting front and center on the bar top is a bottle of Macallan 25 with a big red bow tied around the neck.
Denali walks over and picks up the small white card that’s propped against it. “Welcome to the family,” he reads aloud. “Things only get better from here.”
I tuck my fingers into my mouth and whistle loudly as my brothers cheer. From the look of things so far, they sure as fuck are going to be a lot better than what we walked away from.
Beast slaps me on the back. “We fucking made it,” he says, his usual stoic expression cracking into a rare grin.
I can’t help but smile back. “Yeah, we have.”
Moving deeper into the space, I take inventory of everything.
Tables and chairs are scattered strategically throughout the room, giving plenty of room to kick back and have a beer.
Two brand new pool tables sit under hanging lamps in the corner, their green felt pristine.
The walls are decorated with Harley-Davidson memorabilia, vintage signs, and framed pictures from some of the other Saints chapters.
“This is some high-end shit,” Krypto comments, running his hand over one of the leather sofas positioned near the pool tables.
I round the corner of the bar, curious to see what else has been brought in for our enjoyment.
Through a wide doorway, I discover another open area—a massive lounge with several flat-screen TVs mounted on the walls.
Plush leather couches and recliners face the screens, creating the perfect setup for fight nights and football.
“Check this out,” I call over my shoulder.
Yukon appears beside me, his eyes widening at the sight. “Damn. No more fighting over Pee Wee’s shitty recliner.”
“Or his shitty TV,” I add with a laugh.
A swinging door at the back of the room catches my attention. I push through it with Yukon on my heels and find myself standing in what can only be described as a chef’s dream kitchen.
“Holy fuck,” I mutter, taking in the stainless steel appliances, the massive island in the center, and the rows of cabinets that line the walls. “This is nice shit, yeah?”
Yukon moves past me like a man obsessed, his fingers trailing over the industrial-grade stove with something close to reverence. “Eight burners, a flat top grill, and a double oven,” he says, his voice hushed. “Do you know what I could do with this?”
I laugh, moving toward the refrigerator. “Let’s see if they stocked this too.”
I pull open the door and whistle. “Well, we won’t starve.” The shelves are packed with meats, cheeses, vegetables, and several cases of beer.
Yukon’s eyes light up like it’s Christmas morning. “No, brother. We ain’t going to starve.”
“I’ll take that to mean you’re cooking tonight,” I reply, shutting the fridge.
“Fuck yeah, I am.” He smiles.
I motion behind me. “I’m gonna check out the rest of the place.”
He waves me off, already consumed by something else. Yukon is a master in the kitchen.
Leaving him to check it all out, I head back through the TV room and main room to the staircase nestled between a jukebox and what appears to be bathrooms. The wooden steps creak under my weight as I make my way up to the second floor.
At the top, I find a long hallway with doors on either side. Ten in total, all pushed open.
Curiosity pulls me toward the nearest one.
I step through the doorway and find myself in a fully furnished suite.
The living area is compact but comfortable, with a TV mounted on the wall, a small couch, and a recliner.
I grab the clicker off the coffee table and switch on the television as I walk over to another open door.
Inside is a bedroom with a queen-sized bed already made up with fresh linens, a dresser, and a nightstand.
“Shit,” I mutter, running my hand over the bed. “Memory foam.”
I move to the next open door inside the suite and find a full bathroom.
“Damn. This place is fit for a fucking king.” My eyes sweep across the tiled floor and large walk-in shower.
We really seem to have hit the lottery. I mean, the bathroom is stocked with towels and all the basic toiletries.
We’re going to be able to move right in.
Well, at least those who want to live here, which I do.
I love my Ma and Pop, but I’m not sure I’ll survive another night of having to listen to them going at it. Enough is enough.
Spinning around, I head back into the living area. “Shit. There’s more,” I murmur to myself as I spot the small kitchenette in the corner. The L-shaped counter holds a microwave, sink, and beside it is a mini-fridge.
“Dibs on this one,” I call out, though there’s no one around to hear me.
I make my way back to the hallway and continue my exploration, finding that all the rooms on the second floor follow the same layout. Private living spaces for the members who need them. The Saints have really thought of everything.
My chest tightens with gratitude. After months of uncertainty and wondering if we’d made the right call by walking away from the RBMC, this feels like validation. We’ve done the right thing, and now we’re being rewarded for it.