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There're too many girls out there still. Too many victims with their souls lost in the dark world. I'll do it until it kills me. I made a promise to Jackson and his girl that I'd take them down, and I don't ever break a fucking promise.
Yeah, I might be a little rough around the edges, but we all are. Living in a clubhouse about forty-five minutes away from San Diego, you think we'd be a bunch of hippies.
We're not.
We live far enough away from the coast where we can have a little bit of land and peace and quiet from the tourists that flock to the California beaches every year.
We're savages here.
A bunch of men that don't have nearly enough manners. The only women we have are a few Jessie’s that stay here and outright refuse to leave. So, we give them a job and tell them to keep their mouths and legs closed unless they’re told otherwise.
Jessie’s are sluts, basically. They are called Jessie because the first girl that ever became a repeater, someone that kept coming back for seconds was named Jessie. The name stuck, I guess. Jessie’s are the girls that come back for more because they know they won’t find it better anywhere else. The Jessie’s love the Seven. And honestly, the Seven love the Jessie’s.
Can't help our behaviors. We've got not one—seriously—not one old lady here at our club. Why? Because like I said, we're fucking savages.
My pops wasn't even going to make an old lady out of my momma. She was some Jessie that kept coming around, ended up getting knocked up. Then she had some complications during childbirth and didn't even get to hold me. I was raised by a bunch of men. My dad, Lynx, being the gruffest of them all.
“Z, you up there?” My old man rasps from below.
I flick my cigarette, and snicker as he curses. “Yeah.”
“Get your ass to church. We got shit to discuss.”
Church.
“I’ll be there.”
I listen to his chain jingle as he walks away. Sighing, I make my way over the edge of the roof and jump down.
Time to go to church.
When someone calls church, we head to the back room around the biggest table I’ve ever seen. It’s filled with knife gouges and cigarette ash and more sweat and spit than I want to think about. It’s where we meet. It’s where the Seven discuss club business that doesn’t need get aired around anyone else at the club.
We have a lot of people that hangout around the club, but they aren’ttheSeven. The others are old fucks who have retired, or bikers that are good friends but live boring normie lives.
Being a part of the Seven means you have to follow a strict guideline of rules. They’re easy, actually. You don’t follow the rules, your patch and tat come off, and you become part of the earth.
Club rules are simple.
Always be loyal.
Don’t talk club business.
If someone calls church, you better be there.
Always wear your cut and patch.
You betray the club, and you get the bullet.
You feel like fuckin’ up? Better not. That shit’ll piss me off. And that’s not something you ever, ever want to do.
It seems simple, but I’ve seen a few bullets go between the eyes because of someone fucking up one way or another.
I adjust my cut and flip my hat backwards as I make my way inside.
I walk around to the front of the building. This place has been in the family since my grandfather. He built the Seven. Bought this place and had it as his shop to work on bikes before starting up the club. Built an addition on the shop and made a house, a business, and a bar. This place has had its ups and downs. When my grandfather died and my pops took over, this place was in shambles. My grandfather worked his ass off and built the place, but when he got sick in the seventies, he could barely keep this place together. Pops was only fifteen years old when my granddad died, leaving the entire club in the hands of my father. It was hard, and there were a few years where people didn't know if it would ever survive another year. But it did.
My pops worked his ass off young and turned this place around, flipping the outside and the inside and building something bigger than it’s ever been before. It was a small club before, but now it’s the biggest on the west coast. This place now sits inside a massive gate, which is patrolled by one of the prospects at all times.
