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Nick takes me through the halls of their half barracks, half dungeon and leads me outside to a big, green lawn with a setup that looks like a barbecue is already in session.
Everyone is here—all the patch members.
They’re all wearing their kuttes too—don’t leave home without it!
Big, white, plastic tables and chairs are laid out, the sun is beating down on me like it wants the $20 I borrowed from it two weeks back and there are three coal fires that remind me of the embers from hell.
Dom stands when he sees me and addresses the gathering, “Everybody, listen up. Today’s brunch is going to be prepared by our estranged family member, Lara Kairn. You all know what she did last night, so don’t make things easy for her.”
There are some growls and taunts and the like, but they don’t scare me—nothing’s worse than this fucking hangover.
Dom goes on, “She’s going to be working off her debt for the next three months, so you can go ahead and treat her like a prospect. You want anything, Lara is going to do it for you. You can all evaluate her too.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Nick pinches my thigh to make me shut up.
Dom stares me down, “It means if you don’t earn your patch, the debt isn’t paid.” He points to a table near the grills with all the food on it. “I want that chow ready in fifteen.”
Fuck.
“Okay,” I tell Nick. “Let’s do this.”
All the tools I need are already laid out—Spatulas, flippers, grabbers, knives and the rest.
Bret leaves the big table and comes up to us. “Hey, it’s your show, tell us what to do.”
I look around at the work area again, there’s not a vegetable in sight. It’s just a ton of meat, bread and condiments.What the hell are these people doing to their arteries?“Is this it?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“Is there a storeroom somewhere?”
“Yeah,” Nick answers.
“Go there, get as much canned corn, beans, carrots and peas as you can find. If there’s fridge with leaves in it resembling lettuce, that might be good too. Also, cheese.”
“On it,” Nick hurries off.
I start throwing all the meat on the grill and call out, “How does everyone take their steaks?”
A chorus of “Medium rare,” comes back.
I set the timer on my phone for three minutes. Three minutes a side should give me medium rare.
The heat from the three grills is destroying my will to live. Standing over a fire with a hangover isnotpleasant, especially when it feels like it’s ninety-degrees out here.
I feel the alcohol coming out of my pores and I stink!
While I dump out all the sausage, Bret…who has done nothing to help yet…says, “So about last night—”
“Yeah, Nick caught me up. I seem to have gotten blackout drunk somewhere after Dom presided over my sentencing. Thanks for putting me to bed.” I point to the bread, “Slice those rolls, please.”
“Sure.”
Nobody hasrare sausage, these…I’ll just cook till they’re done.
“You don’t remember anything else?”
