The Horde rolled in near nine o’clock, their Harleys roaring through the neighborhood. They were a tiny club these days, with only six patches, not including Isaac Lunden and Len Wahlberg, who were currently doing hard time in a Fed pen. But the Horde had given up the outlaw life when they’d all ended the Perros, so it didn’t matter how many men sat at their table.
As he walked through the clubhouse to greet their guests, Eight looked around, made sure the Bulls were putting on a good show. The days when Mo Delaney remodeled a different room every year were long past them, and the clubhouse had a little bit more wear on it, but it looked good. Eight had always thought they were really missing a bet not having a mechanical bull in the joint, and he’d pushed for it during his VP days, but it turned out those things took a fuck ton of space. Shame.
But they had their big brazen bull grill going in the yard, and Gunner and Gargo were manning it. Apollo’s fancy sound system was blaring Molly Hatchet. There would be good food, good drink, good music, good friends, good pussy tonight.
He opened the door and went out to meet the Horde.
~oOo~
“How’re they doin’?” Eight asked Showdown, current president of the Missouri Horde. “Do you know?”
Showdown drank about half his beer before he answered. Eight was a big guy, but Show had both inches and pounds on him. The fucker was huge. He was around Eight’s age, too, and life had taken its pieces from him as well. They both limped like old men these days.
“Yeah. Their old ladies go up as often as they can, and I go with them when I can. They’re doin’ as well as we can expect, I guess. Marion’s no picnic.” Show eyed him. “You know what it’s like.”
Eight nodded, but he wasn’t sure if his experience in the state pen was better, worse, or similar to a stint with the Feds. Simon had done his time with the Feds, but they hadn’t talked much about it. Prison wasn’t something you spent much time reminiscing about, if you could help it.
Show had finished his beer, so Eight shouted “MEAT!” at the hangaround working the bar, who was at the opposite end, pouring whiskeys for a couple Horde and the girls they’d snagged.
They had the prospects at the station until it closed at eleven, so hangarounds were doing the party work. Eight didn’t see any of them making prospect. It was a pretty bleak bunch these days. Personally, he’d love to see them patching in all these boys the Bulls had made. Zach and JJ, the first two up, were good patches, despite JJ’s current trouble. Duncan would make a good patch, too. Kids brought up in this clubhouse understood the life. Maverick needed to get over himself.
The hangaround, whose name Eight neither knew nor cared to know, rushed down to their end of the bar. “More beer?”
“Whiskey for me this time, kid,” Show said. Eight nodded.
As the kid poured them full glasses, Eight said, “I guess Hooj’s got you in the loop with the new charter. What took them so long to get going? Didn’t y’all approve the charter before Isaac and Len went in?” They’d gone inside in January, about nine months earlier.
Show shrugged. “Hooj checks in, but it’s his house, so I don’t dig deeper than I need to. But remember, the Perros blew up their LA compound, so they had to start over from scratch in a whole new town. Getting that showroom set up was expensive, too. It all took some doin’. But yeah, they’ve been patched for months. It’s just now they’re ready to party.”
Like the Bulls had the Sinclair station, a legitimate business to front all the other shit they did, and the Missouri Horde had had a construction company, SoCal had a custom bike business, as well as a gig renting bikes and doing stunt riding for Hollywood. The custom shop had some renown. They made beautiful bikes, though a lot flashier, overall, than Eight liked.
“Hi, fellas.” Heidi, one of Eight’s favorite sweetbutts these days, oozed in between him and Show. Knowing her business, she leaned Show’s way, easing a hand up his back and over his shoulder to play with the ends of his long hair. “You want some company, handsome? I’d love to get my thighs around this big bod.”
Show gave her a sidelong grin and showed her his thick wedding band. “I’m outta that game, sweetheart. Whiskey’s my only party these days.”
Heidi affected a pout. “That’s disappointing.” Recovering quickly, she turned to Eight and sidled up close, like she had permission to get all up on him—which, normally, she did. But Eight wasn’t feeling it.
And that was fucking weird. He always wanted to fuck. There was never a time he wasn’t in the mood. Shit, he’d had three girls at once the night Beck died. He’d been crazy with fury and grief and absolutely ravenous.
So what was up tonight? Too much shit in his head? Nothing going on now had been as hard as that night last year, so it wasn’t that.
As he poked around in his head, he thought of Marcella. Was that it? She was in his head again, and the very thought of her was sidelining him?
But he didn’t evenlikeher. She was a combative bitch raking him over the coals.
Fuckthat. There wasn’t a chance in hell he’d let that foul-mouthed, vindictive cunt fuck around in his head. He grabbed Heidi. “Yeah, sweets, let’s party.” With a glance at Show, he asked, “You okay?”
Show lifted his half-empty glass, miming a toast. “I’m good. I’ll probably call my old lady soon and then crash upstairs.”
“Mi casa es su casa, compadre,” Eight said and pulled Heidi toward the stairs to the crash pads.
He was going to fuck her until every trace of the name Marcella Lewis was scraped from his brain.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“He wouldn’t get a lawyer, would he?”
At her mother’s question, Marcella leaned forward a bit and shook her head. “He hates lawyers and courtrooms. He wouldn’t.” She could point out that his record would come up, too, which he’d also hate, but they were sitting in the nail salon, and she didn’t want to put her business out in the middle of the room. At least not more than her mother and sister already had.