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Cyrus lights up a fat cigar while we all settle. Once he gets it going, he bangs the gavel. “Rigger, what do you have for us?”
“The Honey Pot Ranch is officially ready for business,” I say with a smirk. Everyone cheers, pounding on the table with wide smiles. For most, the praise would feel good. For a man like me, who grew up without a kind word ever spoken about him, it’s fucking priceless.
“That’s good to hear. Since you’ve been in charge of this whole project, fill us in on the details.” Cyrus sits back and blows smoke rings into the air.
“I’ll start at the beginning since I don’t remember who I’ve told what.” I pull the folded stack of papers out of my back pocket and spread out the mockups our architect created. Never thought I’d be coordinating with a fucking architect, but here we are. “These will give you an idea of the layout. As you know, we bought an abandoned motel twenty miles out of town in Storey County. After stripping it to the studs and reworking the layout, we now have twenty-two suites with attached baths where the girls will stay for their tours, twenty themed rooms where they’ll see clients, a laundry room, kitchen, dining room, parlor, massage room, beauty room, a pool and spa, security room, gym, and a clinic.”
“So the girls don’t see clients in their rooms?” Golden, the treasurer, asks.
“No. That’ll be their space to decompress and shit since they’ll be living there for up to a month per tour. It’ll make it easier for housekeeping too.”
“How come we didn’t get a say in hiring the sluts?” Dutch, the enforcer, asks.
“First of all, they’re not sluts, they’re courtesans. Second, you weren’t part of the hiring process because you’re a dirty bastard.” The guys laugh at Dutch’s expense. “But for real, we have a madam who did all the hiring. There’s more to it than finding a girl who’ll spread her legs. They gotta pass background checks, STI tests, and get licensed through the county. This isn’t some back-alley glory hole or happy-ending massage joint. We’re a legit business, boys; it’s time we start acting like businessmen.”
Until last year, we had three main sources of revenue: contract killing, drug manufacturing, and our legal weed shop, Dope. After some shit went down in the club and the Royal Bastards MC blew up our warehouse, we had to make a choice. Ultimately, we let go of the manufacturing. It was too risky and left us vulnerable to the cops and our enemies.
That’s when I brought the Honey Pot to the table. We needed a legal venture to take some pressure off Dope to clean our cash and make everyone think we’ve gone legit.
Yeah, it’s dealing in pussy, but we’re still an MC. No one expects us to become lawyers or doctors. Looking over at Bones, whoisa doctor, I take that back. He’s just never used the degree for anything except patching our asses back together.
“I’m gonna ask what we’re all thinking. Are we allowed to partake?” Riot, our road captain, asks.
“Absolutely not, and you bastards can’t hook up with any of the girls outside of the brothel, either. It’s against the law, and if we want to keep this thing runnin’, we gotta do everything by the book.”
My brothers nearly cry at the news. Minus Mustang, our secretary, who doesn’t fuck pussy and is in a serious relationship with a man named Jenson. I sigh in agreement because that shit’s unfair. We’ll have some of the most beautiful women from around the world there, whose only job is to get people off, and we can’t touch them.
“You fuckers have more cunt than you can handle, and most of it is sitting right outside those doors,” Cy scolds. He’s become a father figure to the younger generation and a stand-up leader to all of us, but he sure as hell wasn’t set up for success when he took over last year.
After losing two presidents within nine months, we were fractured. If it weren’t for him, our club wouldn’t have survived.
“What else you got for us?” Cy asks, turning his attention back to me.
“Employment. I’m sticking a sign-up sheet at the bar. Three of us have to be at the Honey Pot twenty-four hours a day. Each room has a panic button, and if that alarm goes off, you need to get to the girl in thirty seconds or less. Not to mention, I expect the occasional unruly clients, scorned boyfriends, pissed-off wives of clients, and others who don’t appreciate what we’re building. If I don’t get enough volunteers, I’ll assign you assholes to pick up shifts.”
“That understood?” Cy narrows his eyes and is met with a room of nodding heads. “Good.”
“We open the day after tomorrow, but I’m inviting all of you to check out the place and meet the girls tomorrow night.” That perks my brothers back up.
“All right, if that’s it, y’all have a party going on out there, and my woman is waiting for me at home.” Cy bangs the gavel, and we file out to the main space.
The clubhouse is an old manufacturing warehouse. From the outside, it looks like a rusty metal building, with a row of windows around the top perimeter and double garage doors on one end. On the inside, though, it’s a work of art.
Although it’s two-stories tall, we took the second floor out, opting for high ceilings with exposed pipes and wooden beams. It’s one large, open space, save for the kitchen, Church, and bathrooms. The flooring is polished cement, painted in brown and copper tones, giving it a marble effect.
The main space is sectioned into three zones: the bar, the party area, and the dining room. The bar is twenty-five feet long with a green patina copper top, and behind it are rows and rows of back-lit glass shelves lined with liquor. We don’t stock any of that foo-foo liqueur shit, either. I’m talking Johnnie Black, Johnnie Red, Jack, Jose, Crown, and Tito’s. That’s it.
The party area has two pool tables, a slightly raised stage with a stripper pole, and a few bar-height tables. There’s also a TV big enough to see players’ nose hairs watching a Raider’s game.
On the other side of the bar is an industrial kitchen that Mustang’s mom, Sugar, keeps sparkling clean. She moved in after the club saved her from her abusive as fuck boyfriend years ago and never left. Now, she’s a mom to us all, kicking our asses when we need it and showing us love when we need that, too. She’s also the unofficial wrangler of the patch pussy, putting them to work and making sure they don’t step out of line.
“Rigger,” Cy calls out, waving me over.
I walk over to the front door. “Yeah?”
He claps a hand on my shoulder. “I can’t tell you how important this brothel is for us. Without it, we got nothing, no back-up plan. I don’t know how many of these guys will stick around if it fails. Could mean the end of the Sons.”
I straighten my posture, not showing an ounce of doubt. “It’ll work, Prez. Trust me.”
