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As he got closer, I could make out his dark blue eyes as they appraised us, his gaze sliding over our cuts.
“I have no beef with any bikers,” he said, shaking his head, seeming tired. And who wouldn’t be, after what he’d been through?
“This isn’t about a beef,” Coach said, and Colter’s gaze moved over him, squinting like he recognized Saúl, but couldn’t quite place why.
“It’s a job offer,” I added.
“A job offer,” Colter repeated, looking at me. “To do what, exactly?”
“Prospect at the club,” I told him. “Do you know Saúl?” I asked. “They called him Coach inside,” I added.
We watched the recognition hit.
“Knew of you,” Colter said. “Never met,” he added, offering Coach his hand. He had a tattoo on the back of his hand. Likely prison ink. But really fucking well done. An intricate compass design.
I knew he was ex-military. But with a compass, maybe a Marine or Navy?
I was sure we would figure it out.
He extended his hand to me next.
“Detroit,” I said.
“Detroit,” he repeated. “So, what kind of job offer is this? I was never affiliated with a club before,” he added, in case we were misinformed.
“Ex-military. Doing a bid for beating the shit out of your best friend who moved in on your wife while you were deployed,” I said, watching as one of his brows quirked up.
“Sounds a fuckuva lot dramatic put that way,” Colter said with a self-deprecating smile.
“The job is, you prospect. You hang around the club, free room and board while you do little jobs around, see if you fit in with the crew. If you do, you get a patch. And a nice paycheck,” I told him.
“Not a lot of good opportunities for guys with a record. Not around these parts. Not anywhere,” Coach said, getting a nod from Colter. Who’d likely been thinking of little else since he knew he would be making parole.
“And if we aren’t a good fit?” he asked.
“Then you go your way, we go ours. No hard feelings,” I said.
I had a feeling he would fit in, though.
No matter what branch of the military he’d come from, he was clearly accustomed to living amongst a lot of other men. Same went for his time inside. He would be a pro at knowing when to engage and when to agree to disagree, how to bite his tongue when it didn’t matter, but speak his mind when it did.
It wasn’t easy for your life to revolve around the club. It wasn’t exactly natural in our society for so many people, who often had different personalities and views, to live all together under one roof.
You had to know how to keep the peace.
You had to be able to hold tight to your bonds and friendships even when shit sometimes got rough.
“Got a question for you first, though,” I said.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Who did you get for a P.O.?” I asked. Because if he got fucked like Rook did with Nancy Bird, he wasn’t going to be able to move in. And it would be a difficult transition for us to get him into the club, when we were already trying to make shit work with Rook.
“Oh,” Colter said, brows pinching. “Mick? Mick Ellers.”
“Thank fuck,” Coach said with a smile and a deep exhale, like he’d been holding his breath.
“Who could I have been strapped with?” Colter asked, sensing they must have been bad if this was our reaction to Mick.
