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“I want him to make the life he wants,” Simon answered. “I’m a little cautious about it for the reasons you’d understand, Mav. I don’t want him making the mistakes I made. I don’t want to see my boy behind bars someday, or something worse. And Mason’s coming up right behind him, so ... I’m cautious. But another thing makes me cautious—Sam’s never talked about taking a patch before. Mason’s been wanting one since he was in grade school, but Sam was never interested. He seemed happy working the farm with his mom. So I don’t know. I want him to want it, and if he does it, to do it right.”
“That’s what the prospect period is for,” Fitz offered. “To give a man a chance to prove he really wants it, and that he can be trusted to keep it sacred.”
“If he does ask to prospect, are you gonna sponsor him?” Jazz asked.
“No. His sponsor shouldn’t be his father.” When Gunner started to chime in, Simon put his hand up. “Or his uncle. We’re too invested.”
Gunner closed his mouth and sat back.
“I’ll sponsor him,” Jay said. He’d made that offer to Sam sincerely.
But Eight laughed. So did Gunner and Jazz. Most of the others were smiling or shaking their heads. Simon looked at him with his head cocked, like he’d never seen Jay before and couldn’t make out what he was.
Totally humiliated, Jay was torn between wanting to flip the table and needing to sink through the floor. Unable to accomplish either, he sat back and crossed his arms.
“That’s a bad idea, kid,” Eight said, still grinning. “A sponsor needs to be a role model. You’re not ready for that.”
Jay said nothing. He stared at the table and stewed, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. When he sensed Duncan turn and try to catch his eye, he ignored him.
“I’ll sponsor him,” Fitz offered. “If he decides he wants it.”
“Thanks, brother,” Simon said.
“Okay, that’s handled,” Eight said. “Anything else?” When nobody else chimed in, he said, “We got two pieces of business. First is the next run west. We’ll collect the cargo two weeks from tomorrow, get it to Laughlin no later than two weeks from Sunday. It’s a standard run, no unusual items, so we need a crew of five. Talk to Fitz if you want in for sure, or if you need out for sure. JJ, I want you on this one.”
Jay had been listening, but he’d also been studying his list of grievances, so he didn’t fully process Eight’s words in real time. When Duncan sent an elbow into his arm, he realized at once why and looked up.
“What? Why?”
“You know why. You need the miles, and your old man says you need to stop avoiding your brother. So I want you on this run.”
Hewasavoiding his brother, but that was his business, nobody else’s. Not even his father’s. Pop wasn’t at this table anymore and Eight was doing his bidding anyway? That was fucked up. Not to mention the fucked-up-ness of Pop going behind his back to get Eight to do his dirty work.
“What if I say no?” He ignored the way the air in the room seemed to change with his question. But he couldn’t ignore the way Eight’s expression hardened.
Before the president could say anything, Maverick said, “You need the miles, JJ.”
“He’s right, Jay,” Fitz, their road captain, agreed. “Right now, you’re not on track to hit your minimum. But this Nevada run will catch you up.”
Not hitting his minimum miles meant losing his vote.
“Fine, I’ll do it.”
Eight glared at him for another few seconds, then nodded sharply and moved on. “Last piece of business: we got a club to consider patching over. Apollo, Jazz, you’re on.”
The club tech nerds got busy. Jazz got up to dim the lights while Apollo turned on the projector and opened his tablet.
Jay, Duncan, and Christian, sitting with their backs to the wall the projector faced, turned around.
A posed photo of ten men in kuttes was the image on the wall. The front row of four men held a banner up before the group. It was a club photo, like pretty much every club did. This banner was black with gold and white lettering and a gold and white patch on either side: The Nameless. Eureka, California. Their patch was a blank face.
“Eureka?” Gunner asked with obvious surprise. “That area’s fucked up. Those assholes are crazy out there. Really hardcore.”
“It was crazy when weed was illegal,” Dex said. “But weed’s dried up since it’s been fully legal in some states, and might as well be everywhere.”
“The Nameless,” Apollo said, ignoring that exchange. “Established 1983 by Philip Foundry and his brother George.” He flipped to another slide showing two mug shots of typical ornery-looking old men. “They did a big business in weed—growing, selling, transporting, the whole deal—for most of their existence, but Dex is right. We all know weed’s dried up on the black market. It’s been fully legal in Cali since 2016, and there’s not much underground market for it anywhere these days. What there is isn’t worth big investment. The Nameless were big players in the Nineties and Aughts, and they had everybody at heel back then. Just as hardcore as Gun said. But they’re struggling now and ripe for a patch-over. Philip is dead and George retired after he wiped out and broke his back. Phil’s son, Evan”—he flipped to another slide, showing another mugshot and another ornery, slightly younger man—”took the gavel when George retired, but Evan just went down for life for killing a witness. Now their club’s in a mess, two patches fighting for the gavel, bills not getting paid, shit falling apart. If we patch them over, it solves a lot of their problems and addresses our needs.”
Maverick leaned forward and looked around the table. “I said this in the officer meeting, and I’ll say it here. I don’t like it. Those men don’t sound like Bulls.”
