Page 26 of Sinful
The parking lot is separated into sections—members, prospects, visitors, civilians.
I park in visitors, between a Harley Softail and a restored Indian that probably cost sixty grand.
The back area where I'm parked is enclosed by another fence, separating club space from civilian space.
Smart. Keeps regular people from wandering into business they shouldn't see.
Beyond the fence, I can see another building—smaller, more commercial looking.
A neon sign that's not lit yet reads BUBBA'S in letters three feet tall.
The bar, probably.
Every MC has one, whether they own it outright or just control it.
A place to launder money, employ members, and keep eyes on the community.
The clubhouse doors are solid oak, reinforced with steel plates that are trying to look decorative but aren't.
Norse designs carved into the wood—runes, dragons, that Viking aesthetic the club's named for.
Inside is cooler, air-conditioned to a temperature that feels like luxury after hours in the almost April heat.
The main room is massive, taking advantage of the warehouse bones.
High ceilings with exposed beams, concrete floors polished to a shine, leather furniture scattered in conversation areas.
A bar along one wall—full setup, professional grade.
Pool tables, dart boards, a big-screen TV currently showing ESPN with the sound off.
The walls are decorated with club history—photos of members past and present, newspaper clippings, a giant Raiders of Valhalla patch that's probably six feet across.
Norse imagery everywhere—Odin, ravens, wolves, that mythology they've built their identity around.
It's impressive, but it's not home. Nothing ever is.
"Brazos." A voice from my left.
I turn.
The man approaching is maybe late fifties, or early sixties, built like he's been lifting weights since before I was born.
Solid but not bulky, the kind of strength that comes from years of work, not gym time.
His cut identifies him—president patch, his name across the top.
"Runes." I extend my hand.
His grip is firm, measuring. "Good ride?"
"Long. Uneventful."
"Best kind." He gestures to another man who's joined us. "This is Fenrir, my VP."
Fenrir's older, maybe sixty, with silver hair and eyes that miss nothing.
He's got that look of someone who's been in this life since before it was romanticized.
