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Scott put the bottle down and stepped forward.
“Damn straight!” Little John called out.
I put my thumb and middle finger to my mouth and blew out a whistle.
“Scooter, Scooter!” Ride started to chant. Bront and Spencer joined in.
Deke raised a hand to halt the chanting, then while Scott was voted in, he still didn’t even crack a smile. It was done, so all men who were voted in tonight were given their new cuts.
Deke asked if there was any further business before we closed for the night, and when no one spoke up, he stated he had one more item. He then put forth one more motion to invite Rob Forker, Ella’s pop and Chris Forker’s uncle to patch in. There was a caveat. Deke argued Rob had been such a good friend to the club and had put in a shit-ton of legwork over the past several months, so Deke wanted him in without him having to do a prospect stint, reasoning he’d pretty much already done it.
Little John muttered, “Well… I like Rob. He’s a good guy. Been a great friend to the club and I think he’ll fit right in. But, just sayin’, back in my day you’d do at least two years as a prospect no matter you were joining the club when you were twenty-two or fifty-two.”
Fork spoke up. “Pretty sure my uncle would take the prospect gig, no shame, if that’s his way in.”
A few other members spoke up, most in favor of Rob joining without having to wear a prospect patch. Then it was agreed on after a speech by Deke about how every one of us had to step up for the club, take dirty jobs sometimes, and that was whether we were fully patched or not. He reiterated that Rob had put his neck on the line repeatedly for the club running illegal goods around in our pursuit of bringing the Jackals down as well as hosting a number of guests for the club including the Valentines when the Roadhouse burnt down.
It was agreed he’d get his patch and he’d get it in the morning at a quick breakfast church sesh before the charity car wash. He wouldn’t have a prospect patch, but he’d be considered a spare prospect, expected to kick in when extra help was needed for at least six months, though it was understood he had a business to run where most prospects were considered full-time paid employees, Rob would not be in that category. And that caveat wasn’t necessary whatsoever because every single one of us would kick in whenever we needed to. But it seemed to satisfy the older guys like Little John who still had that old school biker mentality.
And the night was finally fucking over.
It was after three o’clock in the morning and I was meeting Archer at seven thirty to pick up Gigi. I needed a couple hours of z’s first.
15
I was sitting on my parked motorcycle beside Bront, who was in his VW bug at the Circle J gas station, when Archer pulled up. And it took a second for me to realize who was in the passenger seat. Because it wasn’t my mother, yet it didn’t look like my girl. And there was nobody in the back seat.
The door opened and when she folded out dressed in head-to-toe leather, I knew the body, knew the face, but it was the hair that threw me. Instead of blonde and to her waist, it was a burgundy shade and just touched her shoulder blades.
My first thought was that she was wearing a wig.
“Yo!” Arch greeted. “Load her gear into this? Hey,” he greeted Bront who got out of his car, extending his hand. “I’m Archer.”
“Bronto. Nice to meet ya. Hey, Gia. Nice hair,” Bronto gave Arch a hearty handshake.
“Look, babe,” Bront jerked his thumb back and turned to the side.
Gigi frowned on her way to me. “What am I lookin’ for?”
“Somethin’ different about me, too. No prospect patch. Got fully patched in last night.”
“Oh… congrats,” she said.
“Thanks for bringing my girl, Arch,” I called over.
“My pleasure, Jesse.”
I turned my gaze her way. She was approaching but way too slowly and staring at her feet. Finally, she met my gaze. But she wasn’t to me yet and since she was walking way too slow, I crooked my finger.
“Get over here, hostage.”
When she got to me, I sifted my hand through her hair and our eyes locked.
“Not a wig,” I remarked.
“I… cut it. Do you… like it?”
I flexed my jaw muscles.
Her shoulders dropped.
“Well, I had Fern do it. You hate it,” she whispered, face falling.
She unzipped her leather jacket halfway, and that’s when I saw the shirt she had on underneath. Black shirt stretched tight across her tits, more than a hint of cleavage, the shirt lettered with Property of Jesse.
