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I shrug and take another drag of my cigarette. I’ve never been the most talkative guy around and it’s hard to put what I’m thinking into words that make sense. I take another draw and exhale a plume of smoke.
“I don’t know, man,” I admit. “It’s just… partying, cut-sluts… don’t you ever want more than this?”
“More?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. This whole outlaw life. Getting shot at, bar brawls, all this shit we do… don’t you ever want more than that?”
Reaper shrugs. “This is my life,” he says. “Has been since I was a kid. Figure it always will be.” He eyes me closely. “You thinking about getting out or something? I mean, you’re not leaving the Kings, are you?”
I shake my head. “No, it ain’t that. It’s just… there’s got to be more to life than doin’ the shit we do. I mean I’m not plannin’ on leaving or anything like that. I just… I feel like there’s something more out there for me sometimes.”
“Okay, like what? What more is out there for you?” Reaper asks.
“Prez…” It still feels weird to call him that.
“Not as your Prez. As your friend.”
I rub a hand over my face and sigh.
“No idea. But sometimes I think about havin’ an ol’ lady. Maybe a couple of kids.”
Reaper bursts into laughter. He doubles over, resting his hands on his knees. His face turns red as tears spill down his face. I’m just standing there awkwardly. I’m trying to not take it personally but it’s kind of hard not to.
“Man, fuck you,” I gripe.
“Relax,” Reaper says, trying to get his laughter under control. “I didn’t mean to laugh at you. It’s just… funny.”
“Why would me wanting to have a couple of kids be funny?”
“Because you hate kids.”
“No, I don’t.”
“I’ve seen you with kids, man,” he counters. “I’ve got a feeling if you could throw them all into the sun you would. You sneer so hard at them they’re afraid to come around you.”
I chuckle and look away. I guess he’s not wrong. But still, there’s a big difference between somebody else’s kids bugging me and having kids of my own.
“It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s just a thought I have sometimes. It comes and goes,” I say. “But the clubhouse ain’t a suitable place to raise kids anyway. Too many shitheads like you running around who’d fuck ‘em up in the head. Poor kid would never have a chance.”
Reaper laughs. “Yeah, you’re probably right about that. Could you imagine a bunch of kids runnin’ around at the Ruthless Kings Clubhouse?”
That finally draws a laugh from me too. “You’d fuckin’ hate it. Little shits running around destroying everything?”
Reaper barks out another laugh and he rests an arm on my shoulder as we laugh. The moment fades and we fall silent again as we drink our coffee and smoke our cigarettes. The clubhouse behind us is quiet. If last night was as crazy as Reaper says it was, I doubt anyone will be up before noon. I don’t really remember—which is part of the reason I’m a bit melancholy today. I mean, the Kings is my life. I’ve given my blood, sweat, and tears to this club, and I am damn proud to be the next VP once Reaper officially takes over.
But there’s another part of me that thinks having a stable place to call home would be nice too. The clubhouse is a great place, but it’d be cool to not have to step over the bodies of the drunks who are sleeping where they dropped the night before. It’d be nice to have a floor not covered in cans, bottles, and the dark stains made by puddles of vomit left behind by guys who’ve had way more than their limit. And it would be nice to have a place that isn’t permanently saturated with the stench of body odor, stale beer, cigarettes, and grease.
That part of me thinks it would be nice to be able to come home at night to a good woman and maybe to some kids as well. I’ve never known that kind of white-picket-fence lifestyle personally, but it has to work for some people, right? Maybe it’s for me, maybe it’s not. But there is some small piece inside me that would like to find out for myself. I may have thrown it in that cut-slut’s face, but I wouldn’t have even brought it up if some part of me didn’t want to have that someday.
But who the hell ever heard of a Ruthless King raising a family?
“You really want to go all domestic on us, man?” Reaper asks.
I look over and flash him a grin. “Pretty sure that ain’t in the cards,” I tell him. “I’m too feral and I don’t see that changing.”
The door to the clubhouse bangs open, slamming into the wall behind it as the blonde I woke up next to storms out. Her hair is pulled back into a sloppy ponytail and she’s tugging her skirt down. But it’s so short that I don’t think it’s helping. I have to admit, she’s pretty fine. Thin with curves in all the right places and a golden all-over tan. She’s got kind of a fresh-faced look about her and doesn’t seem like one of the club’s usual cut-sluts who all seem to have a hard edge to them.
The woman stops before she gets to the stairs and rounds on me. Her face is pinched and her eyes are narrowed and filled with rage. She’s eyeing me like a pile of dogshit she just stepped in.
