Page 11 of Ruthless Son

The squat red-brick building was completely detached, no bushes or trees surrounded the lone clubhouse, no prying eyes except for the ones we put there personally.

CCTV littered the grounds, front and back. We had all our bases covered… just in case.

Beside the door, our brand was painted in bright white, the skull menacing with the shadows dancing across the brick.

Pulling into my space at the front, my Fat Boy parked on one side of my presidents, the vice pres on the other. Sonic had beat me here then.

He’d been busy lately, rocking up late to meetings and forgetting things—it wasn’t like him.

But he was a grown-ass man and could deal with his own shit. I trusted him to do what needed to be done, that was all that mattered… and if he really needed us, well he knew where to find us.

The door slammed against the wall as I made my entrance, my brothers lounged around the semi-circle of sofas that faced the 70-inch TV that prez had insisted on installing because apparently you can’t watch the boxing on anything less.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Sly muttered, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“I just saw you a fucking hour ago, fucker.” I dropped beside him, waving the smoke from my face. “That shit stinks.”

The little cancer stick was quickly snuffed out in the tray beside him. “I thought you’d spend a bit more time with the ice queen.” The last dregs of gray smoke whisper through his lips.

Ice queen?

“That woman is hotter than the Sahara.” I pulled a cold soda from the box at Sly’s feet, the crush of ice freezing against my fingers. “And I’ll bet as fiery as Texas in summer.” I couldn’t believe for even a second that a woman who looked at me with such heat in her eyes could ever be considered frigid—what a fucking waste that would be.

The icy fizz slid down my throat, quenching the thirst I didn’t know I was feeling until the liquid hit me.

“When are you gonna drink a real fucking drink, Sarge?” Wheeler shouted from his perch at the bar.

It was almost 11 a.m. and he was well on his way to being drunk already. “You know I don’t drink, Brother.” I patted the abs that were years in the making. “My body is a temple. You should try it some time.”

His bottle slammed on the countertop, the condensation leaving rings on the bar that Jenna would be pissed about. She always nagged at the boys to keep this place clean. A real old lady, that one. “My body is a temple too, that’s why all the club pussy love worshiping me.” His laugh was loud and echoed in the large room.

“That’s also why you’ve got so many fucking kids. If they worshiped your dick less, you’d have more money and less child support,” Sly responded. I smirked at the man at the bar, knowing he’d been eyeballing my ride since I purchased her, and also knowing that he didn't have a chance in hell of buying one with the amount he had to pay out to his baby-mamas each month.

“I can’t help it that I'm so virile.” He grabbed his junk, laughing again as he squeezed the denim in his hand.

“Do you even know what virile means?” My jab hit low, and he released his dick to pick up his bottle again, before finishing the dregs and letting out a burp that was loud enough to summon Lucifer himself.

The door at the back of the room opened to reveal the devil himself—Callahan Morgan—our prez.

His eyes zeroed in on me and his brows raised in a silent question. With just a chin lift, I let him know his woman was safe at the hospital, delivered by yours truly. That was what happened when you worked side by side with someone for so long, you just got each other where no words were needed.

Mighty fucking useful when we were on runs.

“Don’t just sit around staring at me, get your asses in here.” The big man lumbered into the church, taking his seat at the head of the table. The large wooden 16-seater took up most of the room, the bespoke behemoth handcrafted by Gauge. It had taken him two years to complete, the depiction of skeletons climbing each table leg was a sight to behold. It was a work of beauty, the club logo etched perfectly in the center.

The mismatched chairs held the presence of each member—each one a brother that had earned his patch in his own way. I sat at Cal’s left, Sonic as the VP was his right-hand man. Prez picked up the gavel, slamming it against the wooden panel, a scarred patch of dark wood that depicted every meeting. And with a crack of wood, church commenced.

“We have a problem, Brothers.”

Tension permeated the air. We all knew what it was about. Another body.

“Just a kid. Fifteen fucking years old this time.” Cal’s fist clenched the gavel, his knuckles white around the handle. “I’m sick and fucking tired of these bodies turning up in my town.”

“Is it the same MO?” I couldn’t understand how the fuck these kids were getting their hands on our drugs. And not only were they ours but they were tampered with, enough to be causing multiple ODs.

Bodies were turning up in the morgue, mostly the homeless and junkies, but some had been high school and college kids looking for a quick bit of entertainment.

We were making a killing (no pun intended) on the funerals, but our reputation as honest dealers—if there was such a thing—was taking a hit. Someone was fucking with our product and putting it back on our own streets, something we as a brotherhood never did.

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