Death Mob is the second-largest 1 percent MC in the states. Sinner’s Creed is the first. They have their territory that mostly covers the northeast part of the U.S., where we cover the majority of the south and the southwest. Including Texas.
“I’ve done some diggin’,” Shady starts, and from the way he says it, I know what he found isn’t gonna be something I like. “They’re handing out patches like they’re fucking candy. They’re taking MCs and turning them into one-percenters overnight. My best guess is they’re preparing for a war. Roach don’t want ’em in Houston ’cause of the business we got with the border, he don’t want to start a war, but my guess is they do.” My jaw clenches at the news. I can feel the blood moving through my veins as time stands still. Motherfuckers like me and Shady earned our shit. It wasn’t given to us.
Being a one-percenter is about more than numbers. Quality over quantity and all that shit. We hung around for five years, prospected for one, and some probated for two. It took a lot to earn the trust that was given and the respect that was needed. I’d give my life for a brother I’ve never met because I know he’s had to prove himself. And he’d give his life for me—no questions asked.
Our patch united us because we all sacrificed something to get it. Our pride, our freedom, and our lives. Even though one-percenters were their own government, we all had to answer to someone. And that someone was Dorian, the infamous don for the Underground Mafia. We actually worked for Dorian, as did Death Mob. While we handled the majority of the transfer and did all the illegal dirty work, it was Dorian who handled the distribution—which was considered to be the most important and riskiest part of the illegal operations. Therefore, they got the biggest cut and they called the shots.
Sinner’s Creed and the Underground had been in business together for a long time. History had proven our loyalty to them, but at the end of the day it was all about business. And engaging in a war with Death Mob was bad business. Dorian had the power to pull the strings on all of us. If Sinner’s Creed lost their position with the Underground, then the club would fold.
“We can’t do shit about how they run things. All we can do is keep an eye on them and let them know where we stand. I’m here for the paperwork; you’re here for the dirty work.” Shady sticks out his lower lip. “You get to have all the fun.”
“You sound like a fag.” He laughs at my response. Nothing against men who like men, but I can’t stand a man that acts all prissy-fied. Shady couldn’t be more gay in this moment if he wore a dress and lipstick. Considering he is still laughing, I know he did it on purpose. Glad he can prove my theory. The best way to go from * to Nomad in less than five minutes was to be in an enclosed space with Shady. I guess that’s why I love him. Fuck.
14
THE CLUBHOUSE IN Houston doubles as a honky-tonk that is open to the public on Friday and Saturday nights. Today, it’s only filled with patches, and they all belong to Sinner’s Creed. A black Harley Street Glide is parked at the door and I know it’s there for me. A Prospect that goes by the name of Rookie is wiping the saddlebags when I walk up.
I’ve met Rookie a few times, and I know by the determination on his face and the fearless look in his eyes that he is gonna be a good brother. I’m pretty intimidating, and if a man can look at me and not show fear, he has my respect. If I don’t scare him, nothing will.
It’s hard to prospect without the help of narcotics. It makes for a long year of minimal sleep and food, and a fuck of a lot of tongue biting. By the calmness in his demeanor, the exhaustion in his face, and the deep circles under his eyes, I can tell that Rookie is proving himself to this club and he’s doing it without drugs. That earns him more than respect from me.
“Rookie.” I give him my salute and he nods in return, knowing better than to offer his hand.
“Dirk.” He doesn’t bow before me or throw himself at my feet, but to him I’m worthy of it. Because I’m the man to impress. “Can I get you a beer?”
“Yeah. Bring two.” He disappears inside and I prop up against the building and light a smoke. My phone buzzes in my pocket and I know it’s Saylor.
Delay. They say they are working on the engine. My luck. Because I’m a nervous wreck and I miss you, I’m getting drunk.
I smirk at the screen before realizing that Saylor is getting drunk and I’m not there to warn off any men who think they can fuck with what’s mine.
Anybody fucking with you?
She answers almost immediately.
No, Mr. Overprotective. No one is fucking with me. I miss you.
Because she makes me soft, and Shady is nowhere in sight, I ignore her comment and end the conversation.
Text me when you land.
I shove the phone back in my pocket, but it vibrates again.
“Fuck,” I mutter, pulling it back out and thinking that maybe giving Saylor a phone wasn’t such a good idea. Especially since she’s drinking.