Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 121728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
He didn’t trust this crew when he was sober, forget if he was buzzing.
When no one was paying attention, he’d stealthily pour some into one of the floor drains in the garage bays. He hoped to fuck the Demons’ Uniontown church didn’t have security cameras so he wasn’t caught red-handed. If it did, he couldn’t find any.
The task force needed to install some at this location the same way they did at The Peach Pit.
“You’re up, Hatch,” Popeye called out, pulling him from his thoughts.
Hatch. He actually didn’t hate that shortened version of his prospect name.
He grabbed the cue stick leaning against the wall and set his beer on the edge of the pool table before circling it and eyeing up potential shots. Once he saw a sure thing, he took the shot and dropped the ball cleanly into the side pocket.
“No risk, no reward,” the prospect muttered.
Decker squared his shoulders. “What the fuck you talkin’ ‘bout? Did the ball not go into the fuckin’ pocket?”
“Took the easiest shot,” Popeye grumbled.
Decker tapped a finger against his temple. “Play smarter, not harder. Ain’t tryin’ to impress you, tryin’ to take your scratch.” He moved to the other side of the table and lined up another easy shot, sending the six ball into the corner pocket. He blew on the tip of his pool stick the same way actors used to blow on a smoking gun in old westerns. “Gonna bitch ‘bout that shot, too?”
Popeye didn’t answer. He only stood with his arms crossed and a scowl marring his ugly mug.
“You’re just fuckin’ pissed I’m about to take your last Benjamin.”
“Didn’t bet a fuckin’ Benjamin!” Popeye exclaimed, bugging out his eyes.
Decker just learned how the prospect earned the road name Popeye.
“We didn’t? Damn. Shoulda.” Decker couldn’t get enough of fucking with the Demons. “Could use some extra scratch in my pocket.”
“You ain’t the only one. Gettin’ fuckin’ paid shit to work at the strip club.”
“Then get a job elsewhere,” Decker suggested.
“Don’t got a choice.”
“Always got a choice.”
“We do what they say if we want our patches.”
Decker shrugged. “Then stop your fuckin’ bitchin’.”
Just as he was done cleaning up the table and stuffing Popeye’s wrinkled ten into his wallet, he heard himself being paged. “Yo, Hatchet.”
Shit.
Even though he’d only been a prospect for the Demons about a week and didn’t know all the Uniontown members well yet, he did recognize that voice.
Wolf. The man in charge of the “Wolf Den,” the nickname they were calling their Uniontown church.
It had to be a pattern since they called their party house in West Virginia the Viper’s Den and the clubhouse for the New Philadelphia chapter the Bear’s Den, since from what Decker heard, a patched member named Bear was in charge of the Ohio Demons.
None of it was unique, and all of it fairly predictable.
The man jerking his chin up at Decker and ordering, “Get over here,” was not only the head Demon in charge of the Uniontown chapter, he was also in charge of the local crew selling meth. Fletch and Wilder dealt with him on a regular basis.
Actually, it was only Fletch dealing with Wolf. From what Wilder said, the biker hardly gave her the time of day since she was a woman. Women had no power, and rarely got any respect, when it came to most one-percenter motorcycle clubs.
Why any woman would want that, he had no clue. He’d never want Val to be in any kind of situation or relationship where she was considered a lesser being.
Monty might be the only woman in the BAMC, but at least she was an equal. No one disrespected his brothers’ significant others, either. Even Cross’s biker husband, Nash.
Decker told Popeye, “Better luck next time,” then tossed the cue stick onto the beat-up pool table. Wearing a smirk, he spun on his heels and headed over to where Wolf sprawled on a couch at the other end of the common area with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and a woman on her knees between his legs.
Nothing like having a little convo while getting head.
He wouldn’t have been surprised if Wolf had an ashtray balanced on the woman’s noggin. But then, they didn’t bother to use ashtrays. They let their ashes drop wherever, then tossed the butts on the floor.
Prospects were the ones sweeping up that mess. Just like all the empty beer bottles and other trash that was tossed wherever.
“What’s up?”
“A coupla things…”
Wolf pulled the cigarette from between his lips, spit a hocker onto the floor, splashing the woman, and then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
What a fucking gem.
“First, a warnin’… Don’t fuckin’ touch a brother’s ol’ lady and ’til you earn your full set of patches, you don’t touch any of our sweet butts. That’s the fastest way to get your ass eighty-sixed. Don’t give a fuck about any bitches hangin’ ‘round here to get fucked or high. Have at ‘em.” He grabbed a fistful of the woman’s hair and jerked her head up. “Take a good look at this one. Name’s Penny. She’s a sweet butt and off limits to you. Got it?”