Page 6 of Thunder

“Of course, I did, I wouldn’t let them down. Vegan with the blackberries just like she likes. Why do you think I brought donuts for all of you ungrateful asshats? That sexy ass baker lady gave me a couple dozen for free because she wants the D.”

“Ugh.” The collective sigh was almost deafening.

“Go ahead and complain, but why do you think she gives me free donuts? She loves to watch me eat ‘em.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t, so knock it off. If that’s all settled, anyone who isn’t an officer or running a business can pound sand.”

Members slowly shuffled out the door and the music from the bar faded in. Once the door was closed and the music almost completely muffled, Granite got to business. “Priest, how do our monthly numbers look?”

The man who looked most out-of-place sitting at an MC table shuffled through some papers. Not a tattoo in sight. Oh, he had a fucking big one, they all did, but none that could be seen with his tee-shirt and black denim cut on.

“Not bad, Prez. Phantoms’ income is holding steady. It’ll be up next month for the poker run, it always takes a jump then. It’s up at the garage, just got some custom builds and paints. The front of the gun shop is steady, the back is up. Soft Tails is seeing a slight dip in the front, but we are up a touch in the back. All in all, not bad. I think it’s worth pointing out that Pipes Night brought in the most money of the month. One night and it carried the month for the front of the house.”

“Shit, really? Maybe I can take the stage one night. Eat my donuts in that sexy way I do, shake my dick, and make enough to get my custom done.” Taps looked stone-faced serious. Shit, knowing him, he probably was.

“Keep it in your pants, Donut. This club is not running a male strip club out of Soft Tails. The name alone makes it ridiculous.”

“Prez, he might be on to something.”

Thunder absorbed the glare of the men he called brothers and rolled his eyes. “Fuck, no. I’m not saying we let Taps do perverted things with food and shake his little johnson on stage.”

“Hey, I object to that gross misrepresentation of Mr. Johnson. Three is the new seven.” He dropped his gaze and baby-talked his crotch. “Right, Carlos? Yeah, you are perfectly adequate. He’s just jealous because that sexy baker is coming to see us on Saturday and not his grumpy ass. I’ll write you a sonnet. Dear Carlos—”

The room erupted in laughter for a multitude of reasons. Unfortunately for them, they knew three inches was in fact a gross misrepresentation. Emphasis on the gross. Taps was naked more often than clothed. Also, he was apparently calling it Carlos Johnson. Last week it was Clint Pounder, the week before that, Drill Sergeant Long. The man was rarely serious.

“Enough! Taps, ten, okay?” That was Granite’s way of getting Taps to drop the joker act and focus. It was just between them, but Taps’ entire demeanor would change. He would go all business for ten minutes.

“You got it.” Just like that, Taps was serious as a fucking heart attack.

“Okay, back to business.” Granite turned to Thunder.

“As mentioned, Pipes Night was a moneymaker. I agree the club ain’t running a male strip club. Blast had a very interesting conversation with the girls, and I think he gained some valuable information and a possible direction to head. Blast?”

“Why not offer the same back door service as we do with the girls? The girls are bringing in some bank. Lexi dropped a thousand in the till Friday.”

“Because we’re not pimps.” Pound didn’t sound thrilled with the idea.

“Well,” Taps started, making points on his fingers. “Our girls go on dates. We offer them protection. We take a cut of the money. Face it, we are just a cane and a hat away from the textbook definition of pimps.” So, not heart attack level serious, but enough to conduct club business.

“You work at Shooterz, you don’t know what really happens at Tails.” Thunder was defensive about being called a pimp. “Our girls don’t turn tricks. They sleep with who they want and when they want. If that happens in one of the apartments up top, we protect them. Boyfriend, husband, or one-night stand. It doesn’t matter. It happens on our property to someone under our protection, we get involved.”

The more he spoke, the madder he got. “And we do not take a cut of anything they make through sex, if that’s their thing. They do however pay us a little off the top from their dates, so we vet the asshole upfront. I’ve explained this before, but apparently some people have a hearing problem. Three of the dancers run a side hustle as escorts, not prostitutes. The G Lexi dropped us? It was from a high roller who wanted a pretty woman on his arm at the casino. She didn’t even kiss the fucker.”

Taps raised his hands in submission. “Their body, their rules, their money. We just make sure the men who reach out to them don’t have a history of slitting throats or beating women. Back to the topic at hand. Blast?”

“Lexi wants to make it an actual business. She has a business degree of some sort and has a proposal for you, Prez. It looks promising from what she explained, and she wants to add men. More women are looking for non-sexual dates than men. The numbers look pretty sweet. Sweet enough to float Tails through the slow times and put some decent scratch in the club coffers, too.”

“Ooooooh, Sexy Lexi. She is not hard on the eyes at all.” It was the first time Trip had spoken all day, and of course it was about a woman. He wasn’t called Trip for nothing. He was always tripping and landing dick first in pussy he had no business in.

“You haven’t hit that yet? Shit, I thought you’d had every stripper from here to Reno,” Whiskey piped in. Both had damn sure made the rounds with the club girls.

Trip made the motion of racking a shotgun and aimed it at an invisible target and fired. “Shot down every damn time. After another year of rejection, I might start to think she’s just not into me.”

For a moment they all shook their heads in solidarity. As in, they all had baggage when it came to women and relationships. Different, but the same. Thunder’s mind drifted to the locker room of The Rage Cage three years ago. To the woman who would haunt him until the end of time. He didn’t even know her name, but that didn’t stop him from comparing her to every woman he’d met since.

Shit, she could have been a stage five clinger or a raging psycho for all he knew about her, but his gut said no. It told him that she could’ve been the best thing to happen to him outside the club.

And if he learned anything from flying the A-10, it was to listen to your gut.

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