Page 3 of Grimm
CHAPTER ONE
GRIMM
Eleven years later…
My mother always told me tomorrow wasn’t promised, and life would never be easy when you’re the son of Angus “Chief” MacDaniel. In the beginning, her words were the driving force behind me distancing myself from my father and Sin City MC.
I lived the life I wanted as soon as I could live without his interference. I worked where I wanted, fucked who I wanted, and lived where I wanted to live, thumbing my nose at the clubhouse culture I’d been immersed in growing up. And the best part—he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. He hated that I went against everything he’d planned for me, but my life’s mission was to be free of him and everything associated with him.
Angus’s territory encompassed most of Vegas, and everyone knew me as his oldest son. Sometimes, it opened doors. Sometimes, people slammed doors in my face. Almost all the time, it put me on the radar for law enforcement and his enemies, even when I didn’t have shit to do with Sin City.
Despite the target on my back, I did things on my own. We didn’t have the typical father-son relationship. In fact, growing up, I hated Angus. Hate was a strong word, but I couldn’t think of anything else to describe my feelings for the man who helped create me.
I don’t know when my love for Angus shifted, but I did everything in my power to become the opposite of the man who raised me. And while I hated everything about the motorcycle culture—the drugs, the booze, the women—I loved all things motorcycles. Riding them, customizing them, fixing them, it didn’t matter. That was why I opened my motorcycle garage,Flaming Eagles,and earned an honest living. I turned Angus down when he wanted to use it to clean the club’s dirty money instead of congratulating me for busting my ass to become my own man. He ran his rackets, drugs, and guns through Sin City, building the club up to be one of the most powerful in the country without the help of me or my business.
The occasional hook-up with a tourist, andFlaming Eagles,was the life I’d enjoyed until eleven years ago. After I couldn’t give my father the alibi he needed—doing so could have landed us in prison for the rest of our lives, or even on death row—I became President while working to clear his name. I don’t love my life, but I accepted it for what it was and would die for my brothers.
“Yo, Prez!” River called out as soon as I walked into the clubhouse. The familiar stench of cigarettes, beer, and sex clung to the stifling air. It was a distinctive smell. One you never forget. “You got a minute?”
I didn’t. I split my time between the garage and anything needing my attention with the club. Work was backed up at the garage, and word had come from multiple Sin City establishments of someone using our territory to funnel drugs and underage prostitutes. Both would ruin us. We hadn’t been able to put a name to who yet.
Jacobi “River” Cassick from Mississippi, southern accent, and all. Why and how he ended up in Vegas and with us, I didn’t know, and never asked. It was none of my business how or why prospects ended up here unless it affected the club. And according to Joker, his sponsor, his past wouldn’t. I agreed to give the kid a chance as a hang-around. Immediately, I recognized his potential. His unwavering loyalty to the club was needed, especially after a rat infiltrated Sin City years ago.
He’d been a hang-around only for a year before officially prospecting with us. Nearly two years later, he was up for a vote to be patched in as a full member in a couple of weeks. He’d been prospecting long enough to know the chain of command.
“Yeah, I got time.” I decided to hear him out, anyway. If he needed to jump the chain of command, it must have been important. “Come to my office.”
I started toward my office, at the back of the clubhouse, tucked away at the end of a narrow corridor leading to some of the sleep quarters. I motioned for him to follow me when he didn’t move. He looked around like he didn’t want anyone to see him following me. Although I found it curious, only Jax and Viper were around, and they were preoccupied watching Brandi, one of the club whores, hanging upside down on the stripper pole in the main room of the clubhouse. Neither paid attention to him. Her tits had them mesmerized.
River wiped his hands on the dish towel, threw it down on the bar top, and followed me to my office.
Angus had installed a bar, along with living quarters, an office, a place to hold Church, as well as an area for the brothers to relax after buying the old rundown barn on the outskirts of the city. He wanted a place where members could unwind if they wanted, sleep if they needed, and somewhere the club could handle business without the prying eyes of authorities.
“Close the door.” I slid behind my desk and leaned back in my chair. “Have a seat, Prospect.”
He closed the door and nodded, taking the seat in front of my desk. Beads of sweat drenched his forehead, and his eyes danced around the room. Nothing had changed much since my father ran the club. Framed photographs of old and new members hung on the worn wood walls, along with pictures of different Harley-Davidsons, including a vintage black-and-white photograph of the first one ever made. No Prospect had ever been in here, but by the way he looked around, River wasn’t just looking at the décor. It was like he expected someone to jump out of the shadows.
Concerned about his behavior, my eyes shifted to his bouncing leg. It reminded me of the way my mother’s bounced when she was nervous.
Why the hell is he so nervous?
“What’s up?” I asked, interlocking my hands behind my head, trying to relay a calm I didn’t feel. Something wasn’t right about a prospect sitting in my office. “You got something on your mind, Prospect?”
“I know I’m supposed to go to one of the brothers when I’ve got a problem or Joker, but…”
“So,” leaning forward, I planted my forearms on the desk, “if the brothers are who you need to take your concerns to, Joker to be precise, since he’s your sponsor, why are you here?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat when he swallowed. Then he swiped the sweat from his forehead before running his hands through his stringy black hair. Most of the prospects walked on eggshells around me. He needed to know my place and the rules he broke by sitting in my office, not as a member of the club, but as someone wanting to be a part of it.
“Can I speak freely, Prez?”
His statement alone set off alarm bells. What could a prospect need to speak to me so freely about? We had rules in place for a reason. Officially, he wasn’t a brother, which meant he didn’t have access to me until he was patched in.
“Yeah, Prospect.” Anxiety sat heavy in my gut. “Speak freely.”
“I overheard something, and I don’t know who to trust.” He chewed his fingernails. “I thought it was best to bring it to you and not the brothers.”
“You overheard something, and you don’t know who to trust?” I repeated and he nodded. “Here? In the clubhouse.”
