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Slash had made a solid decision when he’d looked at the warehouse and seen something none of us could. The potential.
The Henchmen in Navesink Bank, our other chapter, had a decent-sized clubhouse that they’d built onto several times through the generations. But it was still a bit tight around the shoulders with how many men they had.
Slash’s plan was always to have a big crew. So he knew we needed space. And while it cost a pretty penny to convert a long-abandoned factory, it meant there were fifteen-thousand square feet that were divided pretty much equally amongst the three floors.
It was about what you’d expect from a factory, since we didn’t give a shit that it was industrial-looking, with cement floors, exposed and rusted beams on the ceiling, and a shitton of windows.
The main floor was open-concept, all of it sort of melting into itself.
Inside the front door, you walked into a foyer area where we set our helmets above a long bench with hooks for our keys beneath each.
From there was the living room/common area. It was a huge space with a massive TV, sound system, and an oversized sectional.
Right beyond that was a game area with a pool table with bright purple felt, a foosball table, an air hockey table, and darts set up.
Toward the back was one sectioned-off space where the main floor bathroom was set up beside the freight elevator that led up to the second floor.
The kitchen was to the side of that space—an industrial-looking space with oversized, commercial-grade stainless steel appliances. From the eight-burner stove to the stand alone fridge and freezers that I could probably comfortably stand inside. The cabinets were black, and the tops were stainless steel.
The kitchen, that was all Detroit’s domain.
The rest of us would probably just order in or eat ramen and shit most of the time.
But Detroit liked to cook, so he kept us good and fed.
“Big,” Coach said as we climbed out of the SUV and made our ways to the doors.
“Yeah, it’s a massive space. The second floor has the bedrooms. We each have something like twenty-by-fifteen bedrooms up there. Plus there’s four full bathrooms and a sitting area. And, like I said, the third floor is unfinished. We have the ten bedrooms now, so we don’t need more. Seven of us right now. If you prospect, we’d only be at eight.”
“Twenty-by-fifteen,” Coach murmured as I opened the door.
I remembered Judge being awestruck about that space when he’d first joined too. After years in a six-by-ten cell that was shared by at least one other inmate, that had to sound like a fucking mansion. Hell, it was like a mansion to me, and I hadn’t been locked in a cage for years.
“Yeah. Lots of room for books and yoga,” I said, moving inside where Coach was greeted immediately by Judge and Dell’s corgi, Sal, who had never met a human he didn’t immediately assume was his best friend. From his perch on the back of the couch, Devil Cat was decidedly less interested as he casually lifted his gray paw for a thorough licking.
“Yeah, should have warned you about him.”
“Yeah,” Coach scoffed. “He’s a real killer. Scared for my fucking life here,” he said as Sal frantically licked his hand.
“So, this is the clubhouse. Kinda goes without saying. Common area. Where we hang and party. Kitchen where Detroit,” I said, pointing toward the man in question, “makes sure we don’t all starve. There’s a bathroom through there, and a freight elevator. And that is Slash,” I said as the man came out of the back room I hadn’t mentioned, a small space where we stored some of the guns behind thick walls and multiple security doors. “The president,” I clarified. “Slash, this is Coach,” I said.
“Hey, thanks for coming,” Slash said.
If Coach was shocked by the scars on Slash’s face, he showed no signs of it. A good poker face was also an asset to the club.
“Thanks for inviting me. So how does an interview for a gun-running MC work?” he asked, getting a smirk from Slash.
“I guess the first thing we could do is offer you a drink,” Slash said, waving over toward the bar area set up in the game room part of the space.
“Could go for that,” Coach agreed, following him, putting his shit down on the couch, then nodding when Slash’s fingers ran over the fronts of the bottled, picking the tequila.
“And then I have to ask you a pretty obvious question,” Slash said, handing one glass to Coach and taking the other for himself.
“What’s that?” Coach asked, throwing back the drink in one gulp.
“What did you go to prison for?” Slash asked.
“Thought you had my file.”
“Yeah. And it has the facts. Breaking-and-entering, terroristic threats.”
“Criminal threats,” Coach corrected him. “They stopped calling it ‘terroristic threats’ a while back.”
