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“Hoooooj,” Eight said with a grin. They clasped hands and hugged hard and quick.
“You look good, kid,” Hoosier said.
Eight laughed. Only Hooj could still think of him as a kid. “Thanks, brother.”
Hoosier patted the president flash on Eight’s chest. “It suits ya.”
“I guess. I just wish Beck was still wearin’ it.”
“Yeah,” Hoosier said with a solemn nod. Then he looked around and lifted his voice. “Welcome, brothers! I’m sure you’re tired, so come on in. We got food, drink, weed, and women lined up and ready!”
~oOo~
While the exterior of the SoCal compound wasn’t much to look at, inside it was shiny and new and well tricked out. Lots of space for crash pads in the back, as well as several offices. And the Virtuoso Cycles showroom at the far end. Eight never had gotten excited by fancy-ass bikes; he liked his bikes black and tough as nails and didn’t care about wild paint finishes or weird profiles that were more like art than bike. But even he had to admit the showroom looked pretty great. They’d done the whole thing up in super sleek, modern style and the Horde colors of red, black, and silver. It looked good.
California women looked pretty damn fine, too.
Unlike the Bulls these days, most of the SoCal Horde were single. Eight remembered this phenomenon from back in the day, when most of the Bulls had been single. When there was a lot of opportunity—real or perceived—for a chick of the right mindset to maybe find herself a biker to pin down, more of those chicks showed up. It made for a better class of pussy in the joint.
They had some great chicks in Tulsa, too, but some of them had been around for a long time. Jesus, Kymber was pushing fifty. She was still a good-looking woman, but she looked good for middle age. Gravity had done some damage. She’d been a favorite of Eight’s for several years, but her tits had started to really sag, and her ass had gone flat. Then Heidi had started hanging around, and Eight had moved on.
Nobody was really fucking Kymber anymore, but she’d been around so long her place in the clubhouse would be safe until the day she died. Still, Sage had told Eight he was an asshole for dropping her.
To which he’d replied that, yes, he was an asshole. No question. But also, he wasn’tdatingKymber. She was club pussy, and he’d been getting some. The whole point of sweetbutts was to have a hot chick to fuck. Firm and perky and flexible.
Sage had climbed up on a barstool to slap him up the back of the head.
Remembering that, Eight chuckled; then the feeling turned dark. That memory was a couple years old. Back before he was president. Before everything felt like shit every day.
He knocked on the bar and got the attention of a rosy-cheeked prospect named Peaches.
“Yes, sir?” Peaches asked.
Eight grinned. It was impossible to feel so bad that there was no fun in making a prospect’s knees shake. “Another, meat. Now.”
As the kid ran to grab the Jack Daniels from the other side of the bar, Showdown sat beside Eight. “One for me, kid,” he said to Peaches. Turning to Eight, he asked, “You okay, brother?”
“Yeah, why?”
“You’re quiet. I don’t know if I’ve ever known you to sit quiet in a corner at a party. On the road, I figured it was your leg buggin’ you. But you’re still sittin’ here on your own, and I saw you brush that hot little redhead off.”
“I’m fine. I don’t see you pullin’, either.” The words were a reflex, and they were stupid. Showdown Ryan was a world-class wallflower. Over the course of decades, Eight could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen the guy even get a blowjob on a run or in a clubhouse.
Show answered as if Eight didn’t know better. “I got an old lady and kids at home. Hell, I even got a grandkid now. There’s no piece of ass worth putting all that on the scale. Nothing compares to having a family.”
Feeling morose and testy, Eight grunted and finished his whiskey. He slammed the empty glass down in front of the prospect. “Again, meat.”
“Something’s goin’ on with you, Eight,” Show observed.
Now Eight was pissed. Show was a friend, an ally, but it wasn’t like they were close. He didn’t like him sitting here trying to probe around in his head. “What, you’re a shrink now, Show?”
With a low chuckle, Show shook his head. “No, brother. Sorry to pry.” He stood, dropped a hand on Eight’s shoulder, and moved along.
Alone again, Eight snatched his glass from the prospect and poured it down his throat.
He didn’t want to be here.
In fact, he didn’t have to be. The big party wasn’t until the following night. Tonight, it was just the usual rowdiness that happened when friendly clubs got together. Tomorrow, there’d probably be speeches and who knew what kind of bullshit they had planned to commemorate the new charter. He’d be missed if he weren’t around for that, being the Bulls president and all.
