Page 2 of My Christmas Biker

“Not much, Pres. Shit has been runnin’ smooth. No trouble with shipments or deliveries. All customers are happy.”

“Good.” Judge turned to our treasurer, Midas. “Club funds?”

“Cash flow is steady. A few brothers need to pay their monthly dues.” Midas only stared at Judge, not calling anyone out.

Judge frowned. “If it gets to me, anyone not paying their dues will scrub toilets for a fuckin’ month. Hear me?”

Nods around the table followed. We knew how shit went. Nobody wanted to piss off Judge. He had that road name for a reason. Add the fact that we all respected him too much to go against his word, and every member at that table would have their dues paid by the end of the day.

Club business continued until Judge had heard from all the officers. He sat back, folding his arms across his chest. “I got news about Hesh.”

Everyone at the table sat straighter.

“What about him?” I asked, wondering if this had anything to do with Hesh’s murderer. Fifteen years ago, on December twenty-eighth, our club brother Hesh was gunned down on the way home from the clubhouse. A rival club hit.

Hesh missed his daughter’s thirteenth birthday party. Never sat right with any of us. Before we could get justice for Hesh and his daughter, Ginger, the police arrested a suspect.

Doug Porter went to prison, convicted of second-degree murder. He’d been locked up since and given a twenty-five-year sentence for his crime with the possibility of parole after only ten fucking years. That motherfucker didn’t deserve three squares a day, still breathing, after taking Hesh’s life.

I’d been a new patch back then, eager to prove myself to the club. Hesh had been my sponsor. He took me under his wing and helped me become the man I am today. I owed a debt I could never repay.

Fifteen years later, I still regretted that I didn’t insist on riding with him that day. Maybe I could have prevented his death. The worst part? I would never know.

Doug Porter, also known as Butcher, had been a member of the Crimson Skulls. A rivalry that went back to the founding days of our club when the CSMC thought they could take over our territory in Vegas.

Judge’s father, Thorn, used to be our pres back then. A bloody feud broke out, and the losses were heavy for both sides. After Hesh’s death, we ended it by dismantling the Crimson Skulls. Every member left on their bike or in a body bag. There hadn’t been much trouble since, and I hoped it would stay that way. Those dark days needed to remain behind us.

But hearing about Butcher? That pissed me off.

“You’re not gonna like it, Brick. Hell, I don’t fucking like it,” Judge spat.

My head began to pound as I felt my blood pressure rising.

No fucking way. Butcher better be in prison.

“He’s out,” Judge confirmed.

My temper unleashed. “Fuck!” I roared, rising to my feet and shoving my chair aside, slamming it into the nearest wall. My hand slid through my hair and pulled.

This couldn’t be happening.

“Brick. Sit down.”

If anyone other than Judge ordered it, I would have told them to fuck off. Reluctantly, I sat, tapping my fingers on the table. “Where is he?”

“Don’t know.”

I frowned.

“Yet,” he added.

Good. Then he understood I had to make this right. I felt responsible for Hesh’s daughter and wife and the fact that theynever got closure. Butcher wouldn’t be alive for long, not if I had anything to do with it.

“We owe Hesh,” Titan added, glancing my way with a quick nod. He had my back on this.

“It’s almost Christmas,” Judge replied. “We don’t move on this until I have all the necessary intel.” He stared at each of the faces at the table, taking in our stern, determined expressions. Not a member here disagreed. We needed to avenge our fallen brother.

“Anyone who touches Butcher before I give the okay deals with me.”

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