Page 9 of Property of Stone
The meeting room,like the rest of their clubhouse, might not be fancy, but it was theirs.
A massive mural of their Kings of Anarchy colors took up one wall. The rectangular table where they sat had the names of all past and present fully-patched members of the Pennsylvania chapter engraved in it.
Once they earned their colors, each member carved their own name into the long table’s wood top themselves, using a buck or pocket knife, or any other blade they happened to have on hand. Some had even burned their names into the wood. The six founders of the Dead Man’s Hollow, Pennsylvania chapter had started this tradition after establishing it back in the early eighties.
Out of habit, Stone rubbed his fingertip over a worn-down carving directly in front of his place at the table, where he sat to the right of their president, Ransom. The name belonged to the Kings’ member who sponsored Stone.
Rubble.
His older brother. First by blood, then by club. Rubble was the one to convince Stone to slip on a prospect cut only a couple of days after his eighteenth birthday.
The only reason he didn’t do it the day he turned oldenough was because he was too damn drunk and stoned. On top of the very important fact that he was also busy planting his dick in some bitch for those two days straight.
He found out later the woman had been forty-five.
He wouldn’t have cared about her age, even if she told him up front, since she lured him to her fancy double-wide trailer with the promise of an endless supply of expensive whiskey and quality coke.
In those forty-eight hours, her massive fucking tits almost smothered him to death more times than he could count. He also discovered she could suck a knob off a door.
It was the best birthday in all of his eighteen years.
Until he sobered up.
Until she finally opened the shades in her bedroom and he saw her without all the heavy makeup. Without that tight-as-fuck shape-wear she squeezed herself into that he swore was invented solely to trick men. Until he saw her pussy flaps looked like a goddamn Arby’s roast beef sandwich in the light of day.
His walk of shame turned into a sprint of horror and ‘never agains.’
It was a hard lesson learned, but from then on out, his strict rule was to pick them only while he was still stone-cold sober.
Though, rules were meant to be broken. The whole reason he had a daughter.
But that horror story was also how he got his road name. When he told his brother what happened, and why he’d been missing for two days, Rubble started calling him Stones for having the damn stones to actually tell that story out loud. Stone dropped the extra S once he got his full set of patches a year later.
Now his road name could mean a shitload of things.
“Brother, why you got the sweet butts watchin’ your girl?” he heard from his right.
“Don’t got a fuckin’ choice right now,” he answered Lick. “Can’t leave her alone.”
“Get a house mouse.”
Stone hooked an eyebrow at their club secretary. “Got one in mind?”
“Fuck no.”
Stone shook his head. “Well, that’s helpful, asshole.”
“No, the asshole is you, lettin’ those club whores watch your girl. I mean, what’s Juicy gonna teach her? How to suck dick? She certainly ain’t teachin’ her math or spellin’.”
“She learns that shit in school.”
“They teach girls how to suck dick in school? Know a few that musta missed that fuckin’ class.”
“Lick—” Stone growled, but before he could finish, their treasurer, Outlaw, slammed his hand on the table.
“Where the fuck’s Ogre?”
Stone glanced across the table to the empty spot on Ransom’s right.
