Page 2 of Domino
He gives me the finger. “Screw you, man.”
We share a laugh as I head for the clubhouse, my gut twisting itself into knots with every step I take. I remind myself yet again that the worst-case scenario is that if the vote’s not unanimous, my kutte remains plain for another year. It’s the last thing I want, but it’s out of my hands. I’ve done all I can do.
Actually, that’s not true. The worst-case scenario is they decide I’m not Pharaoh material and strip me of my kutte. But I really doubt that’s a possibility, so it’s not worth thinking about. Still, the nagging voice in the back of my head keeps whispering to me, telling me it could be more of a possibility than I think. I do my best to shut it out, though. That’s not going to happen.
On my way to the clubhouse, I pass by the guys who are dismounting their bikes. Not a single one of them greets or acknowledges me in any way. They all act like I’m not even there. It’s tradition, though, so I don’t sweat it. I’m not technically one of their brothers yet. At the moment, I’m not even a prospect. I’m just hanging in a sort of limbo and will remain there until after the vote.
I take three steps up to the porch, then cross to the door and slip inside. The door to the Leadership room is closed, but Trigger, the club’s Sergeant-at-Arms, is standing just outside of it. He’s tall and wide, thick with taut muscle, golden, sun-kissed skin, and blue eyes. He’s also got that laid-back California-surfer-boy attitude, which belies his ability to kick some serious ass when he needs to. Trig is definitely not somebody I’d challenge.
“How you feelin’?” Trig asks, his voice deep and gravelly.
“Hangin’ in there,” I reply.
“That’s good. You ready for this?”
“I’ve been ready.”
A slow smile that looks menacing stretches across his face. “Good answer.”
He opens the door and lets me inside before following me in and shutting the door behind him. Leadership is sitting around a long, rectangular table made of wood so dark, it’s almost black. The surface is polished to a glossy shine and is embossed with the MC’s name emblazoned down the middle of it with our location, “NorCal”, just beneath it.
In each corner of the room stands a statue of our Anubis logo, a match to the one that stands just inside the door of the clubhouse. The wall to my left is filled with framed pictures of the club. Guys with their bikes and also photos of the guys when they were overseas, in the shit.
Prophet is sitting at the head of the table, with Doc to his right. Poe, the club secretary, sits to Doc’s left, and Cueball, the treasurer, beside him. Cosmo, our Road Captain, sits across from Doc, on Prophet’s left, and Trig takes his seat beside him, all of them in large, black oversized chairs. That leaves me standing at the far end of the table, my guts twisting as they all stare silently back at me.
“We took the vote,” Prophet starts.
I nod but don’t reply. To get fully patched in, I need the votes of everybody in Leadership and our five most senior riders. And the vote has to be unanimous. I clear my throat and stand at attention as I wait for the verdict.
“Would you like to know how it went?” Prophet asks.
“Of course.”
“We all done some talkin’ about you. There was some vigorous debate, and we decided that you need to take off that kutte, son,” Doc says.
I turn to him, confused. It was the last thing I expected to hear. The door opens behind me and Monk steps up beside me. His long sandy brown hair is tied back into a tail that falls just below the shoulders, and his silver-blue eyes are as intense as ever. My mind spins as the disbelief washes over me. It’s the one possibility I tried to shrug off. The one thing I didn’t think possible. And to see it unfolding before me feels like they all just took turns kicking me in the nuts with steel-toed boots.
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“He said take off your kutte. Is that in any way unclear?” Prophet barks, his voice low and gruff.
Monk turns to me, his frown deepening. He looks as if he’s about to whip my ass and take my kutte from me if I don’t do as they say. As I stand here, the anger starts to build inside of me. Why are they stripping my kutte? Taking a beat, I try to bite back the indignation that’s bubbling up within.
“Mind telling me why?” I argue when I’m calm enough to speak. “I’ve done everything you guys have asked. I’ve proven myself—”
“Have you?” Prophet asks.
“Yeah, I have,” I fire back.
Leadership exchanges glances with one another, all of them smirking to one another, which sends pure fire flowing through my veins. This is not how I expected this to be playing out. At all.
“You gonna take that kutte off?” Monk asks. “Or am I gonna have to take it off of you myself?”
He stares me down, but I glare right back at him, my frustration and anger continuing to grow. I’ve done everything I needed to do to get patched in. But they’re gonna strip me of my kutte and not tell me why?
“The man said to take it off,” Monk repeats.
I look at him hard for a moment, then turn my eyes to each of the men around the table. They all return my gaze impassively, none of them saying a word.
