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The Soulless Sinners may be one of the most feared motorcycle clubs, but we were still a club. We stayed true to our beliefs that men were men. Fuck with us and we will fuck you so hard your grandchildren will feel it. None of us played games with the club. The club wasn’t some pussy-bitch weekend getaway. Never was and never would be. We played the game by our rules and if anyone thought to fuck us in the ass, we rammed a pole up theirs. Most clubs were under the misapprehension that the Soulless Sinners were a one-percenter club, wrought with guns, drugs and skin trade. Fuckers would shit their pants if they knew the truth.
No, the Soulless Sinners were unlike anything any club had ever seen.
Motto number two: Looks can be deceiving.
On the outside, a Soulless Sinner looked like any otherJoe Schmuckatellion the damn street. Every brother owned their own business and contributed to society in their own way. While a few wore suits, the majority dressed casually. To the unsuspecting eye, my brothers were just everyday Joes. Only that was the farthest thing from the truth. Unlike most of the weak pussy fuckers in this town, the one thing that made my brothers stand out was the brand on their backs. Under those fancy, high priced clothes, the brothers bore the brand of who they truly were. A Soulless Sinner.
Like the brothers, our clubhouse didn’t look like much, just a raggedy, run-down warehouse that had seen better days.
A football field long, the clubhouse was more than a clubhouse. It was a home away from home. Yes, we still had the main recreational room with a bar, pool tables and other forms of enjoyment for brothers to pass the time. There were also offices for the officers and the boardroom where we held club meetings or church, as other clubs called it. There were rooms for the brothers and visitors as well as a large kitchen where a hired staff of four cooked anything we wanted. The booze was plentiful and the bitches were hot. Everything a brother could want.
Another thing about the Soulless Sinners, the National Chapter didn’t wear colors. Unlike the rest of the clubs scattered around the world who wore the cut to tell everyone where their allegiance lay, the National Chapter, the one I ruled, the brothers wore the brand of their commitment on their backs because that’s where I put it.
Coming to a stop, I backed my bike in my spot and cut the engine. Removing my helmet, I could hear the thumping, pounding music coming from inside. It was just another typical day for a Soulless Sinner. When the work was done, it was time to play.
Proceeding into the clubhouse, I looked around to find brothers milling around playing pool, drinking, throwing darts or feeling up their piece of the week. Just another hump day for the club.
God, I loved this place.
Taking off my leather gloves, I shucked my jacket, handing it to a prospect. I didn’t need to tell the fucker what to do with it. He fucking knew.
“Where’s Mercy?”
“In his office, Prez,” the prospect informed, before scurrying away. Grabbing a beer from the bar, I walked off in search of my V.P., Caleb ‘Mercy’ Davenport, owner and operator of the largest construction firm in the city. Mercy built high sky rise buildings that many visitors to my city oohed and aahed over. The man was always in demand, but he ran his business like I ran my club. With an iron fist. Mercy did nothing he didn’t want to do. When he made a decision, it was game over. As the prospect said, I found Mercy in his office, sitting at his desk typing away into his computer. Not bothering to knock, I walked in and made myself comfortable.
“Gonna go blind staring at that fucking thing.”
“City Hall wants the bid in before midnight. Don’t trust anyone else to do it.”
“How many jobs you got going now?”
“Three,” Mercy sighed. “I get this one and I will fill the company’s quota for the year.”
Shaking my head, I knew not to argue with the fucker. Mercy was one of the most determined, committed and biggest overachievers I knew. More importantly, I fucking appreciated him. Bastard didn’t comprehend the meaning of quit.
“Douche canoe’s taken care of.”
“About time. Did you call Kali and give her the good news?”
“Payne will take care of it.” Swallowing another long pull of my beer, I noticed the framed picture Mercy had on his desk. Reaching for it, I picked it up and smiled. “She’s gotten big. How old is Sophia now?”
“Almost six.”
Returning the frame back to where I found it, I cautiously asked, “How’s Largo?”
“Fine, I guess.”
“She still not talking?”
“Nope.”
Out of all the brothers, Mercy was the only one who had a wife and a kid. Well, had being the relevant word. Mercy’s wife, Largo, left him two years ago for no apparent reason. One day she was here, the next she was gone. None of us understood why. Before we could even find out what made Largo do a runner, she served Mercy with divorce papers and that was all she wrote. Now, Mercy saw his daughter every other weekend and for two weeks in the summer.
“She still living in that shitty apartment near Chinatown?”
Mercy sighed, looking from the computer at me. “Yeah. I’ve tried to talk her into moving into a safer area, even offered to put her up in an apartment in one of my buildings, but she refused. Won’t even take alimony. The courts had to order her to take the child support.”
“Makes no sense, brother.”
