Page 7 of Property of Thrasher (Kings of Anarchy MC: South Carolina #1)

THRASHER

T he room was filled as was my pride. The gavel felt heavy in my hand, not because of the weight, but the authority behind it.

I patched in to the Kings of Anarchy MC after my medical retirement from the Army eleven years ago.

I had twelve years, just shy of thirteen in service, with a plan for the full twenty.

Life doesn’t go according to plans , it was a lesson I learned that day for sure.

On deployment, we were ambushed. In the firefight, my head gear came off, without earplugs in, my hearing was damaged beyond anything medical intervention could fix.

Bombs going off around me while shots were being fired in all directions didn’t leave me very focused on safety gear versus staying the fuck alive.

I tried hearing aids, even did an implant.

I couldn’t maintain the minimum hearing requirements to remain in active duty.

It killed me to lose that part of who I was.

Wandering soul was the only way to describe how I felt after learning I couldn’t finish out as planned.

Enlisting at eighteen, fresh out of high school, I was a boy. A child. The Army made me a man. One with integrity. It gave me the discipline and patience I lacked before signing up.

My girlfriend came to my boot camp graduation holding a pair of baby shoes and sporting a curve to her belly she didn’t have when I left.

Stunned was the only word that came to mind.

The kid who wanted the freedom to roam couldn’t imagine being tied down.

But the Army afforded me a way to provide for them and still give me the opportunities outside of the small town in South Carolina I came from.

It was a perfect match, me and the Army that was.

As for my girlfriend, that was doomed from the start.

We never married. Providing benefits for my daughter and paying for her mother to be able to live at home comfortably and not work, that was easy.

Keeping my dick in my pants … that simply didn’t happen.

This left things complicated between us to put it mildly.

The greatest gift shared between us was Elaina. At twenty-three, she has her own life, but doesn’t hesitate to call and check in with her Pops on the regular. As for her mother, our lives didn’t align to see each other often, but when it happened we were good.

It wasn’t always like that, especially early in our breakup. Maturity came with age. In time, we found a way to co-parent and be friends. When I finally grew up enough to be a man Elaina’s mother could trust, it was too late. Another one filled that role.

At first it bothered me to think of my daughter calling another man daddy.

After meeting him, though, and the way he never once excluded me from anything, I came to terms with he was actually the better man to fill my boots.

There were times I wished I could go back and do things different for Elaina’s sake. Hindsight and all that business.

I had lost the girl, and my career. It was a hard spot to be in for a man like me.

Until it wasn’t.

I learned I could have brotherhood without the uniforms, duty stations, and boots. I learned I had a life without hearing the birds chirp like before. Losing my hearing didn’t have to define me. I learned I had a place without the Army.

While I didn’t hear like I used to I could still lead. That was the gift the Kings gave me.

My Army mentor retired before the deployment that robbed me.

He had found his place with the Kings of Anarchy MC down in Alabama.

When I got out, he was my first phone call.

He gave me a place to stay and rebuild my life.

Being there in his world, I learned about club life.

I learned what brotherhood meant when combat wasn’t on the forefront.

The Kings gave me a freedom I never had in the service. I did my time, earned my rockers.

When the need to move back to Florence, South Carolina arose eight years ago, I took the opportunity to have a meet with the National Chapter in California.

Big Daddy was hesitant to give me my own charter being new and not having held an officer position down in Bama.

The Alabama club took my back, though, and my officers gave Big Daddy their word to support me.

If I didn’t have to be here for my daughter, I would have stayed in Bama, but life was life.

I didn’t want to give up the brotherhood, but my daughter was in a situation where she needed me like never before.

Her step-dad died from pancreatic cancer.

It happened rapidly, he was diagnosed and poof a month later he was gone.

Elaina’s mom was overcome by grief. My daughter and her mother were hurting.

Elaina needed embracing and support from everyone in her life.

I wouldn’t let her down. All in all, it worked out and I built this club from the ground up.

Being here, at the head of this table, meant everything to me.

Order.

Discipline.

Leadership.

Loyalty.

Brotherhood.

Everything the Army gave me along with so much more.

I banged the gavel down on the long oak table just once. The solid thud resounding through the room silencing the little bit of chatter remaining.

“Church is called to order,” I began.

All of the patched members were in attendance, their expressions relaxed but aware. With DK to my right as my VP, and Bender to my left as secretary, we studied the room. A simple glance around to make sure everyone was indeed accounted for.

Pinky took his spot back at the far end of the table, leaned back with a cocky smirk, fresh out of lock up like he never missed a moment.

Sweeper scratched at his beard, eyes scanning every corner like he was calculating two moves ahead of the rest of us.

The old timer came here for retirement but missed having shit to do, his words not mine.

He found his place with us and I was grateful for his wisdom.

Tiny sat three seats down to my right, arms crossed over his mammoth chest, waiting for his turn to speak. The man had the patience of a predator. He never made a single move until it was the exact time to strike.

I gave a nod to all the men and leaned forward. “Old business,” I introduced looking to Bender for him to take over.

“Gun deal in Savannah went off without a hitch,” he began while giving Crank, our club’s unofficial supply and logistics manager, a nod. “Crank turned in the funds in full,” Bender explained. “Revenue is with K-9 being washed and each member will see his share at the end of the month.”

Crank cleared his throat, “ride went down easy, transfer was clean. Buyer was on time, payment in full with a ten percent down for his next order. Crates were moved in six minutes, twelve seconds with no tails, no heat, and no second thoughts.”

I raised an eyebrow, “any word from Locke? He wanted those guns, but he had his cash together too late. Can we strike a deal for him now?” I turned back to Crank, “can we get more in from Chux in Alabama to cover an order for Locke’s crew?”

Crank nodded. “Supply chain is clear again. Last word came in this morning from Chux direct, port is open.”

Chux is the current Alabama Kings President. They run the largest port in the gulf. It was the perfect spot to import and export guns, drugs, or whatever we needed.

“Locke sent word, he’s good for it. Ready when we are.” This came from K-9, our club treasurer.

“Good,” I replied tapping a finger on the wooden table. “Locke’s been a man of his word. Long as he plays straight, we’ll keep feeding him whatever he needs.”

“Easiest run we’ve had in a while,” Hacksaw chimed in. “I almost felt bored.”

We all chuckled. I had to admit it was nice for something to go smoothly.

After what went down last year, we lost a brother from a rival club targeting a shipment, clipped his bike, spun him out and ran over him. It was traumatic and still haunted most of us.

“Any updates on that?” I asked scanning the room.

No one spoke.

Which meant no one was prying into what happened to the clubhouse we burned to the ground with five of their officers inside it. Nothing gave back the freedom they took from Hex when he died, but retribution was ours to have and hold. And we did.

Not an eye digging in …

Good.

We covered our asses, it would look like their own people did it anyway.

“Alright,” I continued, “current business. Tiny, got some good news?”

He sat forward splaying a thick hand on the table. “Yeah, so the hotel.”

Grunts followed around the room. Everyone knew which hotel he was talking about. While each man was free to have a regular job, own a business, we also had club owned business for filtering cash. The Velvet Inn, a rundown motel with a bad reputation, was one of them.

When Leo Baker defaulted on his protection payments, then got behind to a loan shark because the man had a serious gambling problem, he signed over the deed to his business.

We paid his debt to the loan shark as part of the deal.

All for the man to be able to keep breathing naturally instead of through a tube.

He bet big, lost even bigger. We never intended to own his business.

We preferred cash. But I wasn’t going to let the fucker off the hook.

This balanced shit out as the location was prime, another business front to run things through, and could be a good long term investment.

“Got the roaches gone. Got the rats gone. Raccoons still get in the dumpster but it’s not as bad. Place is coming together. But we’re fuckin’ bleeding money and can’t keep staff for shit.”

“What’d you expect?” This came from Rage. “He barely kept it staffed. The ones who were there before see us ride up, colors flying, they think we’re fucking gang bangin’ and not the boss.”