Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC) (38 page)

“Fuck me,” Slate whispered, shaking his head. “You know how I feel about this, Mason. Lieutenant has been way more than enough for me; I don’t fucking want any of it. I’ve always been about the brotherhood, and wind in our faces.”

“Yeah, but I also know you understand the stability and strength of that very brotherhood come at a personal cost. You’ve never been one to shirk duty...don’t start now,
Brother
. Oh, and you keep the fucking LT at national…can’t lose you there, man.”

Slate scrubbed at his face with his palms, raking his fingers through his hair and looking up at Mason. He took a deep breath, saying slowly, “You are my Brother by choice, Mason. Tell me what you need me to do, and I’m on it. Let’s get Deke in here; I’d like your read on him.” He pa
used, looking down at his hands and then back up at Mason. “I got this, Prez.”

Mason grinned at him, “I know you do, Prez.”

18 -
            
Women

“You know...the last thing I wanted to do, was put myself in the same position you were with Mica. I think Essa’s cured me of my issues, though. It hurt like fuck when she shut me down at Jackson’s, but now, she’s seldom on my mind, and it’s just not...fuck...I don’t know, as urgent when she is. It’s like I give about half-a-fuck, but can’t be bothered to give much of one.

“You put her on a horse, she’s a mature, attractive woman who is desirable, knowledgeable, and passionate. I spent two weeks with that woman, wanting her. Away from that world, she’s barely a kid, and that’s who I ran into at Jackson’s.” Slate was pleasantly buzzed, sitting on a couch in the main room of the Fort Wayne clubhouse. He thought that church had gone well, and Bingo had stepped down after all. It had been handled painlessly.

Slate had been confirmed as president with a unanimous vote, which was validating as hell. His conversation with Deke about
Sergeant at Arms had gone well. Then, with Deke’s support and Mason’s blessing, he’d tapped Hoss as Lieutenant. Now, with the chapter business taken care of, he was talking to Mason about other matters.

He tipped his bottle of beer to his lips, taking a long drink. Settling back into the chair, he looked around the room. More than forty full-patch members were scattered around the room, and half of them had their old ladies in tow. Kids were all parked in the basement; they had bunk beds there and room to play. With the thick walls, they were safe from any shit that might go down.

Club pussy kept themselves to the background, working with prospects to keep things moving. The old ladies got testy if they had to share the recreation room with the whores and house mammas, and the pecking order was pretty fucking clear.

He needed to take at least half the brothers on a run tomorrow, cycle through the club businesses. It would establish him as the new leader, and if he could get Bingo to ride too, it would reinforce that this was a bloodless change. He’d already talked to Gasman, the president of the Highwaymen out of Detroit. They’d have a sit-down in two days at some shithole neutral place up in Auburn.

Rebels needed to buy another bar in Fort Wayne, use it to create a neutral zone where they could manage relations with clubs and other folks. He’d seen how well it worked in Chicago, where some of their best alliances had been forged over scarred tables and shot glasses.

They’d also need to leave enough members at the clubhouse tomorrow, in case there was blowback from Manzino. That felt unfinished, but there’d been such a shit storm over the past couple of days he couldn’t be bothered to focus on it right now.

They needed to finish the financials, do an armory inventory, clear-up some prospect timeline shit, get new girls qualified and trained for the strip club...had to find and buy a garage, too; there wasn’t anywhere for the members to work on their rides, and that was not gonna fly for him.

“She’s young, man. She’s had to deal with shit, but it didn’t mature her like it did Molly. I’m glad to hear you got her out of your system; she’d never get club life,” Mason said.

Slate jerked his head around, he’d forgotten their conversation. “Yeah, I get that now.” He nodded. “Is Mica pissed at me?”

“Nah, Slate, she thinks you hung the moon, brother.” Mason laughed harshly. “She and Daniel are doing good, really good. If she’s pissed at anyone, it will be me when I tell her you’ll be spending the foreseeable future in Fort Wayne. Maybe Daniel will buy the local hockey team, then they could come visit you.”

“Whoa, man, shit going sideways between you and her?” Slate looked at him with narrowed eyes.

“Not sideways, but no room to move forward...or backward. She wants things to go back to how they were before, and I find myself unable to accommodate. Sounds like that fucking pirate movie she loves so much, ‘acquiesce to your request’. Shit,” Mason laughed again, “she comes into Jackson’s like everything is the same, but it’s not. That’s the place she came to
with me
…came to know me, first, in order to be with me...then with our friends, and that worked, because I had whole pieces of her life outside those brief times in the bar. Now, I don’t get those other pieces, so all I get is Jackson’s. That shit rubs, man.”

“She’s happy though, right?” Slate asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Mason sighed, “she’s happier than I’ve ever seen her. The shadows that were in her eyes are nearly all gone, and Daniel does that for her. Molly’s going to stay in Chicago; I think she’d like to work at Jackson’s, so Merry is gonna talk to her in the next couple of days. She needs something to hold onto until her little man comes along. It’s been funny to see the Rupert brothers chasing her; both Dickie and J.J. have been in town a lot since Molly showed up. Mica just watches both of them with a frown, and Molly seems indifferent...or fucking brilliant. Then, there’s the rookie goalie…he keeps sniffing around too.”

***

“I think it is a good solution,” Gasman responded to Slate’s offer of creating a neutral zone in Fort Wayne. Bingo and Hoss flanked Slate at the table, and Gasman had brought his VP, so the table was fairly well balanced.

“Yeah, it’s worked well in Chicago. It lets members mix without worrying who needs to keep the upper hand, most of the time anyway. Bars work better than other businesses, and we can get some neutral bouncers. That’s how I got started with the Rebels, you know, working without colors at Jackson’s to keep shit settled.” Slate grinned. “First fight I broke up was between high ranking officers in the Dominos and Disciples. I thought I was a dead man for sure.”

Gasman laughed. “I’ve heard the story a couple of times. Mason’s always been right proud of you, man.” There was a short pause, and the waitress came back to see if they wanted another round. Gasman looked shrewdly across the table. “He head back to Chicago already?”

Nodding, Slate returned, “Yeah, we finalized club business last night, and he headed back this morning. I figured with Bingo and Hoss, I could handle pretty much anything needed. If I can’t, then I don’t deserve this patch.” He thumped the President patch sewn to his cut right over his name.

Looking around the bar, Gasman clearly noted the number of Rebel club patches sitting at tables. “I don’t see Rabid or Ramone, brother. You take care of that shit?”

Slate went still on his chair, his green eyes flashing bright. “Club business, man, not something for casual fucking conversation.”

Gasman nodded soberly, holding his hands out with palms down. “Sorry to overstep, but I want to offer any help needed with current situations. The Highwaymen have long held the Rebels as Brothers, and I want to see that continue.”

“I hear ya, man,” Slate said, deliberately not using the more formal title, “and I will reach out if there is need. Thank you.”

Dropping into his bed at the clubhouse that night, Slate was fucking exhausted again. He’d done a balancing act today with Gasman, and gotten everything he wanted. Other than Manzino, all the problems were starting to get sorted. Myron said finances weren’t bad at all; they’d evidently snuffed the skim early in the process.

There were a thousand and one details that needed attention, and another thousand Slate knew he should look at, but since Bingo never got overly involved in the details, he risked stepping on toes if he insisted right now. He’d talked to every member today, and spent twice as much time with the many prospect sponsors.

There were so many fucking prospects, and he needed to get a read on them fast. Right now, nobody seemed to have any ideas about strengths or skillsets. They hadn’t even done basic background checks on everybody. Deke was handling that now, and he’d take over running the prospects for a while. They’d discussed some standard assignments for prospects, and at one point in the conversation Deke had gotten up to speak to a redheaded girl who scurried out of the main room as fast as she could. Slate didn’t ask who it was, but she didn’t seem to be Deke’s property.

Pinto and Pops were two members he’d also spent a long time talking to today. They’d been members of a club in SoCal, but had relocated to Fort Wayne a few years ago, going gypsy with their club’s blessing. When the Rebels decided to lay claim to the town with a chapter and clubhouse, they approached Bingo early on, wanting to know how that would change their position, and opted to patch into the Rebels.

Slate found out they’d had a lot of experience with gangs and the drug cartels out west, and were flush with ideas and information. He needed to talk to Mason, but he wanted to create a new position in the club, one that would focus on the problems that came from the fucking gangs.

He woke up in the dark room, realizing he’d been dozing. Struggling to focus, he heard his phone ringing in his pocket. Digging it out, he glanced at the display and answered in a sleep-laced voice, “Yeah, Prez?”

“Sending Chase to you for a couple weeks,” Mason growled and hung up.

Rubbing a hand across his face, Slate muttered to himself, “The fuck was that?” as he fell back onto the bed. He lay there for a minute, then picked up the phone and called Mason back. “Prez...what the fuck is going on?”

“He’s needing a change in scenery for a while, maybe more than a couple weeks. Found him drunk, sleeping between two club whores a little bit ago. He’ll be riding down with Tug, so you should expect them both for breakfast.” Mason was pissed off, that much was clear.

“All right, Mason,” Slate said patiently, “I’ll take him on and see what’s up. How long do I get Tug?”

“He’s Chase’s ride, so you get Tug until my son comes home,” Mason responded. “Let me know if you run into issues, or if he gives you any fucking shit. Boy’s sixteen going on dead if he can’t monitor his mouth.”

“Yeah, boss.” Slate yawned, hanging up the phone after Mason abruptly disconnected. He rolled over, toeing off his boots and curling up on his side.

***

Up the next morning, he stood in the clubhouse kitchen, looking at the women who were either working or standing idle. No old ladies in here right now, these workers looked to be club pussy, and the idle-standers were acquaintances, not even hang-arounds. He cleared his throat, and every eye in the room swung to him. “How we doing keeping up with food for the members and families during the lockdown?” he asked the room in general, taking a sip from his coffee cup.

No response came, and the girls who were doing nothing to make themselves useful resumed their conversation. He laughed to himself,
Oh yeah, this was
not
going to be pretty
. He dragged his gaze across the room, settling on one petite redhead, who had walked over in front of the refrigerator. He’d been seeing her around the clubhouse a lot over the past few days, and was intrigued by her. He’d seen her talking to Deke and PBJ more often than not; she seemed to have a mix of confidence and insecurity, and she was always hanging close to the Fort Wayne brothers or DeeDee.

She started pulling out food and sorting it on top of the cabinet, her head firmly ducked to avoid looking at him except for quick glances. When he had first walked in, she’d been loading the dishwasher, and it was now happily swishing and glugging along. Looked to him like she was determined to singlehandedly keep the clubhouse going. Pointing at her when she peeked up at him again, he crooked a finger, calling her wordlessly to his side.

She looked left and right, and he thought that was hilarious, so he crooked the finger again, and then pointed it at her and nodded with a grin. She walked towards him, her downcast eyes cutting left and right still, noting the responses of the other women in the room. He reached out and put a hand gently on her elbow, steering her out of the room and down the hallway to his office. Speaking to her for the first time, he said, “Ruby, sit down,” thinking it was the perfect nickname for the beautiful redhead.

She sat on the edge of the chair closest to the door, seemingly poised for a quick getaway. He frowned; she was clearly nervous, and hadn’t yet looked up at him. He asked, “Ruby, how many of the women in that kitchen have done any cooking or cleanup at the clubhouse?”

Eyes downcast, she paused for a long minute, and then slowly spoke in a quiet voice, “I don’t know, some of them.”

“Would you fucking look at me, Ruby?” Rolling his shoulders, he asked again, struggling to keep his tone patient.
Fuck,
he was tired. “Answer the question; it’s not hard. Simply tell me, in your opinion, how many of the whores and hang-arounds have done a fucking thing for the club, other than fuck a member.” She stayed silent, and he began to lose his temper, snapping at her, “Think you could be bothered to answer me, Ruby?” What the hell was her deal? She talked to other members, he’d seen her approach more than one; was she fucking afraid of
him
?