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Besides, Eight liked the dark work. It was exciting. But they could damn sure use a little restraint. Not get blinded by dollar signs the next time they took a look at a new partner.
And maybe keep clear of the drug trade for a while.
“Let’s not muddy up a party with a gun run,” he said. “Niko wouldn’t like a reschedule. The mule run doesn’t go all the way to Cali anyway. We’re talking two runs west over the next few weeks.”
Fitz nodded. “I’ll have everything set for SoCal before we ride out.”
“Alright.” Eight looked around the table, at all the men looking at him. “Anything else?”
The patches around the table stayed quiet.
“Then I guess that’s a meeting.” Eight knocked the gavel on the oak surface of the Bulls’ table and felt a little sick.
~oOo~
After church, in a tradition as old as the club itself, the Bulls moved to the party room to drink. Most of the older guys would probably have one or two before they packed it in and went home to their families for the night, but the young ones would grab a girl and settle in to party for a long while.
Eight had never had a family to go home to, and there had been a lot of years when he was in the thick of the partying. He’d sampled just about every single sweetbutt who’d passed through the clubhouse door for thirty years, and he’d come out of a blackout drunk in some form of embarrassing situation in the party room or a crash pad, or even out back in the yard, hundreds of times. For most of his life, Eight hadn’t considered a night a good time if he hadn’t passed out.
But he’d been slowing down, gradually, for years. This past year, he’d turned into an old fogey. He’d toss back a couple, maybe grab a sweetbutt and get his rocks off, too, but he’d be out and on his way home by around ten. If he stayed too long watching the youngsters tearing one up, he’d get morose.
He’d be morose alone at home, too, but there wasn’t anybody around to remark on it.
For now, he sat at the bar. Duncan Helm, one of their prospects, had just replaced the kegs and was fucking with the taps, trying to get them to flow again.
“Get a move on, meat,” Eight snarled. He loved fucking with the prospects, especially this one. Dunc was Mav’s kid, and he had a hard time remembering he wasn’t a fucking club prince. “You should’ve had that done before church let out.”
“Gunner had me cleaning out the oil change bay. I just got that done like ten minutes ago. And I’m here on my own tonight. Chris didn’t show.”
“Don’t make fucking excuses, boy.” Maverick said and slid onto the stool beside Eight. “Just do what you’re told.”
Duncan gave his father a surly look, but he didn’t talk back.
Eight grinned. It was entertaining as fuck to watch Maverick give his son a hard time.
He wondered if Duncan knew justhowhard Maverick was making it for him. Duncan and JJ were about the same age, both twenty, and they’d come in together as prospects when they were eighteen. They’d both been put up by their sponsors for a vote after a year. JJ had been patched in. Maverick—who was not his son’s sponsor—had voted no on Duncan. Patch votes had to be unanimous.
Mav didn’t want his son in this life. When he’d refused to sponsor him, Duncan had gone around the table until he’d found a Bull willing to incur Mav’s wrath. Gargoyle had finally agreed.
Gargoyle and Maverick were still chilly over that.
When Gargo put Duncan up a second time, Maverick voted no again. The only no vote, again.
The kid’s two years was coming up fast. Something somewhere was going to have to give. Eight thought Mav was being a shit about it—Duncan was twenty years old, which made him a grown man; if he wanted this life it should be his call—but he didn’t really want to get between them. He and Mav had finally found a way to be easy with each other, and he didn’t want to fuck that up.
Eight liked Duncan a lot. The kid reminded him a little of himself, actually. Just like him, Dunc had trouble knowing when to keep his mouth shut, and he didn’t like to be bossed around. He’d matured over the past couple years, but he knew just like everybody that his prospect limit was rushing at him. That limit could be extended with a vote, but it didn’t happen often—and that vote needed to be unanimous, too. Duncan would likely get kicked if he hit two years as a prospect and wasn’t patched. Feeling threatened by that, he was starting to rebel.
Which was counterproductive, of course. Eightreallyunderstood that self-destructive impulse.
Votes didn’t leave the chapel, so the only person who’d tell Duncan it was his father holding him up was Maverick himself. Eight didn’t know if Maverick had told him so or not. On the other hand, Dunc wasn’t stupid. He likely knew, either way.
Probably why the kid was getting chippy.
He got the taps working and drew two Buds. Eight noticed that he didn’t look at his father as he pushed his glass to him.
If Maverick had noticed as well, he didn’t remark on it. Instead, he asked Eight, “Did you go out to check on Sage yesterday?”
Eight swallowed down half his beer before he answered. “Yeah. She’s okay. She said she just wanted to tuck in with the kids and think about him on their own.”
