Page 2 of Savage King

It was fucking good to be a god.

The club house sat on four acres of shitty arid land, but it was surrounded by a concrete and steel perimeter wall, topped with razor wire. The only way into the Savage Raiders’ compound was through a steel gate, manned by two prospects at once.

In the conference room off the large loft space over the immense open warehouse area, the officers all sat around a ten-seater oak table waiting for their President.

Odin sat at the head of the table, grabbed the gavel, and slammed it onto the tabletop, the sound startling one of the brothers from a—no doubt—hangover stupor.

“Wake the fuck up, Hound,” Trouble barked. “How the fuck did you ride your bike like that?”

Hell Hound, the club treasurer and the manager of the club-owned strip club, Delicious, glared at Trouble. “I could ride with my motherfucking eyes closed and my hands cut off, fucker. Late night at the club, early morning at the bank. Someone’s got to make sure all the glitter-covered money gets into the accounts.”

Trouble snorted, giving Hound a double bird before leaning back in his chair.

“Now that the toddlers have joined the fucking meeting, let’s get this shit done. Fang, you got everything tight for the ride tomorrow night?”

Fang, their road captain, was in charge of planning the routes for their “raiding parties”, the routes for their security business clients’ business trips, and picking up and dropping off the more important club “packages”—like the cash money coming through the bar and bordello. The only one who touched the money from Delicious was Hound, who Odin trusted with his life.

“From here to Durango. Maximum eyes, minimum swine shit,” Fang replied, informing him that the route he’d secured would offer the most visibility to curious eyes and current debt holders, men and women who owned their money and lives to Savage Raiders and needed a reminder. The route also offered a minimum police presence. The last thing Odin needed to deal with was some Captain America climbing up their asses, hoping to get a medal from their boss. What the piglets didn’t know was their boss was in his back pocket, taking 1% off the top of their marijuana sales through their strip club and brothel. Commander Davis was a fat pig, wallowing in mud made of dollar bills and free pussy.

“Trucker, Bonnie got all the shit together for the patch party tonight?” Odin asked, moving down his mental list of all the shit they had to cover in their meeting. Being a god was nice and all, but being the prez of an MC required more than brute strength. There was also a lot of bullshit paperwork and admin.

Trucker, their sergeant-at-arms and Bonnie’s brother-in-law, nodded. “Paulie is gonna have one hell of a ripper. Booze, bitches, and a new batch of Babes in Toyland across the board.” Their newest pot strain, Babes in Toyland, promised the most euphoria with the shortest recovery time. “Got some girls from Delicious comin’ in, and whoever else Paulie invited, because you know that little motherfucker can’t keep his yap shut about a party—especially his.”

The group sniggered and groaned, knowing their newest brother was a motor mouth, but at least he was loyal to the club. He was such a motor mouth, they’d decided his road name was Slick, because his mouth moved like it had been greased up. And his new club patch would reflect that.

“Fuck yeah,” Fang exclaimed, “I’ve been hurtin’ for a party. Haven’t had one in weeks and I need to resupply my hive. I’m down a busy bee.”

Odin grunted, rolling his eyes. Fang, the crazy fucker, had a rotating “beehive” of women—five at once—that lived with him. It was a fucked up sort of polyamory, only it was more like a harem where he would pick whichever woman he wanted for that night. The other women never had sex with each other, they were only there for Fang’s pleasure, and they were committed to him like he was their boyfriend, cooking and cleaning for him. He got all the pussy and perks, and none of the negatives that came with actually committing to one woman.

Not having found even one woman who interested him enough to hold on to her after the condom came off, Odin couldn’t understand Fang’s lifestyle, but the fucker could do whatever the hell he wanted, as long as it didn’t cause drama within the club.

Maybe I need a motherfucking hive of women—at least then I might find one that’ll actually satisfy me.

“Keep that shit out of the clubhouse, Fang.”

Fang cursed and Trouble chuckled.

“Next order of business—so we can get the fuck out of here, Trouble, where are we with the Chavez? That fucker still hanging around?”

The Chavez’s, led by Manuello Chavez, were a rapidly growing cartel looking for a gun supplier in Vegas. Since the Savage Raiders were king in Vegas, the Chavez’s came to them with a deal: get us the guns we need and we give you 30%.

Problem was, the Savage Raiders were the fucking kings of Vegas, but every single one of their businesses were legit. In Vegas, nearly every vice was legal, so only the assholes lacking imagination and skill were still mucking around in illicit drugs, human trafficking, and guns.

As a conglomerate, the MC owned six businesses—all of them legal, though some of them butted up right at the edge, which made playing nice with the pigs a full-time occupation.

Delicious, their strip club, Up to No Good, their bar, Savage Ink, their tattoo shop, Savage Rides, their custom bike shop, Sex & Candy, their brothel, and Savage Protection, their security and private investigation business—they made more money per year than most one percenter MCs across the country made in a decade. Sure, they dabbled on the wrong side of the law—they killed motherfuckers when the law wouldn’t do a fucking thing—but they made their money without mess. And each patched member got a cut of the profits. Not a single one of them were hurting for money, and as the prez, Odin was a multi-millionaire in leather and ink.

Now, the goddamn cartels were sniffing around, hoping to fill the gaps where the Raiders refused to go. That was too fucking bad for them, though, because the Raiders didn’t do business with rapists and kidnappers.

“Last I heard from Jack and Brady, Chavez was takin’ a flight out of North Vegas Airport this evenin’. Headed back to whatever shit hole in Mexico he crawled out of.”

“What about Alfanzo?” Alfanzo Madrigal was Chavez’s right hand man, and a sadistic motherfucker who’d been black-balled from most reputable bordellos in the state, including Sex & Candy. He loved to inflict pain while fucking, and not the good kind.

“He left yesterday. Only ones left are the lackeys sniffing around a few of the gun shops, no doubt looking for a dealer willin’ to do their dirty work.”

“No doubt. We still looking to get in on that?” One of the reasons the Chavezes had come to the Raiders was because Odin had put the word out that he was interested in getting into the gun business—legitimately. With most of his brothers being ex-mil, the love of guns, ammo, and scent of black powder was in their blood. It only made sense to add a gun shop or training facility to their list of businesses.

“There’s one place off 147 that looks promising. Lock ‘n’ Load. The owner, an old vet named Slim, can be persuaded to sell, but he wants to make sure his current management stays.”

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