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The club was in the basement of an old school and, according to most people of Navesink Bank, didn't actually exist. Only a select few—mainly the criminal sort, or the very rich, or a combination of the two—knew it existed. And they were who showed up and placed bets on which one of us would win.
I always had pretty good odds.
Because I almost never lost.
But if there was a new fighter in town that was being kept a secret from me, Jax was right, I wasn't sure how cocky I could feel about it. If he was being a dick in keeping him secret, I had to imagine he was good. Good enough to beat me.
Losing was part of fighting.
You'd think it would get easier.
It didn't.
I didn't want it to.
I fought because I liked that it was a challenge, because it was unpredictable. If I accepted a possible loss before I even started, I would never put so much into winning.
I didn't need the money that came from a win. Hell, I didn't even need the money that came from a loss. I made enough as a biker, and helping around at one of the many—and growing—legitimate businesses the Henchmen had going.
I didn't even have many living costs since I was currently shacking up at the Henchmen compound. I had no need yet for my own place, so I didn't bother. It made more sense to stay at the clubhouse so I could pull my guard shifts when I needed to, then just walk inside, go to my room, and pass out.
So the money that came from the fights, that was just socked away in a safe place for an eventual house if or when the time came. Eventually, the numbers of the club were going to keep increasing as the kids of the older members—like me, like Finn, like a few others—got old enough to patch in. They would need places to stay in those early days. Then it would be time to move on. And I was prepared for that day.
But today wasn't it.
Neither was tomorrow.
Or this weekend.
Whether I won or lost the fight.
The uncertainty of my unknown opponent was still niggling at me as I pulled my bike in through the gates of the clubhouse.
It was a low, squat building that had once served as a mechanic's shop back before the father of the current president started the club.
There wasn't much to note about the outside save for the tall, barbed wire and electrified fences, the trenches, the armed guards—all remnants of all the past wars the club had been through and survived well enough to decide they wanted to make sure it didn't happen again if they could help it. The main feature of the whole place was the glass room up on the roof that could be seen for miles in each direction. The way I heard it, it was made from DARPA glass that was strong enough to withstand any sort of firearm.
It didn't need to constantly be manned these days like it had in the past, but one of us usually chose to take our guard shift up there when we could anyway. There weren't a lot of places in Navesink Bank where you could get away from it all. And when you were constantly surrounded by your brothers, their wives, even their kids, it was nice to have a place to be alone.
"Hey," I said, nodding to one of the OG men as he made his way out the door, giving me a strange look I didn't know how to interpret. Maybe it was because I was all busted up again. Though, you'd think at that point, they'd all have accepted that there was hardly a week when I wasn't cut or bruised or icing my ribs.
But then I stepped into the main area of the clubhouse, hearing the voices of some of my brothers coming from the kitchen.
The clubhouse had a pretty big common area with an actual bar to the right inside the door—dark wood gleaming, a back bar that was always fully stocked—a pool table to the left, then a living room with a massive TV and various gaming systems in beyond that, nearer to the door that led into the backyard.
To the side of that TV was the kitchen where the voices were coming from, raised enough to hear every word.
I could make out Finn, my makeshift doctor, and his older brother—and our future president—Fallon along with Seth, another legacy kid around our ages.
"Well, who the fuck is going to tell him?" Fallon asked. Even from across the space, the laid-back cockiness was there in his voice.
"I'm not telling that psychopath shit," Finn shot back, but there was a lightness in his voice, always the brother with a little more levity, a little less intensity.
