Page 15 of Sparrow

What if there was something better out there? What if someone better was out there, but he just wasn’t a Roughneck Rider?

She’d gone down that road in her mind a million times through the years. Her father had seen Jacob a time or two at the rally, but he’d been so drunk, she doubted it mattered. He knew about it because of the letters, but she doubted heknewabout him inthatsense.

Would her father have liked Jacob? He’d probably have given him a hard time. She’d watched a few other club dads with their daughters. Some gave a shit, some didn’t. Hers would have cared, but to what extent she didn’t know. She hadn’t a clue how much club colors mattered in stuff like this. She’d never get an answer, though.

She was so lost in thought she barely realized they’d walked through the door. It wasn’t until the loud sound of System of a Down blaring through the clubhouse speakers tore her out of her inner turmoil and brought her back to the present. Pipes whispered something in her ear, but she couldn’t hear him and only nodded. Assuming he meant to go to the bar, she took a deep breath and scanned the crowd. With a firm pat on her ass, he got her attention and pointed toward the couches and slid away. She nodded and gave the thumbs up.

Glancing around, she was surprised at the light crowd. She could actually make it through the clubhouse without much trouble. There was plenty of room to move around, she didn’t know why the music was so loud. Probably better that way. She didn’t really want to talk anyway. If she could just make it through this night, endure becoming an Ol’ Lady, she could get on with her life.

Chapter 9

Romeo

The five presidents of Odin’s Fury stood around the Roughneck Riders’ table with their men lining the walls in support. Each man had his chin high, and his mouth shut. Their hands were clasped before them, and their cuts were worn proudly. They were tired, and it could be seen in the lines on their faces, but they were there to do a job, and a little sleep deprivation wasn’t going to prevent them from doing it.

Monty stood closest to Bowie, who sat at the head of the table. The other presidents fell in line beside Monty. The men of the Montana Chapter: Tex, Clark, Rooster, Teller, Dash, and then Romeo, mixed in with the other states’ representatives. They stood with their backs to the wall with a clear view of the door into the room. There were eighteen full patches to the Roughneck Riders and two active prospects.

The prospects wouldn’t be included in this discussion, but the rest of the members would be. Bowie had just told them that he’d patched in three members in the past month. Monty wasn’t pleased with how he’d fast-tracked a few men but said he’d trust Bowie. His tone indicated that trust wore thin.

As the members of the Roughneck Riders entered the room, each hesitated upon seeing the men of Odin’s Fury in their church. While it’d been no secret that Bowie courted them for a patch over, the men still seemed surprised to see them. Their officers would have not only discussed it at great length, they would’ve voted on it. None gave a clue as to how they felt about it in their expression. Space in the room filled quickly. Every bit of it was taken up by leather, testosterone, and muscle.

Every seat at the table held a Roughneck Rider officer. Shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow, members of each club brushed against one another. Each man projected an air of intimidation with his chest puffed out and his chin in the air. This was the biker’s way—never show weakness.

Once everyone sat, the last man closed the door, and Bowie used his gavel on the already silent room. “You all know I’ve been talking to Monty of Odin’s Fury about a patch over. Our numbers aren’t what they used to be, and if we’re going to keep our businesses profitable and our territory, we need not only the support of their club but their reputation.”

Odin’s Fury, in the years they’d been checking them out and reviewing their books knew the Roughneck Riders, despite their drug running, and the damn fine gun manufacturer connection in their backyard had been running in the red. Romeo suspected, and he assumed the rest of his club did too, it had a lot to do with overhead and shrinkage. These fuckers used a lot of their own damn product and their reputation was in the motherfucking toilet for the same goddamn reason.

A few of the men grunted in agreement. Some of them nodded. A precious few made no response. Those were the ones to watch. A patch over, the absorbing of their club into Odin’s Fury, would be a blessing. They would take on not only their name and a better reputation, but the club habits were a thousand times better. It’d be an adjustment, but fuck, they needed it.

“Odin’s Fury is here to offer a patch over to all of the full patches of the Roughneck Riders,” Monty announced. “All remaining prospects will becomeourprospects with a clean slate. That means at least a year, if not two, of prospecting. Bowie will remain president.”

That announcement got a few more nods as chairs squeaked with the men shifting in their seats. Odin’s Fury wanted the Roughneck Riders’ territory because it made a cleaner route for their runs up north. Monty wasn’t entertaining this idea out of fucking charity. The decision was for his club. He also knew that extending the olive branch of keeping Bowie on, a man the members trusted already, would go a long way.

“Business will remain the same for the most part,” Bowie explained. “Strip club with Indie’s girls trickin’ in the VIP rooms. The garage, and the running. What will change is that we will not be dealing.” He paused to let that sink in.

The major difference between the two clubs was drugs. The stakes were too high when it came to dealing. The players knew nothing of loyalty. The product offered a temptation for the men to dip into it and use what they were supposed to sell. Odin’s Fury did not deal.

From what Romeo knew, it’d been a hard line drawn when Monty took over. If they had in the past, he didn’t know. While not everything they did was legit, they wouldnotget involved in trafficking drugs.

“The club will see a drop in revenue if we quit dealing,” the man with the treasurer patch piped up.

“Odin’s Fury is willing to offer you a slice of our arms deals. The gun connection will be beneficial for both clubs,” Monty chimed in. “Should make up for more than what you’re making peddling crank. Anyone wearing an Odin’s Fury patch will not deal. Hell, he won’t be using in the clubhouse either.”

That caused a few men to grumble and protest.

Bowie slammed the gavel down to quiet his men. “Using our own product is what got us sloppy and in our own way. I agree with Monty. We need to clean our shit up. You got an issue, the club will help you get over it. If you don’t ask for help, leave your fucking colors at the door. This is a one-time offer. Otherwise, we catch you using in the clubhouse, you won’t like the consequences. We don’t need any more brothers locked up for stupid fucking shit.”

The anger and impatience were clear in the Roughneck Riders’ president’s voice. His narrowed eyes scanned his men. He didn’t trust them all. A blind man could see that. He let his club get messy.

It begged the question as to why Monty would trust him to continue to run it and keep his patch. Granted, Bowie had been busting his ass the last few years cleaning his house, and he wasn’t done. Perhaps the plan wasn’t long term. Monty didn’t always reveal everything upfront, at least not to anyone at Romeo’s level. He suspected his father knew all that Prez had planned.

Studying the man who led Ohio, Romeo cocked his head. The years hadn’t been kind to him, now fifty, he looked damn near sixty.

“Put it to a vote,” Bowie wheezed.

Exchanging glances, none of the Roughneck Riders made a sound. Bowie slammed his gavel. “All those in favor of a patch over and becoming Odin’s Fury, say aye.”

One by one, each of the men voted, and they were in favor. A few hesitated, the ones who seemed to be sweating more than others were reluctant. It was clear a few of them were hitting their own product. That had been Bowie’s problem before. It was Monty’s now. And he didn’t like dealing with stupid problems. Clark’s hands would be full for a while.

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