Page 62 of Biker's Property

“Where’s Oske?” Ruger replies. It’s a suspicious question, but I don’t care. I’m sick of hearing his bullshit and I would rather hang out with my brothers and place a few bets than do this anymore.

“Gone for a while.”

“I’ll see you.”

No proper goodbye.Nothing like that. Wouldn’t expect anything more from Ruger. He has the manners of a wolverine. At least he doesn’t smoke much of Oske’s weed. That sort of drug doesn’t go well with him — makes his ass even crazier. I pocket as much of the weed as I can on the way to my bike and leave the trailer without packing my shit, without so much as a look over my shoulder.

There’s a decent-enough cheap motel near the coordinates of our meeting point, owned by Rage. A Hollingsworth — so a cousin on our mother’s side. Tanner’s younger brother.

Deacon Hollingsworth is just as tall and red-haired as Tanner, but he doesn’t like people. He has a stockier build, with legs the size of fucking sequoias. Wouldn’t want to end up in a fight with him. He’s damn good at poker too.

We were both “little brothers”, so we joined the club in the same year, but Deacon is far less social than I am. He kept his distance after patching in, purposefully spending time as far away from the Old Route 66 highway as possible.

It’s a miracle he’s nearby now…

Deacon sends his club dues and extra, so nobody bothers him. I appreciate someone who understands that I need space from the big mess of Shaws — especially my sister Tylee who has been even crazier than normal since her pregnancy. When I stop for gas, I text him.

Scrap: Coming to the motel tonight. Meeting with Southpaw tomorrow.

He responds instantly.

Rage: Perfect. Big poker game tonight. $1,000 buy in.

Scrap: Fuck. Who you got?

Rage: Just get here, asshole. And bring your buy in.

No problem.I might not have a thousand dollars for anything else, but I sure as fuck have it for a poker game. I’m ready.

Deacon waits at the edge of the motel property with two short Indian-looking women standing next to him. I ride my bike all the way up alongside his and he hands a box of cigarettes to one of the women, and a pistol to the other before gesturing inside. The woman with the pistol hides it as Deacon spreads his arms wide, putting on some of his rarely accessed Texas charm.

“SCRAP!” he yells out my club name. “Welcome to Deacon Hollingsworth’s house of degeneracy.”

Everyone has always said that Deacon sounds just like a country singer. I throw my arms out to give the ginger bastard a big hug. He clutches me tight, like we’re real brothers, but pulls away quickly. Just like a Hollingsworth, he can’t help but keep his mind on his money.

“I hope you have the money. I would hate to keep you out of the game tonight.”

“What’s so fucking special about the game tonight?”

“Southpaw didn’t tell you?”

“We don’t talk about gambling.” We haven’t since he quit. It’s for his well-being. I understand that. When you have a wife and kid, you can’t afford to fuck up a bet. My situation is a little different.

Deacon doesn’t care about our gambling problem, so he just shrugs it off. The Blackwoods occasionally dip into some religious sentiment over gambling. Hunter hates it because of how often he’s had to clean up my brother’s messes… but the Hollingsworth family views gambling as any other way to make a living. No judgment.

“It’s a trap,” he says. “So I need you to win at least one round tonight.”

“I plan to win every round I play.”

Deacon gives me a sympathetic look. “All you need is one.”

“Why didn’t Southpaw tell me this?”

“Well… He told me not to encourage your degeneracy and suggested I get someone else in the game but… I think you’re gonna be my best shot.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

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