Page 70 of On The Rocks

CALLUM

Leaning forward, I stared through the windshield at the two-story sprawling warehouse lit up in the darkness like a fucking Christmas tree. Going by the sheer size and imposing look of their place, this club was making a big statement. They wouldn’t be hidden away. They were loud, proud, and here to stay.

The Kings of Anarchy clubhouse setup was much the same as the Speed Demons. They were smack bang in the middle of an old industrial area that used to be thriving but now stood completely empty except for the massive clubhouse, which was the size of a football field, and the single-story bar they’d built onto the side.

At the front of the compound was a tattoo place and auto shop we’d driven past on the way in. Other buildings were set off to the side. One of them, another sprawling warehouse, had patio chairs and tables outside and potted plants.

Men in leather jackets with KOA patches stood at the tall, metal gates protecting the clubhouse where we’d stopped behind Atlas’s GMC while he got out to introduce us.

Donovan whistled softly from the back seat. “Impressive setup.”

“Reminds me of the Demons’ place,” I replied, putting my truck into drive and following Atlas’s car as it headed slowly toward the clubhouse.

“It works for them,” my brother murmured. “They probably saw the Demons’ compound and its practicalities and thought if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

“Pagan, the KOAMC prez, is tight with Breaker,” I explained. “I’ve no doubt the Kings picked his brains about setting up shop here. They’re a big club with a lotta members, so they’d need to find a space that’ll house everybody. An industrial area makes sense. It’s wide open, with buildings already set up for their legitimate businesses. Also, they’re far away enough from the town and residents to not bother anybody and stay outta the way, but still close enough for decent access.”

“True,” Donny agreed. “The cops won’t come out here unless it’s necessary.”

I pulled my truck next to Atlas’s GMC and switched off the engine, glancing toward Breaker and Kennedy, who’d pulled up the other side of me to Atlas. “They’ve probably got the sheriff on their payroll by now, anyway.”

Tristan’s head popped forward from his seat next to Donovan’s. “Why is all this cloak-and-dagger shit sexy, Mae Mae?”

My wife craned her neck to reply, “Not for me, Tris. I prefer a nice quiet life.”

Tristan’s eyes fell on the group of men wearing their cuts and leather jackets, and he eyed them appreciatively. “Oh, I don’t know. There’s a lot to be said for a bad boy. Especially when they look like that. I think there must be a special baby-biker Kool-Aid these boys are made to drink in their youth to make them grow up to be big and strong, develop a fetish for leather, and become as hot as molten iron.”

My mouth curved. “There was me worried about Donovan getting himself into trouble. Do I need to put a leash on you, Tris?”

He fanned his face. “Stop flirting. You’ll make Maeve jealous.”

Mae snorted from beside me while Donny barked a laugh.

Rolling my eyes jokingly at my wife, I jumped from the truck and jogged around to help her down. When we were all safely deposited onto the asphalt, I slid my arm across Maeve’s shoulders and turned to see a tall, tattooed, shaven-headed biker approaching us.

“Sweet baby Jesus,” Maeve whispered, her mouth falling open as she caught sight of him.

The fucker looked as if he’d slit your throat for looking at him sideways. Ink covered his hands and throat, adding to the menacing vibe he gave off. An unlit cigarette was tucked behind his ear, and his walk was a slow saunter and full of bad fucking attitude.

Making a beeline for Breaker, he reached out to fist-bump him before grabbing his wrist and moving in for a manly hug.

After pounding his back a few times, Breaker moved away and nodded toward us. “You’ve met Atlas; these other fuckers are Callum and Donovan O’Shea, and that’s our buddy Tristan.” His hand reached for his woman. “This is my ol’ lady, Kennedy. You’ve met Soph, and that’s Maeve, Callum’s wife. Everyone, this is Pagan, Prez of the Wyoming chapter of the Kings of Anarchy.”

Pagan moved to give Atlas a fist bump and back pound before his stare flicked over each one of us in turn. It took him a second, but within that short time, I got the distinct feeling he’d already sized us up. There was more to him than muscles, brawn, and IDGAF attitude. This dude was clued in as fuck.

“Welcome,” he called out, his voice deep and gravelly. “Glad to have ya here.” His gaze rested on Maeve, and I felt her tense up. “Dunno what you know about KOA parties, but they can get rowdy. Rules is, there ain’t no rules, but no KOA brother will bother you ladies unless they get the green light. You’ll see nudity and raunchy shit, and it’s a given that you single boys can fill your boots,” his eyes flicked over Tristan, “there’s something in there for everyone, but I ask that you don’t approach any of my men’s ol’ ladies. Pay us the same respect we’ll pay you, and a good time’ll be had by all.”

“No problem for me,” Donny declared, flicking his finger from his forehead in a casual salute.

I skewered him with a pointed look, cocking an eyebrow.

If anyone was gonna get us in woman trouble, it’d be my little brother. Granted, it wasn’t always entirely his fault—the ladies, single and attached, seemed to go gaga for the good-looking bastard. But he also loved the attention and—to my exasperation—the drama, too. Usually, we could use our fists as a unit and easily get him outta most spots of trouble, except tonight, I didn’t fancy our chances against a club full of one percenters.

“I’m just here to soak up the experience,” Tristan breathed, eyes going wide as he took in all the brawny, tattooed, leather-clad men milling around.

“Shame that.” Pagan’s lips twitched. “Reckon my tail gunner, Cruise’ll take a liking to you. He goes feral for a pretty boy.”

Tristan’s face lit up, and he breathed, “Sweet Lord above.” Then, turning toward us, he leaned forward and pointed toward the clubhouse. “Come on, people, why are we standing around? In the words of the man with the Coke Can, let’s fucking go!” He swung back around, his eyes frantically darting between us all before he screeched, “Come on! Move it!”

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