Page 1 of Blackbeard
Chapter one
Blackbeard
I leaned back in my chair, tipping it onto two legs at a precarious angle. Running my hands through my hair, I heaved a sigh.
“If someone doesn’t make a move soon, I’m going to lose my shit.”
Early Friday evening at the Blackjacks clubhouse was a quiet affair. In another two or three hours, the weekend crowd would start pouring in to fill the bar. The battered jukebox in the corner would be cranked up to full volume, playing non-stop until sunrise.
For now, it was just me and three of my brothers—Kingpin, Big G, and Credence—seated around a table, playing a lazy round of poker to kill time. And I was bored out of my goddamn mind.
Credence grunted in dismay and tossed his cars on the table.
“Fold. Look, if you were hoping for a more exciting poker game, you should have dragged Tex or Hot Shot into this. They’re better at cards than I am. If we were playing pool, I’d wipe the floor with you.”
“Wasn’t talking about the game,” I muttered absently.
Kingpin spread his cards face up on the table.
“Full house. Don’t borrow trouble, brother. This lull is the calm before the storm. It won’t last and you know it.”
I blew out a breath and scrubbed the back of my neck. That was exactly the problem—sitting on pins and needles, knowing that something was bound to happen eventually.
But when?
“It’s making me fuckingitchy,” I grumbled, fanning my cards out. “Royal flush.”
“Damn it.” Big G growled, revealing his hand to show two nines—a useless pair that didn’t get him anywhere. “You’re not even paying attention and you’re cleaning me out.”
I glanced toward the front door as I gathered my winnings. We were only playing for pocket change—maybe a hundred bucks, when all was said and done. Under normal circumstances, I would have enjoyed rubbing it in Big G’s face that he was losing so badly.
But I wasn’t in the mood this time.
Five years ago, the Forsaken MC killed one of our own. Darren “Digger” Fowler had been a good kid, determined and light on his feet, a quick thinker who did his best improvising in the heat of the moment.
The Forsaken owned neighboring territory, extending from Silver Gulch, Montana, to the North Dakota border, which was nearly twice the size of our territory.
But that wasn’t enough for them. They wanted to expand—gradually applying pressure to our borders in the hopes we would cave and they could claim our territory. So, we fought back to defend ourselves.
And Digger paid the price with his life.
Ever since then, the Forsaken continued to be a thorn in our side. Nipping at our heels. Wearing us down, little by little.Nobody got seriously hurt again, thank God. But I knew it was only a matter of time before this turf war got bloody again.
I really didn’t like the idea of burying another brother.
Last October, the Forsaken had waltzed into our clubhouse as if they owned the place. Their President, Al “Popeye” Bradbury had so casually offered peace that it felt more like an insult than an honest suggestion. They were mocking us, treading on our territory without an invitation.
When we turned down his offer, I fully expected a massacre in retaliation.
Instead, the Forsaken went quiet.
Deadly quiet.
Month after month, they didn’t make a peep. October faded into the cold, snowy blanket of winter. Then winter melted away into the fresh, blushing spring of April.
Still, the Forsaken remained silent.
“Maybe they backed off,” Credence suggested. “A turf war takes a lot of resources.”
