Page 6 of StoryTeller's Tale

He grimaces. “We could back out, but we get enough trade from them, our coffers would be damaged. I have made it known that we expect their marker if we do this, and it will be a fuckin’ big one.”

The cartel owing us favours could work out well. If, that is, we can minimise the risk, and not end up with half the brothers joining Cap and Rat. I acknowledge his comment with a dip of my chin.

“You want me to help sort that shit out?”

Chaz smirks. “Well, if you’re offering, Brother.”

As if I’ve got any choice. I snort and shake my head. “I’m yours to command, Prez.”

He grunts, and his mouth twitches. We both know I answer to him and will do whatever is needed. I just hope it’s not going to take long, and I’ll be back out on the road before my feet start itching.

That sorted, it’s quiet until Chaz slaps the desk. “I know you must be beat after your long ride today. You think you could do with some entertainment before taking a rest?”

Cautiously, I let my lips curve. “Depends on what it is.”

“Couple of wannabes have been riding around, wearing colours of a pretend club. Think they’re a couple of hotshots. You wanna come with and show them they’re wrong?”

You don’t wear colours of a different club in our territory without our permission. And as the Wretched Soulz have the southern states sewn up, there aren’t many places where there’s an exception. Neither do you decide to set up your own club without getting approval from us.

If someone’s stupid enough to don colours without our consent, then they need to be taught a strict lesson. Despite my sore ass, I’m down to be the one to teach them.

Flexing my hands, I let my body do the talking.

“Knew you’d be down for it, Bro.” Prez grins broadly. “And some of the bros here might like to see a demonstration of how the mighty StoryTeller works.”

My mouth stretches and curves to match his expression.

While a member of the club, it’s not often I visit, and when I do, it’s more of the flying type, where I dip in, show my face, then dip out again. I learned long ago after what happened with Fi, I have an aversion to setting down roots. So, while I know the brothers, I’ve not often had occasion to step up beside them. And I’m completely okay with the opportunity to display my talents.

My cigarette has long been smoked down to the stub, and my beer bottle is empty. “Let’s go do this.” I’ll go bust some heads, then perhaps come back and this time take what Candy,Brandy,was blatantly offering, or one of the other sweet butts. My cock isn’t particularly fussy.

Only half an hour later, I’m pulling up outside a local bar, noting the couple of flashy Harleys outside. As well as Prez, Claw, Pothead, and Skunk have come with us. After we dismount, Chaz gathers us into a group.

“He,” he dips his head toward me, “will take the lead.” When Claw, thumping one fist into his palm, looks disgruntled, Chaz chuckles. “Watch, listen and learn, Brother.” He slaps my back.

At that moment, the door opens, and a man walks out, checking behind him, then approaches our group. He respectfully inclines his head toward Prez.

As soon as he’s close enough, he leans in and quietly informs us, “They’re at the bar, trying to act tough, regaling the bartender with their supposed prowess.”

Chaz wraps his arm around my neck and indicates the man who’s spoken. “This, ‘eres, our latest prospect. We just call him Shitface.” The other men around me chuckle, but the man in question pulls back his shoulders and doesn’t look upset. Name calling is all part of the initiation.

“Well, Shit,” I address him directly, unable to hide my smirk, and get down to business. “There’s two of them?”

“Three,” he corrects. “Looks like they may have been recruiting.”

Prez cocks a brow, but I answer with only a rise of my chin.I got this.Taking off my cut, I hand it to him for safe keeping, then warn the others, “Come in, but stay back.”

Pothead rolls his eyes. “We’ve got your six, Brother.”

Yeah, like I’ll need it.But again, my chin rises, this time in polite appreciation.

I head for the door, knowing my brothers will give me a minute before following me in. It’s a bar, nothing remarkable about it—chairs, tables, slot machines, and rock music playing courtesy of a jukebox. It takes but a moment to see the three men grouped by the bar, and the sight of their illegitimate colours makes my blood boil.

Wannabe bikers either don’t know, or don’t give a damn, that it takes more than owning a two-wheeler to make them a biker. Or that putting on a rag and planting patches on the back is a million miles away from being an official MC. Whether it’s ignorance or blatant disrespect, these three will soon learn the error of their ways. And it just so happens, it’s a lesson I love to teach.

People always underestimate me. I’m built but wouldn’t win any body-building competitions. My long hair makes me look like I’d be more comfortable strumming a guitar.

The bartender, proving he’s not stupid and that he can read the glint in my eyes, quickly moves the glasses he’s polishing to safety. “Don’t want any trouble here,” he warns me.

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