Page 8 of Romeo

“But we?—”

This was not the kind of attitude he was looking for. It wasn’t a challenge, it only pissed him the fuck off. “Said get the fuck out! Find somewhere else to fuckin’ be. Anywhere but here,” he bellowed, crushing the lit end of his blunt between his fingers.

When he surged to his feet, his boot kicked over the bottle of whiskey and it skidded across the floor. At least the fucking thing didn’t break, because that would be a waste of good booze.

It was bad enough he just wasted his damn time.

“Givin’ you five minutes to get the fuck out and get gone.” With that, he spun on his boot heel and climbed downthe loft steps, keeping one ear on the sweet butts to make sure they were doing what he ordered.

He shook his head when he heard them scrambling and asking each other what they did wrong, then he headed outside and took long, determined strides toward Dirty Dick’s.

Of course, that trip only took a few seconds since his place was directly behind the Knights-owned bar. It used to be Magnum’s crib until the man got hitched to his ol’ lady and decided to knock her up.

Twice.

Caleb and Asia were younger than some of the enforcer’s goddamn grandkids. Instead of coasting into old age, here he was raising more crib lizards.

Fuckin’ fool.

Worse, Magnum now put his family over the damn club. He was still supposed to run the bar, but who ended up doing it most of the time?

Romeo.

Because Magnum was nowhere to be seen. Thank fuck for Wick, since the bartender and his DKMC brother kept shit under control.

Romeo flung open the back door and kept moving. He quickly scanned Dirty Dick’s kitchen on his way to see if the establishment was hopping tonight.

Of course it would be, it was a Saturday night.

For fuck’s sake, a Saturday night and here he was not even getting his dick wet. Maybe he could find someone in the bar to change that.

Someone with sharp teeth and claws.

“Everythin’ fuckin’ good?” he shouted without breaking stride.

He heard a couple of mumbled, “Yeahs,” before heslammed both palms against one of the swinging double doors.

The strong smell of tobacco and weed along with the faint stink of vomit hit his nostrils as he made his way over to the long, packed bar that ran along the rear of the room.

He gave a chin lift to a few of his brothers gathered around a table playing cards and probably betting their last fucking dollar.

One difference between the Knights and some other clubs was, they didn’t have an official clubhouse. Dick’s was their church.

It wasn’t supposed to be that way but once they bought the place, that was how it ended up. Prior to that, the club had a shitty little building that was a joke. And embarrassing. But that was all before his time.

The state seized that building and tore it down when the Knights didn’t maintain it and stopped paying the taxes on the property. No fucking loss from the pictures he’d seen.

Should they have an official church other than a bar open to the public? Probably.

Did he give a shit? Fuck no.

Did any of his brothers give a shit? He heard no complaints.

Unlike the Iron Horse Roadhouse, owned by the Dirty Angels, Dick’s had a basement. They used that when they needed privacy. Like for officer or club meetings.

Or a beat down.

The space worked for them because it was pretty damn flexible, even if it wasn’t fancy.

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