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 stopped just inside the doorway and glanced around.
Fuck.
It wasn’t much better.
To the left of the entrance was the gas station’s former office—or cash register area, whatever it had been—but the door was shut, making him curious as to what was behind it.
To the right of where he stood was an open area that was formerly two large garage bays. All the equipment for working on vehicles had been removed. Most likely years ago. What remained were grease-stained concrete floors.
A lone pool table sat in the center of that floor space along with a couple of old ‘80s-style couches and a few old recliners that had seen their better days. A folding table with folding chairs sat in one corner. Two refrigerators and a long counter with a deep sink lined the far wall.
From what he could see, that was the extent of the “perks” of being a member of the Uniontown chapter. The Demons’ church was pretty damn basic and nothing like the BAMC’s clubhouse. But then, he and his brothers had all done an excessive amount of work on their church in Rockvale to get it to where it was today.
Glancing around, he saw a couple of familiar faces from the meeting last night in Moundsville, but he couldn’t put names to faces. Or road names, more like it.
Whatever they’d been doing before he stepped inside had come to a complete halt and all eyes were turned toward him. Not hostile, but curious or wary. Most likely because he wasn’t wearing his prospect cut yet. Crew couldn’t get it done that rapidly, but hopefully he’d have it for Decker tomorrow. He was paying extra for the tailor to put a rush on it.
A Demon broke away from a group standing around drinking beer and passing a bowl to head in his direction.
Showtime.
Decker’s eyes scanned the face first, then dropped to the biker’s name patch. Stitch.
That name sounded familiar but he couldn’t quite place it. It could be he met him last night but a lot of Demons attended the meeting and he wasn’t afraid to admit that they all began to blend together. It was like they were all created with the same cookie cutter. White men wearing black leather vests, worn jeans and beards. Unlike the BAMC, zero diversity existed within this club. The exact reason Crew had a hard time finding someone to go undercover as a prospect.
He’d check with the task force leader later, or even Fletch, to see if either knew anything about Stitch. Most likely they had a file on him already.
With an unreadable expression, the biker stopped in front of him. “Hatchet, right?”
“Was told that’s who I am.” He had no idea why Screw, the club’s VP, had given him that road name, but he had no complaints. Most prospects were stuck with the lamest nickname the club’s officers could come up with, like Ball Sac.
“Ain’t a bad name.”
Decker shrugged. “Ain’t complainin’.”
“Yeah, the fuckin’ complaint department’s in that direction.”
Decker glanced over his shoulder to see where Stitch was pointing. At the exit.
“Nobody here’s gonna give a fuck if you got one,” the Demon finished.
“Hear that.”
“Good. Do what you’re told and that’s all.”
“Hear that, too.”
Stitch wasn’t done. “Since your sponsor ain’t one of the members here, was told to show you around and go over some rules.”
Rules. Great. Didn’t having rules negate the title of “outlaw?”
“First lesson: don’t call patched members ‘brother.’ You ain’t our fuckin’ brother ’til you got a full set on your back. You don’t get that ’til you run the gauntlet. Once you survive and earn those patches, then you’re equal. ’Til then, you ain’t shit. Remember that.”
“Gauntlet?” Did they have some sort of physical fitness test like he had to pass in the police academy to graduate? He smothered his snort at the vision of these beer-bellied bikers running an obstacle course.
The only running they were doing was from the law.
“Time you spend as a prospect,” Stitch answered. “You either fuckin’ make it or you don’t.”
“Got it.”
“Second rule… Shoulda made this the first one. Club biz ain’t nobody else’s fuckin’ biz. Don’t run your fuckin’ mouth ‘bout nothin’. Think of the DDMC as Vegas. What happens in this club stays in this club. It don’t, you ain’t gonna like what happens.”
“Got it.”
Were they the only two rules? Couldn’t be.
Decker noticed over Stitch’s shoulder that the rest of the Demons had gone back to doing whatever they’d been doing before his arrival. “Seems to be more prospects here than members.”
“Chapter’s new.”
“Who’s in charge?” He already knew that answer, but he had to act like he didn’t know shit.
“Wolf. He’s gonna go over some shit with you, too.”
“He here?”
“Not yet. C’mon. Gonna show you the fuck around.”
Decker followed the thirty-something biker around the interior of the gas station and met everyone in attendance tonight. Even with only eight Demons present—he had no clue just how big the Uniontown chapter was—there was no way he’d remember them all.