Page 9 of Ravaged and Ruined
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I mutter, rubbing my temples to ease the headache pounding in my skull.
Grizzly snorts behind us. “You two bickering like an old married couple again?”
“Prez is just cranky ‘‘cause his girl’s in a mood,” Surge says, way too entertained for his own good.
I stop dead in my tracks, rounding on him. “She’s not my girl.”
Surge lifts his hands in mock surrender, but the smirk never leaves his face. “Sure, Prez. Whatever you say.”
I exhale sharply, dragging a hand down my face. The last thing I need is these assholes getting ideas about Lacey and me. There is no me and Lacey. I’m way to fucked in the head to give her what she needs but it’s not like she’s innocent in all of this. I didn’t make this mess on my own. She knew who I was when she got in my bed. I didn’t promise her anything so I can’t be held responsible if she got other ideas in her pretty little head.
“Move your asses,” I bark, picking up my pace toward Church. The rest of the brothers fall in line, the mood shifting as we leave the common area behind. The further we walk, the more the easy banter fades, the weight of business settling onto our shoulders.
When we reach the door at the far end of the corridor, I pull my key card from my pocket and swipe it through the reader.The lock clicks open, and I push the heavy door inward, stepping inside first.
A long wooden table sits in the center of the room surrounded by high-backed chairs lined up for every officer. The neon "Royal Bastards" sign flickers red on one wall, its soft glow illuminating the club rules painted on the opposite side. This is our war room, our sanctuary, our Church.
I stand at my place at the head of the table, letting the moment stretch for a second. This job never lets up, but a fierce sense of pride wells up inside me. I’m the President of this club, and I love every damn minute of it. My brothers are here, their eyes reflecting the same determination, the same relentless drive. We’re in this together, and despite what happens outside these walls, here in Church, everything is exactly as it should be.
Hashtag, our Tech Geek, pulls out a small box and starts passing it around. One by one, the guys drop their phones in, the familiar routine done without a second thought. No distractions. No outside ears. This room is for club business only.
I lock eyes with each of the men sitting around the table, gauging their mood. Everyone’s here, looking like hell.
Grizzly, my VP, is the first to drop his phone in, rubbing a hand over his beard before taking his seat to my right. He’s been my right hand since I took the gavel, and he’s the steady presence I rely on when shit gets rough.
Surge, my Sergeant at Arms, smirks at me as he tosses his phone into the box with a little extra flair, like he’s making a damn show of it. He claps Backdraft on the shoulder before claiming his usual chair.
Backdraft, our Enforcer, grumbles as he slides his phone in, his dark eyes still half-lidded from the night before. He mutters something about needing a nap, but he takes his seat, rolling the tension from his broad shoulders.
Padre, the club’s Secretary, places his phone in carefully, adjusting his cut before pulling out his ever-present notepad. Always ready to document, to keep the club’s records straight.
Crank, our Road Captain, sighs as he drops his phone in, rubbing the back of his neck like the hangover is hitting him full force. He kicks a chair out and flops into it, stretching his long legs out under the table.
Tango, the club’s Cleaner, follows suit, his expression unreadable as he deposits his phone. His job isn’t glamorous, but he does it without hesitation. No trace left behind when he’s done.
Pike, our Tail Gunner, slaps his phone into the box and cracks his knuckles before sliding into his seat, his sharp gaze flicking around the room like he’s already preparing for whatever’s coming next.
Rancor, our Treasurer, takes his time, scrolling through something on his screen before finally dropping his phone in with a sigh. “If I get one more damn spam email…” he mutters, shaking his head as he takes his chair.
Hashtag is the last, locking the box and setting it outside. The door clicks shut behind him, the lock sliding into place with a finality that always hits me in the chest. Nothing exists past these four walls. Just us. Just business. Just the patch.
This is where I belong.
Hashtag nods at me and slides into his seat, the only screen in the room is his laptop. The rest of us live off instinct and memory here. I take his cue and drop into my chair, my fingers curling around the gavel resting in front of me and force thoughts of Lacey, Ricci, and everything else to the back of my mind.
The weight of the gavel grounds me. It reminds me who the hell I am.
I turn it over in my hand, my thumb brushing the brass knuckles fused to a thick steel head. The RBMC insignia is etched deep into the curve. Capone handed it to me the day I left L.A., the day I stepped up to lead my own chapter.
"They don’t hand you respect,"he told me."You take it. One swing at a time."
That’s what I’ve done every damn day since.
“Church is in session.” I slam it down onto the wood with a heavy thud. "Getting this damn casino off the ground is our only priority right now. Where are we on locking in a site?"
“We found a perfect spot, Prez,” Grizzly says, sliding a flyer across the table. “Check it out. Old warehouse, prime location off the main drag. Needs work, but nothing our crew can’t handle.”
I grab it, my eyes scanning the details. It’s isolated enough to work, central enough to matter. I nod as I study the flyer further. It’s a good find. “Nice work.”
