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That would be a great day.
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~oOo~
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“Looks good,” Jay saidwith a grin. He sat at the clubhouse bar, having the obligatory post-church drink. He wanted to get back to Petra, who’d gone to Gertrude’s today to think about getting the doors open again, but if he left straight out of the chapel, Eight would be pissed.
Sam grinned back, tugging on the bottom of his new kutte. It had no patch on the back, only a rocker with the word PROSPECT. On the front was only the flash with the name of the club. Prospecting fucking sucked, but Jay had no doubt Sam would sail through. The dude was unflappable. He was also strong as fuck and had done all kinds of gross shit working on the farm with his mother.
Being a good Bulls prospect took three key things: a strong back, a strong stomach, and a closed mouth. Jay had struggled a lot with that last one, and a little with the middle one. Sam, like Zach, was already good at all three. He’d be fine.
“You ready for this shit?” Duncan, sitting at Jay’s side, asked Sam. “It ain’t easy—and some of the patches like to make it even harder.”
Working behind the bar, Monty, their more senior prospect, made a noise like a laugh escaping its cage.
Sam looked his way. “We should talk, yeah? Help each other out?”
Monty shrugged. After a quick glance around—probably checking for the older, meaner patches, all of whom were currently at a distance—he said, “Look, bruh. I’m good with you prospecting, and I don’t mind you actin’ like we’re in this shit together, but let’s not pretend this is gonna be the same for me and you. My old man ain’t a Bull. Nobody’s lookin’ at me like a legacy. You know?”
Well, that was interesting. Jay shot a look at Duncan, who was shooting a look at him. They both made the sameWell, that’s interestinglook at each other. The men at the bar right now were all young, had all been friends since childhood, so Monty popping off wasn’t unusual in their history, but the dynamic was different when two of the friends were patches and the other two were prospects.
Way back before Zach had moved away, he’d said something about wondering if Monty would make a good prospect. He’d come out of the Army changed in pretty obvious ways—chiefly, with a lot more anger and lot less interest in making nice. Which could be assets for a Bull, in certain circumstances, but could make the prospect period especially difficult, since prospecting was basically eating shit every day and acting like it was chocolate.
Monty was a great prospect, though, as far as Jay knew. Strong back, strong stomach, closed mouth. Was he going to have a problem with Sam prospecting?
“Do you have a problem with me prospecting?” Sam asked directly.
“I just said I don’t,” Monty tossed back. “I didn’t lie. I just want to make sure you don’t think we’re in the same boat, Sammy. The Bull is yours to lose. I gotta earn mine.”
Sam, who was tall like his father—just about every fucking Bull was taller than Jay, who was not short, goddammit! He was almost six feet tall!—and broad like the farmer he’d been most of his life, stood tall and puffed up.
“You think I don’t have to earn it? You think Jay and Dunc had easy times in a blank kutte? Fuck that, man. That’s bullshit.”
Monty smiled. It showed sincere humor and friendship, but also a warning. “I didn’t say it would be easy. Trust me, it ain’t. I’m saying it’ll be easier—not the work, but the result.” He swept his hand out, gesturing at Jay, Duncan, and Sam, all sitting across the bar from him. “Y’all were already Bulls the day you were born. You gotta fuck up to lose a chance at a patch, and even if you do, you’ll still be part of the family. I gotta be impressive for the same chance, and if I fuck it up, I’m out in the cold. That’s the difference. That’s what I need you to see.”
“You’re on a line, Mont,” Jay said quietly. “Careful.” Nothing Monty had said was wrong, but there was a taint of disrespect for Duncan and for Jay, two actual patches. That wasn’t okay for a prospect.
“You pullin’ rank, JJ?” Monty said. His smile had gained serrated points.
“I’m sayin’, be careful.”
“PROSPECT!” Eight Ball yelled, and both Monty and Sam flinched.
Eight had come into the party room from the chapel. Mav, Dex, Caleb, and Apollo followed behind him: the officers had hung back after church to talk more about the Nameless in California, after the Bulls had voted to offer that club a patch-over.
Jay was glad to be at the bottom of the org chart for that one; it seemed really complicated, possibly dangerous, and definitely game-changing.
Eight stalked straight at the bar, looking ready to perpetrate some violence. Sam’s eyes went wide as he realized Eight was aimed at him. Nobody gave prospects the kind of hard time their president did. And he did it mostly for sport.
Eight threw out a huge, gnarled fist and slammed it on Sam’s shoulder. “What do you think this is, prospect? It damn sure ain’t your patch party.” He snatched the beer bottle out of Sam’s hand and drank it down himself. “That shelf back there is half empty. Get your worthless ass downstairs and bring up a case of whiskey.” He shoved Sam in the direction of the basement.
“Ok, Eight. Sorry.” Pale and wide-eyed, Sam glanced around at his friends, found no help, and headed toward the basement.
As soon as Sam was barely out of earshot, Eight’s expression morphed into a humungous, shit-eating grin. “Damn, I love that shit.”
Monty was grinning, too, but when Eight saw it, he scowled and snarled, “Wipe that shit off your face, prospect. And get me a fuckin’ Jack.”
