Their size doesn’t intimidate me. Neither does the 1% patch they wear. Hell, I wear the same fucking one. Where we are grouped, talking and bullshitting like they don’t exist, they stand silent. That is a show of weakness to me. If they don’t have shit to prove, then they shouldn’t act like they do. They look like they’re in a pissing contest over a piece of cheap * rather than a mutual show of respect between two MCs.
When Shady sends Rookie in to get some beers, shit begins to happen. When a man wears Sinner’s Creed colors, other MCs better show him some respect. It doesn’t matter if the word Prospect is on his patch or not. He may not be a patch holder, but he is sponsored by one. And Rookie’s sponsor was Shady. In all my years, I have only seen Shady lose his shit twice, and both times it was over someone disrespecting our patch.
When the men at the bar refuse to let Rookie pass, I know my count for Shady’s loss of control is about to change. I watch Rookie as he stands his ground. I know he is doing everything in his power to persuade the men that this isn’t what they want. He never looks over his shoulder at us for help because he doesn’t have to. He can fight his own battles—another reason he would make a good brother. But he won’t have to fight it alone for long. By the signature neck roll Shady performs when he’s ready to bust some heads, I know things are fixing to get bad.
I am two steps behind him when he makes his move toward the door. The rest of the club stays put when I shoot them a look. We have this. I don’t want a bar brawl right now, and Death Mob would be stupid to start one.
When we reach the porch where they are standing, Shady puts his hand on Rookie’s shoulder, pushing him back a step. When he is nose to nose with the sergeant at arms, he gives him that goofy grin that I fucking hate. Or love. Or hate. Again, Shady has the ability to put me in a pissy mood without even knowing it. Now I want them to initiate a fight so I can hit something.
Shady’s motives are simple. Instead of going to the president, he goes to the SA. It saves time. If he had confronted the president, he would have had to deal with the SA anyway because that’s an SA’s job: protect the president.
“What the fuck’s the problem?” Shady asks, his voice sickeningly sweet. I keep my eyes on the VP, warning him to keep his mouth shut.
“This bar is for patch holders only. Y’all can come in, but ya Prospect needs to stay outside. Maybe pick up some cigarette butts or something.” The president takes that moment to thump a cigarette into the gravel. Shady laughs, and I know better, but it almost sounds like he finds the SA’s remark humorous.
“Yeah, we gotta keep them Prospects on their toes,” Shady mumbles, and then I watch his expression change out of the corner of my eye. His lips curl into a snarl and his eyebrows draw together. This hundred-and-ninety-pound man just transformed into kill mode. He glares into the eyes of the SA and I can see the fear forming in the eyes of the VP I’m staring at.
“The thing is, that’s my Prospect. Those colors he wears belong to Sinner’s Creed. He goes where I tell him to go. This is my fucking town, my fucking bar, and my fucking parking lot your leader is throwing shit in.”
My eyes go to the president, who is fighting an internal battle. Does he look like a * or does he die? He just needs to look like a *.
Shady spits over his shoulder and sniffs several times. This is his way of trying to calm down and still look intimidating. “Now, two things are gonna happen next. One, you’re gonna move the fuck outta the way so my guy can get us some beers. Two, one of you is gonna pick up that fucking cigarette butt. And both of those things are gonna happen in the next thirty seconds.”
I challenge the VP with my eyes, knowing he is about to break if someone else don’t. I see movement to my right and watch a man walking toward us out of my peripheral. He is several yards away, and he is taking his time getting here.
“Or?” the SA asks. What a fucking idiot. Shady’s smile is back, and when he looks at me, he is fucking beaming—not a hint of worry or hostility in his face.
“Or my man Dirk here is gonna demonstrate how he got his name.” The SA looks at me, but I ignore him. Shady is full of shit and I make a mental note to slap the fuck outta him when this is over. I had my name long before I even knew it was a knife. Payback would be hell.
“The infamous Dirk,” the man approaching says, and I’m sure it’s a distraction, so I don’t look away. “I don’t think we have a problem here. Let the young man through.”
The VP steps back and I finally get the chance to see who this peacekeeper is and what rank he has to override the president. An older man with a long white beard and a limp stops a few feet from me.