Page 32 of Property of Kevlar

He couldn’t help but smirk. Finally, he had silenced his older sister. He said something she couldn’t immediately retort to.

Little victories like this one gave him life.

“We’re Royal Bastards,” he informed.

She laughed. “I’ve never heard a more fitting name in the history of motorcycle clubs.”

Enough banter. Time to get down to brass tacks.

“You’re still with Paul, right?” Kevlar asked, moving the conversation along. He didn’t have all day to sit on the phone with her.

“Yes,” she said, skepticism lacing the word.

He nodded. “We’ve got a meeting.”

“Why?”

“I told you.” He grinned. “We’re doing it better.”

“I don’t know what that means.” Exasperation came through the line.

“You don’t have to,” he quipped, doing his best not to let annoyance take hold. “Just rest assured that your family is back in town, and things are going to go well. But if you want to be helpful, maybe get your boyfriend on our side.”

“We were fine before you showed up,” she snapped, ignoring his request.

He held a hand over his chest as though she could see him and let out an exaggerated gasp. “You mean you didn’t miss us?”

She groaned. “Not really.”

Enough playing games. She wasn’t participating anyway. So what was the point?

“Whatever. We’re here.” He glanced toward his brother, who had immersed himself in his phone, scrolling.

“Thanks for telling me.”

“Anytime, sis,” he said. “Love you. Talk to you soon.”

With the call ended, he stuffed the cell back into his pocket. “We should go to the Knucklehead and find Jerry.”

Kid tucked his phone away with a nod.

Using the shop and invading Remi’s space wasn’t ideal. The room was small, filled with car parts, and had entirely too much traffic. It would work in a pinch, but they needed something bigger and better. He couldn’t come up with a more perfect place to set up and recruit members than a biker bar.

18

Kevlar

The Knucklehead was exactly how Kevlar remembered. A large bar in the front, with neon beer signs and Harley-Davidson memorabilia as far as the eye could see. A stage to the left where local bands performed. Even empty, the establishment screamed biker bar. Stolen street signs adorned the walls between posters boasting future performers.

Unfortunately, the sign at the door troubled him.

Since when had Jerry declared no colors? This was a kick in the nuts.

This used to be the stomping grounds of the Roughneck Riders. He’d had more beers underage in this place than he could count. Back in the day, they had their own section. The booths and the tables in the far corner had been their spot. No one else could sit there. No reserved sign was needed. People just understood.

Standing among the empty tables as workers tended to broken lights and stocked the bar, Kevlar frowned at the Metallica poster, which hung where the Roughneck Riders’ logo had once been.

Kid tapped his arm, drawing his attention to the chubby balding man ambling toward them on bowed legs. He’d never been an official member of the Roughneck Riders. Apparently, he’d injured himself in his youth and couldn’t ride a motorcycle—a requirement for membership. Despite that, Jerry had always been loyal to Snoopy and his former brothers.