Page 7 of Kylo
“Seems like the kind of thing Huck would be okay with,” York said, shrugging. “Anything to keep the cops from sniffing around.”
These days, we tried not to keep our stash of weapons in the clubhouse. Mainly because, with our deal with Zayn (and the demands of the international arms trade), we didn’t have enough room for that shit. That said, we did still have weapons in the clubhouse we definitely shouldn’t have.
Plus, if they wanted to start staking us out and saw the plates coming in from California every few weeks, thanks to our sister chapter dropping off their supply, they could easily catch us red-handed with a lot of shit we weren’t supposed to have.
“So, you boys have company like this often?” Doug asked, wiggling his brows a bit after one of the girls bent down to grab her dropped napkin.
“Most nights of the week,” I confirmed.
“Really?” he asked, eyes bright.
“The parties are a little less often, though. So your wife—”
“Are we still talking about her?” he asked, waving a shaky hand.
“Well, she is your wife,” York said, brows scrunching.
York might have been heavy in his ‘sowing his wild oats’ phase still, but he was a stickler for respect and monogamy in relationships. I once heard him call cheating a ‘moral defect.’
“And I’ve been a good husband. But there’s nothing wrong with looking, is there?”
None of us having been married, or even in any serious relationships of note, had any thoughts on that.
Thankfully, once the girls were gone, Doug decided he had to make his way back across the street to ‘go take his pills.’
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to tell Nancy that I gave you the old what-for.”
“Knock yourself out, Doug,” I said, closing the door behind him.
“Should we offer to walk him across the street?” York asked as he glanced out the window.
“Nah, he’s feeling like a teenager again,” Velle said. “Got a pep in his step and everything.”
“You think this is something we gotta worry about?” I asked, watching Doug make his way across the street toward the fifty-plus community.
“Elderly people dropping in to eat our danishes and stare at our women?” York asked, face scrunched up. “Can’t imagine that’s gonna be the case. Who’s that?” he asked when a bike rumbled down the street before pulling into the driveway.
“McCoy,” I said as he climbed off his bike.
“Uh-oh,” Velle said, voicing my own internal thoughts.
While all the OG club members dropped in here and there and came for all the meetings, if McCoy—who acted as the vice president—was showing up when our actual president was out of town, we had to assume some shit was going on.
“Think it has to do with that new crew Huck was talking about at the last meeting?” York asked.
“Only one way to find out,” I said, pulling open the door just as McCoy was reaching for it.
“Shocked you’re all up,” he said, walking in.
McCoy was a big guy—tall, fit, a little intimidating with his often-stern face—with dark skin, locs, and classic, rugged facial features.
“Is everything alright? Not common for you to show up here this early,” I said.
“Nothing emergent,” he said, walking through to the kitchen.
“Fuck… you… Benny,” Mackie croaked.
“Yeah, nice to see you too, bird. Did anyone feed the tortoise?”
