Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 72931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“You know I can’t save you if he blows a fucking gasket when you poke him, right?” Filter asks, giving my brother a playful slap to the back.
“I’ve been poking my baby brother for sport since I was four years old. He’s used to it.” Copper flashes me an arrogant smile, his dark brown eyes glinting with amusement. “He likes it.”
“I also like cutting the throats of fuckers who talk too much,” I remind him, glaring. I toss my cigarette at my feet and stub it out with my black boot.
Copper shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down at the bright yellow FBI logo on his navy long-sleeved shirt under his matching jacket. “And I’m bound by duty to arrest you if you do.”
We share a knowing look. He’s my fucking brother. Blood over everyfuckingthing else.
“While this has been a touching moment,” Filter jokes, “let’s head over to the range. I’m feeling ragey since my bitch is on the rag and didn’t feel like giving head.”
I lift my brows. “Stormy’s always on the rag.”
“Better than being fucking pregnant,” he bites back.
True fucking story. I can’t be losing my VP to a pregnant bitch who I’m pretty sure gives it up to half the other Royal Bastards when he’s not looking. They’re not exclusive, so it’s not like he’ll kill anyone for touching her, but he’s the kind of guy who lives by some sort of moral code that most of us are missing. If Stormy gets knocked up, he’ll father the fuck out of that kid.
“Let’s roll then, assholes.”
I can hear Bermuda, my club treasurer and the big fucking redneck of the group, trying to explain to Nees how to hold his weapon. Filter gave Nees a little Glock that his green ass should be able to handle. I mean, I know the kid’s fresh out of high school, but this is common knowledge bullshit. I blame Copper for letting Nees spend so much time with Krista the cunt. It made him a fucking pussy. If I’ve learned anything in this lifetime, it’s that if you want to survive, you can’t act like a goddamn vagina.
“You coming to Church tonight?” I ask my brother as I load bullets into a magazine.
“Naw, man,” he grumbles. “I’m not patched in. Don’t change your rules for me.”
My rules.
Sure, I am president of the Tulsa chapter of the Royal Bastards MC, but at the end of the day, I abide by a different set of rules. My club follows those rules without hesitation. They may not understand where the hell my mind goes half the time, but they’re right there with me. Loyalty is everything to me. I reward them with money, pussy, and endless opportunities.
“Least stay for dinner. Stormy can cook half the time,” I offer. “You can spoon feed your baby boy.”
He laughs. “I still can’t believe you nicknamed him Nees. That’s harsh. Even for you.”
“He doesn’t act like a nephew. He acts like a vagina. A fucking niece. It’s better than Momma’s Tit, which was the other option.”
“Asshole,” he says with a smile.
Filter and Dragon begin firing at one of the targets, taking turns like two kids on the schoolyard. Nees awkwardly shoots his Glock while Bermuda watches like a proud parent.
Copper picks up one of my AKs and shoves a magazine into it. I grab my own AK and walk with him over to a dirt patch. We both raise our weapons, standing side by side, and without hesitation unload into the target tied to a bale of hay about fifty feet away. The sound is deafening as we unload our magazines. We finish at the same time and lower our guns like practiced soldiers.
Some call it target practice. I call it preparation.
The other Royal Bastards chapters are building their clubs with members.
I’m creating a fucking army.
“Calm the fuck down,” Payne, my SGT at Arms barks out. “You dumbasses better not be drunk.”
Gibson and Bizzy try and fail to stop their laughing. I don’t have the energy for their comedy tonight. They’re the fucking bozos of this club. Goddamn children.
“Not drunk,” Gibson assures Payne. “Scout’s honor.”
Payne grits his teeth. It’s his job to keep order at Church, but sometimes these outlaws are too damn disorderly for that shit. “Bermuda, give us a rundown on finances.”
This is my favorite part of Friday nights. Discussing how much money we made. At one time, I was the breadwinner for my family. Now, I’m the leader of a club of misfits who are pretty fucking smart and can win their own damn bread. They make me lots of money. Dirty, filthy money. Money we take from those who don’t deserve it in order to further our own agenda.
Bermuda pushes his reading glasses up his nose, looking like a fucking grandma, and opens his laptop. We’re like those other Royal Bastards and other motorcycle clubs in the sense that we have a strong brotherhood and are always up to some shit. But where we differ is we don’t live in some rundown clubhouse that smells like piss and old beer. We look like bikers, but beneath the leather and hair and snarls, we’re savvy businessmen. Every single one of my guys drives an expensive-ass bike, has a fat bank account, and takes a fucking shower every day.