Page 3 of Bound by Family
I’ve noticed things about him these last few months. The looks that come across his face when he thinks no one is looking, as if he’s tired and the weight of the world rests on his shoulders. There’s no doubt in my mind that it’s true.
Running an entire MC is a shit-ton of work. Even doing it for years and having it down pat, there comes a time when it could be too much. I kept my mouth shut about it, though, not wanting to overstep my boundaries. When Pops is ready to tell us what’s going on, he will.
Heading toward the bar, I grasp the cold beer sitting on it then join the guys at the table. Blood means nothing to any of us. We are a family of our own choosing. Each one of us couldn’t be more different if we tried. It’s as if we were put together in this clubhouse for a reason.
Take Becs. He’s the vice president and has recently told us that he’d like to step down and let one of the younger guys take his role. That decision is huge and one of the highest topics at our next church. Becs is quiet. Silent but deadly. He’s never up in your face, but one wrong move, and he will tear you down.
Then there’s Rhys. He’s silent, but his face, body—hell, even the air around him—screams “breath my air, and I’ll end you.”
My dad, Cruz, he’s middle road between the two. He has no problem getting in someone’s face, yet he’ll only do it when necessary. His face isn’t scary like Rhys’, but he has his own badass vibe he puts off.
Me, I’m more of a thinker, a planner if you will. I like to look at all the possibilities and facts before coming up with a strategy.
Somehow, all our crazy asses fit together, and we are bound by family.
CHAPTER TWO
COOPER
Watching from a chair by the fire pit, I bring the beer to my lips and drink. The party boy sits over at the picnic table in the open area of grass next to the clubhouse, head hanging down like he’s deep in thought. I remember being in the exact same position on more than one occasion.
Growing up, I was alone except when other charters of Ravage came and brought their children. We’d have fun, and then they left, creating the same vicious cycle over and over again. Then Deke was born, and all I wanted to do was play with him.
Even though he was an infant, I was ready to play cars or hide and seek—anything. Once he got to an age where he could keep up with me, we were tight like brothers, even though we are technically cousins. It seems like so long ago because so much has changed.
Being so much older than most of my generation of the Ravage MC children, I feel as if I skipped a level now that I’m a brother.
The younger children play, laugh, and run around like crazy, screaming with excitement. They must’ve had too much sugar with all the energy they have, which doesn’t surprise me, considering my grandma, otherwise known as Ma in the club, made enough cake to feed double our family. Not to mention, the cookies and fudge she added because they are Deke’s favorites. She’s always been great about making sure we all have what we need when we need it.
The sun shines bright with a nice breeze. It’s a perfect day to go for a ride after this is over. Judging from Deke’s pissed off attitude as he sits stewing, it’ll be over sooner rather than later. He hasn’t said a word, but I know exactly why he’s pissed. The party’s coming to an end and Pops never called him in. He’s not going to, either.
There were no second thoughts in me joining the club. I had a plan when I turned eighteen—to prospect and earn my cut. No questions asked. Pops and the brothers broke tradition and gave me my leather on my sixteenth birthday.
Normally, one would have to wait until they’re eighteen to start prospecting. Then, in a year or two, if the brothers voted unanimously to let you in, you were in. One “no” vote meant you were out; couldn’t remain a prospect any longer and had zero affiliation with the club. You were gone.
Today is Deke’s sixteenth birthday, and he wanted the cut to bring him into the fold just like I got on mine. Us brothers talked about it in church, and my uncle, GT, Deke’s father, said Deke’s not ready for this. Therefore, Deke has to wait until the time is right for him.
I thought my teen years were a little on the wild side, but Deke’s are a bit over the charts. Not that it’s bad, but Deke needs to learn to reign it in. There’s a time for partying and a time for serious shit.
My mother, Princess, says Deke is worse than GT when he was younger. GT is her brother. My mom said, “That boy is too much like his father. He needs to get his shit together.” Good thing for GT, he did. However, Deke’s not there. Hopefully, he’ll turn it around.
Deke thinks he’s hot shit. At least, that’s how he struts around here. He always has, but as he’s gotten older, it’s gotten worse. I can only imagine what he’s like at school. It’s what led to the decision not to give him his cut early. He needs to get his grades up, according to GT, and his head out of his ass, according to Pops. Being in the club isn’t about status. It’s about honor, loyalty, and having people there who will have your back no matter what. Deke hasn’t realized that yet.
With my hand wrapped around a beer, I make my way over to the table where Deke is and sit on top of it, my steel-toed boots resting on the bench next to Deke.
Deke looks up at me. “What?” His tone is clipped and angry. It surprises me that the kid hasn’t gotten up and hit something yet. His whole body vibrates with tension, like a hum of electricity ready to snake out and bite you at any given moment.
“Calm your shit. Your family did something nice for you. Don’t be an asshole.” I lift the beer to my lips, letting the cold brew cool my body.
The worry for Deke sits hard in my gut. He’s not on the right path. He veered off somewhere, and the where is uncertain at this point.
“Go the fuck away.”
I kick his thigh hard with the toe of my boot, peering down at him though my shades. The disrespectful little shit knows better than to talk to anyone here like that. His line is getting thinner by the moment.
“Watch how you talk. Don’t make me pound your ass on your birthday.”
He shakes his head and looks at his hands on the table, saying nothing. He’s smart; that’s not his problem. It’s his maturity that’s lacking.
