Page 7 of Oh Holy Knight

Chapter Three

Wolf

I throwmy leg over my Harley and reach into my back pocket for my to-do list. Don’t fucking laugh—there’s a lot of moving parts when it comes to Christmas and lists keep me on track. I pull the pen tucked behind my ear and cross out a few things. But then I remember three more things that aren’t on the list and add them to the bottom.

“Is that a notepad?”

I lift my head and look at my vice president, Pipe, who does a shit job at trying to hide his smirk. He elbows Parrish, who stands next to him and my jaw ticks. If they’re not busting my balls, they’re not happy.

“Look, Parrish, he’s got a notepad.”

Shoving the pad back into my pocket, I cross my arms against my chest and glare at the two men who have made my life hell for the last thirty years. They are the two biggest pains in my ass and yet I’m certain I couldn’t live without either of them.

“Laugh, motherfuckers, but remember I’m the guy who keeps all you people in line.”

“With your trusty notepad?” Parrish quips. “I never needed a notepad to keep everything afloat,” he continues, pausing to tap a finger to his temple. “My head got us through.”

His head.

For years his fucking mind was our biggest enemy.

“If that isn’t an oxymoron, I don’t know what is,” I grunt. “And I hate to break it to you, Parrish, but you didn’t need a notepad because you had me.”

And I had the notepad.

He spits his toothpick onto the gravel and turns to Pipe.

“Did this old fuck just call me a moron?”

I don’t bother waiting for Pipe’s response. Instead, I leave them bickering like a bunch of broads at a beauty parlor. The Satan’s Knights have seen a lot of change over the years, but some things remain the same and those two old goats are set in their ways.

I climb the steps leading to Kate’s and pause midway when I notice Bishop holding a ladder. My gaze travels to the roof and I spot Riggs and Bash fighting as they try to set up the inflatable Santa.

Those two on the roof haven’t changed either.

We still need a translator to understand the shit that comes out of Bash’s mouth and Riggs—well, he’s dry humping a plastic Rudolph while poor Bash sits there trying to blow Santa.

I shake my head and bring my gaze back to Bishop.

“How long have they been at that?”

“Too fucking long,” he grunts. “I could’ve sent Connor up there, not only would it be done already but I bet you he’d do a better job.”

No arguments here. Bishop’s kid is smart as a whip and a damn good boy.

Cupping my hands around my mouth, I divert my attention back to the roof and holler for Dumb and Dumber to get down. When I fucking say church is at eight, church is at fucking eight. The rest of the hoodlums better already be seated at the table.

I make my way inside of Kate’s and am immediately blasted by the Christmas music playing overhead.

Santa Claus is coming to town, alright.

Let’s just hope he gets here before I have another heart attack.

My gaze cuts to the bar where Bash’s girl, Lydia, stands talking with a man I’ve never seen before. Narrowing my eyes, I take in the lanky guy who towers over our best bartender. Standing tall at around six feet, he’s thin—so thin that his clothes appear three sizes too big. His hair is on the longer side too and he’s in need of a shave. A shower probably wouldn’t hurt either.

I tear my eyes away from him and spot Blackie sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a soda. How do I know it’s a soda? Well, for one the thing is loaded with Maraschino cherries. Apparently, Lydia makes a mean cherry coke and since Blackie’s gotten clean and sober, the man has a fucking sweet tooth. The other day he went to pull out his pocketknife and a Tootsie pop fell out of his kutte. I bet you anything he’s the reason my Dum Dum supply has diminished.

I meander over to him and clap him on the back.

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