Page 2 of Cocked Hammer

I didn’t know whether to cuss or puke, so I remained silent. My anxiety had been at insanely high levels all week, counting down the days leading to today. The day that would tell all. The day that proved if I had what it took to be a patched member of the RBMC.

My knees shook, and sweat dripped down both my temples.

“When we get in there, take your cut off and lay it on the table,” he commanded and left no room for me to argue.

I didn’t have time to process anything and even less time to respond as the doors swung open right in front of us. After a wave of his hand, gesturing for me to enter the room before him, and a large amount of strain on my part, both my boots rose and fell multiple times until I was behind my regular seat at our table.

I did as he instructed but would be lying if I said it did not pain me to remove it. It wasn’t just leather and patches; it was who I was. As soon as my cut was on the table in front of me, I felt as if I was naked and more vulnerable than I had been in an extraordinarily long time. The space that typically brought me sanctuary was now a place of decree and added to my uneasiness. The men who I had grown close enough to consider my brothers had voted, and the judgment determining my future had been made. I only hoped it was in my favor. It did not matter what each of them was to me, though, at the end of the day, a prospect was exactly that: someone who might have what it takes to be a brother, but then again, they might not. Sometimes, it didn’t matter how good of a brother a man was; all it took was one brother voting negative to keep you out of the club simply because he didn’t like you. Over the past year, I’d given my everything to this club, and despite what happened next, I regretted nothing.

“We’re sorry, Sledgehammer…” Ghoul’s voice trailed off, and Tin Man’s meat hook of a hand landed on my shoulder with a firm, reassuring squeeze from where he stood behind me.

Disappointment swelled in my stomach as my pride shattered. The edges of my teeth ground together, and suddenly, my heartbeat was undeniable as it pounded in my ears. I didn’t make it. This was not at all the outcome I’d imagined for tonight. Pussy, drinking, and union were the things I thought would be happening when I’d arrived…not rejection.

“I see,” I answered out of the respect I had for the men in the room with me, fully aware I needed to say something. Brotherhood wasn’t a subject I took lightly. Even if they didn’t vote me in, I still refused to disrespect them out of sheer principle. Not to mention, the fact remained I was no suicidal fool. Out of all the tales I’d witnessed being exchanged between the many members I’d met, there was one very huge undeniable factor: no one went against the Royal Bastards Motorcycle Club and lived to speak of it.

“You don’t see shit,” Sac retorted, his expression unreadable as his flattened palms smacked loudly against the table’s surface. Each member present tonight made a similar short comment.

Ghoul stood from his customary chair at the head of the table and fanned his hand in the air to quieten everyone. “See this?” His fingertip tapped the word President stitched on the patch. “Never forget what these mean,” he paused, pulling in a hit of the joint hanging from his mouth. “It’s a fucking honor to wear these, not a rite of passage.”

My throat suddenly felt dry, and probably for the first time since I’d stepped foot inside the clubhouse, I didn’t know what to say.

Ghoul smiled. “As I was saying, we’re sorry, Sledgehammer, but you won’t be the one driving the cage anymore. Another prospect will because you’re a fucking Bastard now!” His hand disappeared under his cut and yanked out the member patch from his shirt pocket. Tin Man scooped it into his palm and dropped it in front of me onto my cut along with the rockers and center patch.

Pride ricocheted off every square inch of my body, and satisfaction pinned my shoulders back in a straight line. “Hell yeah!” I shouted as Tin Man’s fingers caught mine, and they balled into a fist while we clapped one another on the back with the opposing hand.

“Congratulations, brother!” He proudly beamed with a nod of approval as he released me. “He’d be proud.” There was no need for explanation. We were both aware of the precise person he was referring to. It was the man whose dog tags hung around my neck, and only under extreme circumstances did I remove them. My dad.

My eyes closed momentarily as a smile stretched across my lips. I did it! It was a fucking amazing feeling to finally have a three-piece patch for my cut. My life never really held much purpose; it was always as if it was missing a vital piece. Tonight, though, the constant empty feeling I battled most days wasn’t there, and I had my brothers to thank for it.

“How’s it feel to finally be a brother?” Ghoul asked, clapping me on the back as he took a swig from his whiskey bottle.

“Fucking fantastic, Boss!” I yelled, and it was one hundred percent accurate. It was funny how much difference a couple of patches made, but they did.

“You’ve got that damn right!” Sac slurred, dropping onto the free stool beside me, and the legs tipped. I slammed my boot down hard on one of the spokes, and all four legs returned to the floor.

“How are you already drunk, Sac?” I questioned him with an arch of my eyebrow.

“The question is, how are you already not?” Tin Man asked, smacking his hand on the bar in front of me and lined almost the entire bar with shot glasses. “This is your night to be a dumbass. Don’t worry, we will remember the stupid shit you do for the rest of our lives, brother.”

Ghoul grabbed one of the shot glasses after Tin Man filled them all to the brim, and then the rest of my brothers did the same. I followed their steps and lifted my glass in the air with them.

“Forever Bastard, Bastard forever,” we all said in unison, and it felt amazing to be able to finally say the words I had heard so much and actually be a part of them. The warm liquid burned my tongue before it slid down my throat.

2

Sledgehammer

One year later

The frame of my bike rattled as the front tire bounced across the abandoned railroads of Cleveland, Ohio. It had been a long, taxing couple of months for the club, and there wasn’t an end anywhere in sight. We had ridden back and forth a handful of times to Elizabeth City, North Carolina, still cleaning up the shitstorm we stirred chasing down and killing a man for the FBI. Technically, our President’s ol’ lady, Ginger, did the finding and mutilating of him, but in the end, he was a club kill. When I was younger, I never dreamed of becoming a murderer, but I didn’t have a reason to consider it as a possible outcome, I guess. Prospecting and then becoming a member of the Royal Bastards Motorcycle Club; however, it was the future I’d always planned. My dad’s lifelong best friend was Tin Man, so it only made sense that he was my sponsor.

“Uncle Ira!” Xander, Tin Man’s youngest boy, ran as fast as his abnormally lanky feet could carry him. He definitely took after his dad in that aspect; Tin Man’s feet were huge. My boots quickly crunched against the tiny pebbles that covered their driveway, preparing for his embrace. The excited ten-year-old stretched out his hands and jumped from the ground into my arms.

“What’s up, little man?” I asked, dangling the bottom half of his body back and forth a few times and tightened my forearms around him.

“Too tight!” he loudly complained into my ear in between laughs, and his palms shoved against my chest.

“Really?” I jokingly spat out, giving his torso one last squeeze, and then released him.

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