Ice taps the table. “We’ll keep tabs on the worm as he works his way through the system. You want him gone, all you have to do is say the word.”
“They’re lettin’ Shelby go back on the road, right?” Pants asks. “Does she need to return if there’s a trial?”
“Probably. Jackson knows how to reach her if he needs something.”
“Anytime you need it, you’ve got a place to stay here,” Ice says.
“Thanks, brother.” I drum my fingers over the table, not sure how to phrase my next offer. “I’m not clear on your arrangement with Jackson.” I hold up my hands. “Not prying for information. But I’d like to make a donation to help with any costs.”
“Not necessary. But I appreciate the offer,” Ice says.
I’d feel better if Ice would take some cash to cover whatever bribe he pays Jackson, but I offered and he rejected. End of discussion. It’s disrespectful if I keep pushing in front of everyone. And I run the risk of offending Ice.
“Rooster, you think you can pull your tongue out of your girl’s pussy long enough to party with us tonight?” T-Bone shakes with laughter.
My upper lip curls into a snarl.
“He ain’t wrong.” Jigsaw wiggles his tongue at me and adds some disgusting sloppy noises to draw the attention away from me gettin’ ready to pop T-Bone in the jaw for talkin’ about my girl that way.
Brothers around the table laugh and lob some insults at Jiggy. He grins and takes it in stride.
“Pussy patch!” a brother everyone calls Boots shouts. He slams his fist against the wood plank table. “That should be our next challenge patch.”
I roll my eyes Jigsaw’s way. “Look what you started.”
“Technically, it was T-Bone.”
Guys start banging their fists on the table while chanting “Pussy patch!”
Ice glances down and chuckles under his breath. “Jesus Christ.” He flicks a look at his VP. “That what you wanna spend your time doing?”
Farmer sits forward and slowly rubs his palms together. “Yeah. We can have a little cat face patch made up.”
“You wanna wear a fuckin’ kitty cat on your cut?” someone shouts.
“Fuckin’ A.” Pants punches his fist in the air. “Great fucking story when someone finds the balls to ask one of us.”
I don’t think their definition of ‘great story’ is the same as mine, but whatever. Not my club. Not my problem.
While the organization as a whole has its rules for certain patches, other decorative—or frivolous—patches are up to individual charters to decide. Each still needs to be earned or given to a brother. Can’t just decide you feel like stitching something cute on your cut for shits and giggles. It’s gotta mean something.
Even if it’s something filthy. Hell, especially if it’s filthy. The dirtier the story behind the patch, the better. Hence the old MC urban legends about “red wing” patches. Bikers are notoriously fond of sharing stories to mindfuck civilians.
“Listen up!” T-Bone slaps his palm against the table to get everyone’s attention. “These are the rules. Every day for thirty days, you gotta eat some cat.”
“Not a few token licks,” Boots adds. “You need to get the lucky lady off for it to count.”
“Thirty days?” Wings asks.
“What’s wrong, bro?” Boots taunts. “Weak tongue?”
“Fuck off.” Wings reaches below the table, I’m guessing to grab his dick. Thankfully I’m not close enough to verify. “Where’s my patch for gettin’ my dick sucked thirty days straight?”
“In your dreams,” Pants zings back.
“Question.” Wings punches his fist in the air like that eager kid in class you always wanted to punch in the face. “Does it have to be thirty days in a row? Or can we like double-up on days?”
I drop my head and rub my temples. Do I really need to be here for this?
The guys argue the merits of thirty days or thirty acts of oral culminating in an actual orgasm. Someone else asks about thirty times in one day, which Boots determines should be its own separate patch.
Once that discussion is finished—thirty days in a row is determined to be the harder challenge—T-Bone raises his hand in the air. “Dibs on Shonda.”
Brothers around the room groan.
“No way!” Boots pulls himself out of his chair and leans over the table so he can glare daggers at T-Bone.
“They take their pussy seriously here,” Jigsaw whispers to me.
“Apparently.”
“You can’t call dibs,” Boots argues. “There ain’t enough girls to go around as it is.”
Someone at the end of the table lifts a hand in the air. “Prez, is Anya—”
“No,” Ice snarls before the question’s even out. The brother who asked puts his hand down fast. After a second or two, Ice wipes the vicious expression off his face and adds in a milder tone, “Not unless you wanna film it for her site.”
At least six guys raise their grubby paws. “Fuck yeah, I don’t mind having the whole world watch me—”