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The Royal Bastards MCclubhouse is on a large, forgotten piece of land on the west bank of the Mississippi, a few miles north of downtown Minneapolis. The location is in a nondescript, mostly industrial area. There’s a paper mill to the north, a lumber yard on the other side of the river, and a deserted patch of wasteland to the south. If you looked on a map, it would tell you the wasteland is a park, but I’ve seen more green coming up between the cracks in a parking lot.
It sounds desolate, but it’s the perfect location for our club. Inside the large, unimpressive concrete box that is our clubhouse, it’s comfortable and spacious, a virtual fortress. Not at all what the forgettable façade would lead you to believe.
I pull up to the gate outside the clubhouse compound, press a button, and wait for whoever’s manning the security camera to open up and let me through. A second later, the gate clicks and slowly swings open. My tires crunch over the gravel, kicking up dust. A minute later, my bike is parked and I’m pushing through the front door.
The familiar smells of leather, oil, smoke, and beer greet me. A shouted chorus of greetings welcomes me in. I’ve only been gone a couple days, but you’d think I was Homer returning from his fucking odyssey. Behind the bar, Little Big Mama gives me a friendly wave and immediately turns around to grab me a beer.
“Stranger!” she calls. “How was Iowa?”
“It was fine,” I say, taking the glass from her. “Good to be back, though.” I tip the bottle back, relishing the cool liquid as it glides down my throat. As soon as I set the glass down, she pours me a shot of whiskey to go with it.
Mama’s real name is Melissa. But at five foot nothing much with a huge personality, Little Big Mama just seemed to fit her better, so the name stuck. She just showed up one day, and Magnus told us she was our new bartender. She’s got a riot of red curls, and a fiery temperament to match. She rides a Harley herself. She’s tough as nails. I think more than one of the Royal Bastards are a little afraid of her.
Mama is the only female who actually lives here at the clubhouse. She has a tiny, tidy little studio apartment upstairs. She’s not a club bunny. Never has been. A couple of the guys have made a play for her, but she keeps her distance — and a pocket Beretta Pico that Magnus taught her how to shoot. Magnus and Mama are not involved, either. Never have been, as far as I can tell. There’s not a hint of sexual tension between them. Only Magnus knows her history and her story. He’s made it clear to all of us that we’re not to ask about her past, and that she’s to be treated with the respect of an old lady, even if she isn’t one.
Ox comes sauntering across the room and claps me on the back. “Good to see you back, my brother,” he drawls. “You missed Memphis, though. He’s on his way back down south already.”
“Actually, I ran into his ass at the G-Spot, if you can believe that.”
“You’re shittin’ me!” he exclaims, then his brows knot together. “How’d he seem to you, Fury? It was good to see him, but I gotta admit, he didn’t seem quite like himself. You notice anything?”
“I don’t know him all that well, Ox,” I say, skirting the question. “But I do know him well enough to know he can handle his own as well as anybody. Dallas will be good for him.”
“Yeah. I s’pose it will,” Ox grunts.
“Magnus around?”
“Yep, got back from up north yesterday with Sinnerman and that Rogue fella from the Lords of Carnage MC. They’re in the back playin’ pool.”
“I’m gonna go check in with him,” I say.
I grab my beer and head back to the pool tables. Magnus, Norse, and two other men are standing around shooting the shit. It looks like they’re between games. No balls are on the table, and a few pool cues are leaning against it.
Norse, our VP, spies me first, and lifts his chin in greeting. “Fury, my man! Glad to have you back!”
“Glad to be home.” I glance at Magnus. “Prez. How was the trip up north?”
“Good.”
I look to the man on his left. “Good to see ya, Sinnerman.”
Sinnerman is an ex-convict turned pastor. He’s a Royal Bastard, too — technically, at least — though his actual status is kinda uncertain. I’ve met him a few times, but I know more about the stories that float around about him. He was originally patched into the Royal Bastards by Bulldog, the founder of the entire RBMC back when it was in Washington state.
When Bulldog moved the national chapter to New Orleans, he made a big mistake in letting in a new member named Rancid. That son of a bitch Rancid betrayed Bulldog and killed him, exiling Rancid’s son Jameson at the same time.
Around that time, Sinnerman’s son and wife were killed. He was wrongfully found guilty for their deaths and went to prison for years for a crime he didn’t commit. He was let go recently, when more information surfaced and he was found not guilty on appeal. Since then, he’s been laying low here in Minnesota for a lot of the time. He doesn’t come around our clubhouse much, though, even though he’s tight with Magnus.
Bulldog’s son Jameson is back on the scene now. He killed Rancid, and took back his rightful place as Royal Bastards’ national president down in NOLA. Jameson is out to spill the blood of anyone who betrayed him and his father by standing with Rancid.
According to Magnus, Sinnerman is up here biding his time, planning his return to NOLA to convince Jameson of his loyalty. Meantime, he’s doing research into who actually killed his wife and son. And when he finds out, I doubt that anything will stop him from getting his revenge.
To look at Sinnerman now, though, you’d almost think all this tragedy hadn’t happened to him. The trip up north must have done him good, because he seems more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him.
“How was the fishing?” I ask.
Sinnerman shrugs. “Good enough. At least it was warm up north this time. Last time we went up to this fucker’s cabin, he took meicefishing,” he says, jerking his thumb toward Magnus. “‘Bout froze my fuckin’ nut sack off.”
