Page 10 of Devils Cut

"Break's over!" Amanda shouts, pulling me back to reality. "You good to go?"

"Sure am," I answer, determination settling in my chest. This job might not be perfect, and the people around me might take some getting used to, but it's a stepping stone – a way to survive until I can finally stand on my own two feet.

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The afternoon sun bled through the bar's hazy windows, casting long shadows on the worn floorboards. My first shift had gone surprisingly smoothly, considering I was in a new city and working in an MC-owned bar. The buzz of conversations filled the air as patrons laughed and drank their fill. Most were friendly enough, not giving me too much trouble - definitely better than the rowdy lot I used to deal with back home.

As the crowd thinned out, Killer, the doorman who'd been keeping a watchful eye on the entrance, ambled over to me. Up close, his tattoos seemed even more intricate, like stories etched into his skin. He leaned against the bar, knocking back a shot of whiskey he'd poured for himself.

"Hey, Tempest, how's your first day treating you?" he asked, his deep voice inviting.

"Better than I expected, actually," I replied, wiping down the counter with a damp cloth. "Everyone's been pretty nice so far. Wasn't sure what to expect, but they're definitely better behaved than the assholes back in Australia."

Killer's laughter boomed through the bar. "Yeah, well, Corvus runs a tight ship here," he said, still chuckling. "Makes sure no one is treated badly. Plus, if anyone touched you, he'd probably put a bullet between their eyes."

My brow furrowed at his words, and I couldn't help but ask, "Why?" Killer just shrugged, a mysterious glint in his eyes. "Just because," he replied, leaving it at that.

"Alright then," I muttered, curiosity piqued. I took a closer look at Killer's vest, noticing the Devil's Cut MC patch on the back and the word "Prospect" emblazoned across the front. "So what's the deal with your vest? You've got the club's patch, but you're a prospect?"

"Ah, yeah," Killer said, rubbing the back of his neck. "When you first join, you gotta prove yourself before they patch you in. Then they give you your name, and you're good to go."

"Prove yourself how?" I asked, trying to wrap my head around the rough hierarchy of the gang. Was it like a trial period where they tested your loyalty? Or was it more physical, like showing off your strength and endurance?

"Depends," Killer answered, taking another swig from his glass. "Could be anything from running errands for the club to some… other stuff." He left the implication hanging in the air, and I felt a chill run down my spine. Whatever "Other stuff" meant, it couldn't be good.

"Alright, so what if you're born into the MC?" I asked Killer, my voice dripping with curiosity. "Do you still have to start at the bottom?"

"Doesn't matter," Killer said. "Everyone starts at the bottom."

"Even Corvus?"

"Especially Corvus." Killer leaned in closer, his intense gaze locking onto mine. "See, his dad's the president, but he's locked up right now. Should be out in a couple of years, though. So even though Corvus is VP, he's acting prez at the same time. But he still follows his old man's orders."

"Shit," I muttered under my breath, trying to process all this information. The MC was more complex than I'd ever imagined, and the way they ran things... it was fascinating and terrifying all at once.

"Corvus grew up in the clubhouse, y'know," Killer continued, the corners of his mouth turning upward in a twisted smirk. "His mom's the old lady, but even he had to patch in just like everybody else."

"Really?" My eyebrows shot up, surprised that not even being born into the life granted any special privileges.

"Yep," Killer confirmed. "The rules are the rules. No exceptions."

I couldn't help but admire that level of commitment. These people lived and breathed their loyalty to the club, no matter their birthright. It was a stark contrast to the world I'd left behind in Australia, where blood ties and money bought power and status without question.

"So," I said, leaning against the bar, "what age can you patch in?"

"Well, you can sign up properly from about sixteen onwards, but you can't be patched till after you turn eighteen." He pointed at himself with a grin. "I signed up at sixteen. My old man was a member, but he was killed when I was twelve, hence to my patched cut, this was my dad’s, it’s why I’m allowed to wear the patch on the back. I'm nineteen this year and hoping to patch in soon."

His eyes sparkled with excitement, and I couldn't help but smile back at him.

"Damn, that's young to be signing up," I said, shaking my head. "But I guess it makes sense if it's all you've ever known."

"Yep," Killer agreed. "It ain't an easy life, but it's the only one we got. Might as well embrace it, right?"

"Right," I echoed, feeling an odd sense of belonging wash over me. It was as if I was meant to be here, among these bikers who lived by their own rules and didn't give a damn what anyone else thought.

"Anyway," Killer continued, "you'll get the hang of things around here soon enough. Just remember: respect earns respect. You keep your head down and do your job, and you'll fit right in."

"Thanks, Killer," I responded genuinely, taking his words to heart. "I appreciate you talking to me like this."

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