Page 1 of Property of Chux

CHAPTER 1

DAMIAN

The thick hazeof cigar smoke curls around me, mixing with the neon glow and the scent of cheap perfume. Bass thumps through the air, vibrating the worn leather of the booth where I sit, my legs stretched out, my boots planted firm against the sticky floor. Mellow’s laughter cuts through the music as he leans back beside me, a fresh whiskey in one hand, the other tossing a few crumpled bills onto the stage in front of us.

"Shake that ass, pretty," he calls out, grinning at the brunette twisting her body around the pole like a cat who caught the canary. She obliges, arching her back and dragging one manicured hand over her barely covered tits, her eyes locked onto the dollars like they are the only thing that matter. In a place like this, maybe it is.

The Velvet Hall is a neon-lit hellhole of sin and excess, exactly how we like it. Dark red walls, black leather booths, and a stage lined with flashing LED lights that bathe the dancers in a glow that makes their skin shimmer. The scent of liquor, sweat, smoke and sex clings to everything—thick and potent, a signature smell of bad decisions. It’s anything but a classy joint. It doesn’t have to be. It is one of many Kings of Anarchybusinesses, and for us, any business is simply another pawn in a game no outsider can understand.

I take a slow, deep drag from my cigar, the rich smoke puffing out one exhale at a time. The club is buzzing, Kings spread cover the expanse of the space, each getting their fill of liquor, lap dances, and loud talk. It's a good night, the kind where the business runs smooth, the club’s pockets get fatter, and I don’t have to think too damn hard about all the ways shit could go sideways.

This place, The Velvet Hall, isn’t just a strip club—it’s a piece of the empire we’ve built. A money filter, a playground, and a meeting ground for business deals that need dim lights and lesser morals. The cash we run through here keeps our bigger operations clean, washes out the dirt of our real work. Drugs, guns, protection—none of that touches this place directly. But the money? It moves through these walls like blood through veins. Cash enterprises help keep things undercover where they belong.

Konstantin Vasiliev owns the place on paper, but we run it. How we got into business with the coy Russian behind the front is complicated. We have a symbiotic relationship. It works because it has to. So long as he keeps his nose out of our real business, we don’t have a problem. We stay out of his way and he stays out of anything else Kings.

I watch the dancer drop to her knees, crawling toward me with a smirk on her red-painted lips. She's new—too fresh-faced for this life, but she's got the moves down. Her floss thong slides through her pussy lips making me think about what my tongue would be like between her legs.

"You look like a man who needs a little stress relief," she purrs, fingers tracing along my thigh.

I chuckle, taking another drag of my cigar before flicking ash into the tray on the table beside me. "You got a cure for that, sweetheart?"

Her lips curve, her body moving like silk as she shifts closer. "For the right price, I got a cure for everything."

Mellow laughs, tossing another wad of cash at her. "I like this one, Pres. She’s got some hustle."

I nod, but my mind’s not on the girl anymore. My eyes scan the club, taking in the scene. Gainz and Riot are at the bar, two girls draped over them, giggling as the brothers whisper the filthiest shit they can come up with into their ears. I know them and the way they talk to women, no doubt in my mind what that conversation is over there. Looney is in the corner, watching the crowd like he always does—quiet, calculating, the way I need him to be. Mellow is my VP and honestly the reason we have our own charter. Even though the vote came through for me as President, he came from Southern California, our founding charter. Needing to change from that California life, he went nomad before deciding working a shipyard in an unknown port in Alabama was going to give him the quiet life he always wanted, but didn’t have in California.

After getting rattled around by two too many IEDs overseas, I got out of the Marines and settled down in Freedom Falls, Alabama. Working at the largest ship yard in the south, I found the port life suits me. Twelve hour shifts covering a business of over ninety-eight billion dollars in imports and exports is where I found my place in this world. The structure of a ship yard fascinates me. In time, Mellow and I were working together in supervisor positions. His connections back in California to the Kings opened a whole new world to me. Riding as buddies on weekends, I didn’t think I would be a brother in a motorcycle club, much less a president one day. Yet here I am. Our little duo became a trio when my baby brother Riot came back from histime in the sand box and decided to join us in the Falls. In time, we had a group of ten riding together and working at the yard.

Eventually I patched in and Mellow thought we could put to vote to have a charter from the original club. We got approved. At first we were running things through the ship yard when it was still a publicly traded company. The pandemic happened, the government shifted our port contracts over to New Orleans. We pooled our resources together, bought the ship yard. Now the Kings of Anarchy MC own the only privately owned and operated port in the entire Gulf of Mexico. Our corporation is all above board on paper, registered with the secretary of state and all.

What comes in and out on those ships, well some of it is legal and the rest, well it isn’t anyone’s business, but the Kings business. The early days trying to make a profit both legally and illegally was a challenge. Those days are long gone, though, and we have our hands in every business in Freedom Falls to some degree.

Like our silent partnership in this establishment. The bar is lined with bottles of cheap liquor, backlit by blue neon. Women work the room, moving between booths and clusters of men throwing cash like it means nothing. The bouncers—our guys—stand along the edges, keeping order, making sure no one steps out of line. If we have any money tied to it, I have someone in the fold that I trust.

Then there’s Konstantin, seated in the VIP section like some fucking czar, a glass of vodka in hand, his dark eyes locked onto me. I lift my glass to him acknowledging I see him even though I keep my sunglasses in place even in the darkness of the room. I haven’t figured it out yet, but something is different in the Russian’s stare. I’ll get to the bottom of it eventually. I’m confident in that. Business, even on a good night, is never too far from the surface.

But right now? Right now, I’m just gonna enjoy my damn cigar.

The night rolls on, the drinks flow, and the money exchanges hands like it's on fire. Women come and go, grinding on laps, flashing their tits, their hands slipping under belts to coax out more bills.

"You ever get tired of this life?" Mellow asks, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

I raise a brow. "You getting sentimental on me, old man?"

"Fuck no," he scoffs. "Just thinking, that's all."

“You ain’t hittin’ the open road on me, motherfucker.” I tell him the same thing I do every time he seems to get the urge to hit the road. He doesn’t like staying in place for too long. Sometimes I have to let him go ghost for a month or two just to hit his own internal reset.

A redhead straddles his lap before he can say more, shutting him up with her ass. I smirk, watching her move, knowing whatever deep thought he had just got buried under a pair of bouncing tits.

If my ex-wife could have learned early on flash some tits and ass I’ll shut up, we might could have stayed married. Okay, I doubt it, but seriously if women could use what God gave them, straight men shut up with tits and ass in front of their faces, all thoughts fade quick when the blood rushes south.

A waitress walks by, balancing a tray of drinks, and I snag a fresh whiskey without a word. She barely acknowledges me, just dips her head and keeps moving. The girls here know how this works. We run this place, and if they keep their mouths shut and their hands open, life is good for everyone. She’ll still make her tips and the bar tabs will get paid.

I take another drag of my cigar, my gaze shifting back toward Konstantin. The Russian hasn’t moved. Hasn’t even blinked, far as I can tell.

"What’s he staring at you for?" Mellow asks, following my line of sight.

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