“Mike.”
Pushing the distressed wooden door open, my boots thud against the tiled floor. The lights are low, and music is blaring. Some of the usual hang-arounds are seated around the bar, random bitches sitting on their laps. The bar is the first thing you see when you walk in, set up at the opposite end of the entry. Wooden barstools take up the front of it, with two cute bitches we picked up working behind the bar. One is a blonde little thing we call Tinker because she looks like Tinker Bell. The other is a punk-looking chick with short black hair and piercings all over her face; we call her Emo. Tinker started hanging around here a couple months ago then just kind of migrated into working here. But Emo was a prostitute the boys constantly had here. One night, she was sitting at the bar eating food from the kitchen, and I told her to get her ass behind the bar and pull her weight. She’s been doing so ever since.
Walking further into the club, there’s a pool table to the left and some red leather couches to the right. Behind the couches is a hallway for the boys when they have company. I have a room in the back for when I’m with chicks, or too damn drunk to ride home. Both happen a lot.
This is a place where men can be men, a refuge from old ladies and the nagging burden of life itself.
Rules are simple.
Don’t touch another man’s property. That goes for women, guns, drugs, and bikes.
No killing another biker, unless voted by the club. Regardless if he’s in our chapter or not.
Don’t talk about shit you think you saw.
No talking to law enforcement of any kind. You get pulled over, you get the fuck out of there with as little said as possible.
No ratting.
“Zeek, you want a beer, baby?” Tinker asks, popping the top off one before I answer.
Sliding onto a stool, I wink at her, taking the beer. “Thanks, babe.”
My eyes sweep along my boys who followed me in. Trapped cigarette smoke hangs above in a thick fog, as everyone starts to light up.
“You all right, Prez?” Machete asks, sitting on the stool next to me. Machete is a member I found a few years back. I was in a hardware store looking for some shit to fix a door that I tore off in a fit of rage, when I came across his lumberjack ass pacing back and forth in front of the machetes. After watching him go back and forth for the seventh time, I finally asked him what the fuck he was doing. He wasted no time in telling me he was about to hack up a lawyer who had been having an affair with his high school sweetheart.
The man’s heart was broken.
I’ve never been in love. Got close one time, and that loss alone hurt like a bitch. So I invited him back to the club for some drinks and easy *. I also made him help me with the door I broke, and he’s been one to count on ever since.
He’s gotten in some shit from time to time, ‘cause he gets way too rough with the bitches. The more they scream, the more he likes it. To be honest, I think he just fucks his heartache out on random women.
“How’s that cell phone working for you?” Mac asks, jutting his chin out. Mac is our techie, and after he saw my phone from the Stone Age last week, I thought he was going to have a stroke. He made me get a new one.
He doesn’t look like the typical geek with his Hollywood-looking hair. It’s short on the sides, with just a little bit more length on the top. Dirty blond, and gelled like hell. He stands out in this place with his uppity-looking ass. But that’s where people underestimate him. He looks like the boy who is here to trim your hedges, or clean your pool. Next thing you know, he’s offing whoever screwed us over, then making a sandwich in their kitchen.
I know ‘cause he made me one, too.
“Dunno, haven’t really messed with it.” I shrug.
Shaking his head, he walks away, with some little brunette hanging off his side. She has on a skimpy teal dress and purple heels, tattoos up her legs and arms. Typical girl for the club. The girls who roll through here are one of two options. One, they are slut candy. Short clothes, hair perfect, tits perfect, and they think their shit don’t stink. They also have a * that could fit a soda can with ease; I’ve seen it done.
Then there’s option two, bad-ass tarts. They’re tattooed, pierced, and occasionally wearing leather of some sort. They are a pain in the ass, and mattress hop frequently.