Page 95 of Shake the Spirit

Uncle Court ignores the new “announce your emotions” routine and continues, “According to our Basin Rock spies, McGraw is fine. However, he texted me this morning about setting up a meeting to discuss territory and the future.”

“Think he’s dying?” West asks.

Uncle Emmett points out, “He’s younger than I am.”

West holds his pa’s gaze and replies, “I’m fully aware of your impending grandpa status.”

Uncle Emmett glares at his son. “I am angry. Your words make me want to kick you in the ass crack.”

Again, my president ignores our bullshit and keeps talking. “I think Duke might be planning to ask the Charleston assholes to patch over his club. If that happens, we’ll need to buckle down and prepare for possible issues.”

Uncle Emmett loses his smile. He used to ride with the Charleston club before they turned Nazi while he was in prison. After his release, Emmett decided to come to Tumbling Rock to see his old cellmate, Court. The only reason he was allowed to join the Rawkfist club was because his mom agreed to remain the other club’s bookkeeper.

It’s been an uneasy arrangement from the beginning, and a few of the older Charleston members likely still hold grudges against Emmett.

“Their younger guys are psychos,” Uncle Emmett mutters. “If they ride around here, we’re bound to have problems. They won’t be able to help themselves.”

“The alternative is a pact between the Blood-Red Suns and Rawkfist,” Court explains. “I’m considering it.”

“But their club is full of dipshits,” West announces. “Cubby’s a dingus, and he’s one of their better brawlers.”

“They have muscle. We have brains.”

“We have muscle,” Uncle Emmett says and looks around at our club.

An awkward moment lingers as he very visibly realizes how most of our members are his age rather than his sons’.

“Go on,” Uncle Emmett says after a moment.

“We’re riding over to their Basin Rock clubhouse to talk this out. I’m not taking our entire club. However, if something goes sideways, I wanted the rest of you to be aware of the people you’ll need to kill.”

“Who are you bringing along?” King Peepaw asks.

“Donovan and Ike, plus Emmett’s boys.”

“But not Pa?” West asks and frowns at his father. “Is it because he threatened me earlier?”

Uncle Court ignores West’s cocky bullshit, making me wonder if this entire situation is a learning experience from the current president to the future one.

Uncle Court continues, “If Duke has already made a deal with the Charleston psychos, they might be gunning for Emmett. At the very least, if we get ambushed, he’ll be left to get revenge.”

I’m pretty sure Duke McGraw isn’t selling out his club to a bunch of psychos, especially if he’s concerned about his hot daughters. More likely, he wants an alliance with our club. No doubt Uncle Court assumes the same thing, but he wants to test everyone by barfing danger drama at us.

Despite my certainty, I still message Oana before heading to Basin Rock. I keep my text simple, just that I love her and she’ll always be my dream girl. Never hurts to tell her something nice, especially if there’s even a one percent chance I’ll die today.

Located on the other side of the county, Basin Rock is another small town in a state full of them. If the Charleston club wanted to gobble up the rest of West Virginia, the only way the rest of us would survive would be to join forces.

Court leads our group to Basin Rock Bar, located in the small town’s downtown. Next door is Mama McGraw’s diner, run by Duke’s mom. I can’t imagine anyone ambushing us in this bright, clean part of town.

The bar itself looks like an Irish pub. I even spot a shamrock on one of the stained-glass front windows. Inside, we find Duke McGraw sitting at the bar top, enjoying the local paper. I can’t imagine there’s enough news to fill the puny thing, but he still finishes whatever he’s reading before setting it aside.

At around fifty, he holds his muscular build like a man half his age. Yet, he’s sporting the same gray around the temples as Uncle Court. His dark hair is short and tidy. Without his tats and vest, he’d fit in fine with the local dads.

“You know my issues,” Duke says, skipping the formalities as soon as the front door closes. “My club can’t survive without me.”

I frown at how we’re alone in the bar with McGraw. He doesn’t have any of his goons around to look intimidating. There isn’t even a bartender.

“Heard you were in the hospital,” Court says in that tone he uses when assuming the worst.

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