Page 4 of Iron Hearts

I was up there once or twice. Still no convictions, though.

I slipped past the archway leading to the front half of the third floor and what served as our chapel. It was in the front of the building, with windows on three sides that were deeply tinted and mirrored to the outside world.

Despite the deep tint, the room could get toasty, and we had an HVAC unit on the roof pumping cool air into it to keep it nice.

The table was long, burnished steel, with the club logo cut out in the center. The steel was heat treated and rainbowed out around the cuts with enough room at each place around the table for us to eat, drink, or do whatever.

I set Renegade’s burger at his place at the head of the table and looked down the row of six chairs on either side.

I set my food down at my place and went back out to the bar to open up and bring in a couple of beers to go with our food.

I cracked the top on the bottle of what I calledsex in a rowboatbeer for Renegade. The shit was so fucking close to water it wasn’t even funny.

I picked myself a nice IPA out of the row of taps, poured myself one, and took glass and bottle to the table, setting out a couple of the stone coasters, likewise with our club logo embossed in the top, at our places and set our beers down.

I dropped into my seat with a sigh and belatedly checked my pockets for my cell phone, which I already knew resided in my desk drawer where I left it downstairs. Still, I didn’t want to be the dumb motherfucker to catch an ass whoopin’ for breaking the rules.

I dug into my food, ripping open the bag to use as a placemat as Renegade walked in, Shadow on his heels, and dropped into his seat at the head of the table. Shadow, a beer of his own in his hand, dropped into the chair at Renegade’s right hand.

I didn’t bother asking what was up. It wouldn’t be discussed until everyone was present and accounted for.

Forks came in a minute later, wiping grease off his hands with a sorry, faded red mechanic’s rag.

Next came Enigma, then the Butcher Brothers – Skull & Bones, and a little after that, Pope, Toad, Pud, Kain, Switch – and then we waited.

…and waited, and waited, andwaited… Renegade got pissed, Shadow stepped out, making repeated texts and calls, and thenfinally,Mugshot brought his happy ass in.

“What the fuck took you so long, pretty boy?” Switch demanded before anyone else could with a sniff.

“Never mind that now. He’s here, and that’s all that matters,” Renegade declared. Still, Mugshot wasn’t entirely off the hook as Renegade shot him a dark look and said, “I’ll want an explanation later.”

Mugshot looked a little green around the gills, and I couldn’t say I blamed him – becausefuck that.No one wanted to be on Renegade’s bad side, especially not someone who wanted to keep their face as pretty as Mugshot did.

Modeling was his main gig – thus, he dida lotto keep his face and skin in good condition.

The meeting was swiftly called to order, and I had a regret that I didn’t grab a second beer or at least a soda before we got started.

Oh, well.

CHAPTERTWO

Rarity…

“What the fuck, Charlie?” I demanded, loud and clear over the din of bikes down below. I glared over my shoulder at Charlie, the Iron Horse’s manager, and he just gave me a lackadaisical shrug and turned around and fucked off the other way, which just pissed me off even more.

The rules were fucking clear, signs everywhere –no colors!

No colors didn’t mean that these biker dipshit, grown-ass men behaving like toddlers, couldn’t come in at all. It just meant they couldn’t come up in here wearing their colorfully patched clown vests. It wasn’t a hard rule to follow, but itwasa hard and fast rule.

“What the fuck is right,” Gemma muttered, passing behind me with a rack of clean glasses.

I shook my head, finished pulling my beer, and passed the glass to the waiting customer, who was probably fifty-something and was way more a tourist than an actual biker. A weekend warrior type. Sometimes called a RUB or Rich Urban Biker.

He winked at me and turned to watch the men who had just rolled in with their orange-and-black dirty vests with a scorpion on the back.

I swallowed hard and exchanged a look with Gemma.

I was a born and raised Ormond Beach local. It was sort of an unspoken Switzerland or neutral territory of bikerdom – but none of us were stupid or crazy enough to overlook the fact that Biker Shangri-La or not, we all sat firmly in the middle of Royal Bastards country and the Bloody Scorpions were persona non grata where the Royal Bastards were concerned.

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