Page 33 of Property of Tacoma
“We need to get out of here.” Tacoma’s eyes dart toward the street. “Sinners travel in packs. They’ve probably called for backup by now.”
“Can you ride?” Tacoma asks his brother, eyeing his hand pressed to his ribs.
Bane nods, though his pained expression suggests otherwise. “Yeah. I’ll survive.”
I exchange a skeptical look with Tacoma, but we don’t argue. Instead, we both wrap an arm around Bane’s waist and help him walk toward the front of the building, where our bikes are parked.
“So much for not getting into trouble,” I sigh under my breath as we hobble along. “Chief is going to kill me.”
“Nah. He’ll understand,” Tacoma suggests.
I seriously doubt it.
But, hey, I did bury the hatchet with Bane.
Even if I did have to shoot someone to do it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Pulling through the clubhouse gates, I catch myself looking at the compound through fresh eyes, wondering what Foxy thinks of it.
The three-story steel monstrosity that is our clubhouse stands in the center like a fortress—which is exactly what it is.
Built to withstand hurricanes, floods, and anything else Mother Nature might throw at us, it’s anchored a hundred feet into the ground with rebar and concrete.
But it’s not just the clubhouse itself.
It’s everything around it that makes this place home.
The massive garage with its bay doors open. The shooting range off to the east. The fire pit where we have our parties. The basketball court where Jagger and some of the prospects shoot hoops. The pool where Saylor learned to swim.
This place is more than just a compound.
It’s a legacy.
Something my pop built.
Something that I’ll pass down to my son one day if he wants it.
I glance in my side mirror at Foxy following us up to the clubhouse on her ridiculous sparkly bike.
Is she comparing our home to the Saints’?
Is she impressed?
I mentally roll my eyes.Is she impressed?
With all the shit that’s gone down today, her liking this place should be the last thing on my damn mind.
Pushing those thoughts to the back of my mind, I pull into my spot near the front door.
Bane pulls up beside me, and Foxy brings her crotch rocket to a stop on the other side of him.
I take a moment to appreciate the way she swings her leg over the seat.
Those tight leather pants leave little to the imagination, and my imagination’s already in overdrive where she’s concerned.
Climbing off my own bike, I move to help Bane.
