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“Back to the funds, fellas,” Bush reminds. “We’ve got to figure out how we’re gonna fill the gap. Normally, we get some huge boosts from the semi-annual bike show we do… but that’s not for another three months. We need something in the spare time.”
“We could always cut back on beer,” Cash offers from his seat next to Mason. He earns even louder boos than Ozzie had. His blue eyes twinkle as if he expected such a reaction, though he was joking.
Finally, Mason decides to step in. He’s remained silent at the head table where the club leadership sits until now. He rises up from his seat and surveys the men around the cavernous room.
“We don’t like doing it, but it might be time we get back into dealing.”
Immediately, the room breaks out in conversation. It’s obvious from the get-go there’s mixed feelings on the suggestion. Some men express agreement with what Mason said while others shake their heads and explain why it’s a bad idea.
Though I might not know what dealing in an MC involves, I have an idea.
I deliver Bush, Tito, and Ozzie fresh bottles, and then slide my tray under my arm.
These men are getting nowhere. Nobody has any creative ideas beyond intimidation and law breaking.
Beyonddealing.
Velma said not to get involved, to keep my head down, and do my job.
But as the men discuss amongst themselves what to do, I see it as an opportunity. Potentially, one that could blow up in my face. They could grow angry I’d dare speak up, or even eavesdrop on their discussion.
Orthey could be grateful.
I inhale a quiet breath and make my decision.
“I have an idea.”
My voice is meeker, lower than usual.
At first no one hears me.
Ozzie’s the only one to notice—he nudges Cash who motions to Mason and then to me.
Suddenly, the whole bar room falls silent enough to hear my pounding heart. All eyes land on me, the dozens of leather-clad men turning their attention my way.
I swallow, muster up more confidence, and speak louder. “I have an idea. Why don’t we… what about if we hold a fundraiser?”
“A fundraiser?” Bush grunts.
“Yes,” I answer, clutching my large tray. “It’s summertime. Kids are out of school. The days are longer. People like to be out and about. We can make it family themed—a Steel King community fundraiser. Maybe do stuff like photoshoots with bike displays and sell club merchandise. We can open up the saloon. What about serving a simple food menu? Burgers and franks off a grill?”
Nobody says anything. Everybody stares at me.
For seconds on end.
I lose my nerve, my confidence vanishing. A cold wave of instant regret passes over me as I realize I’ve made a big mistake. I’ve overstepped my place.
These men are not amused. I should’ve listened to Velma. But then—
“That’s not half bad,” pipes up Big Eddie. “Lots of kids love the Kings. They’d want to come by to see the bikes. Buy a civilian patch.”
“We only sell merchandise during our semi-annual events,” Mason says coldly.
“Maybe we need to update that rule in our charter. What do you think, Tito? You’re sergeant at arms,” says Bush.
“I could see it working,” Cash says with a nod. “A fundraiser would also send the message to everybody else in town we’ve got them. They don’t need to fear the Hellrazors.”
A chorus of men break out in agreement. Soon it seems almost the entire club is behind the idea.
