He had been seeing more of her due to Cadeon being with Stella and working more out of his shop, and Booshie had gotten this fixation on Naggie. Hell, he had even wanted her to give him some ink just so he could look at her more and talk to her. But he wasn’t a bastard, despite his club’s name, and would never overstep his bounds. Naggie seemed like a wild child with a fierce temper, but she was also honest and decent.
Booshie pulled into the driveway of the Vicious Bastards’ clubhouse. There were a few members hanging around right outside the front door. Little had one of the club pussy girls hanging off his arm, and Ranger, one of the original Vicious Bastards, was leaning against the brick wall smoking a cigar. Scars, the president of their MC, was on his cell a few feet away, and just by the way he paced, Booshie knew he was pissed.
He cut the engine, climbed off his bike, and removed his helmet. Tilting his chin in greeting toward Tank, the sergeant at arms and whose reputation matched his nickname, Booshie moved toward the rest of the guys. He kept his eyes on Scars, trying to gauge his president’s emotions. Shit was obviously going down, especially when he heard Scars raise his voice and throw out some choice words.
Little whistled out low when Booshie stopped in front of them. They were all now watching Scars, and when the president got off the phone and headed their way, there was a draft that followed in his wake.
“Hey, what’s up?” Booshie asked while getting a cigarette out of his cut. He really needed to quit smoking, but it was hard when everyone around him did it, and when the nicotine helped to calm him when he was feeling especially homicidal. Not literally, of course, but close enough when shit went down, or if he was sitting around bullshitting with the guys.
“That motherfucker over at O’Henry’s is trying to get out of paying their weekly dues. John said he doesn’t need our protection any longer, and that some other pricks are taking over that area.”
Booshie lit the end of the cigarette and inhaled deeply. “John doesn’t have anyone else, and there aren’t any other dumb assholes who would dare come onto our territory and try to collect on shit that isn’t theirs.”
“Yeah, John just knows those punk-ass bitches who started shit with him, and the ones we have been keeping in check have moved on and therefore aren’t a threat to his douche bar,” Tank said, but the hard tone in the biker’s voice was filled with menace.
Booshie thought about what Scars said and then looked at Little and Tank. “You want us to go over there and give him a little heart-to-heart?” He grinned around his smoke, and Little and Tank grunted in amusement beside him.
Scars sighed and turned to the side. It was still early enough in the day that the sun hadn’t set yet, and when the light slashed across the side of Scars’s face, his scar became even more prominent. It might have been twenty-plus years since he had gotten that scar, but the reasoning on how it happened and what he lost was still as fresh and painful as if it happened yesterday.
Scars might have been the one to bear the mark, but they were one big family, and when one member hurt, they all fucking did. Scars didn’t say anything for a few minutes, and neither did the rest of the guys. Their president got a joint out of the inside of his cut, lit the end, and stared at the mountains that were in the distance.
“That motherfucker has been coming up with excuses on why he doesn’t need our muscle anymore and why he wants to stop paying the fees,” Little said right before he spanked the club pussy on the ass and sent her on her way. “But when Tank starts cracking his knuckles and rolling his head around on his neck, that little prick John nearly pisses his pants.” Little started laughing and elbowed Tank in the chest, and the sergeant at arms grinned and nodded.
“Yeah, good fucking times, but John is either high as fuck or has something else set up if he thinks he isn’t going to pay us.”
John O’Henry was a second-generation Irish bar owner in Steel Corner. His old man came over from Ireland back in the day, started O’Henry’s, and the bar had been passed down to John and his younger brother, Stevie. But a year back, there had been a pansy-ass gang of college kids who had broken into John’s bar, trashed the place, and stole a bunch of shit.
The Vicious Bastards had set those fuckers straight who had vandalized the bar and helped John get his place up and running again, but in return, he would pay them a weekly fee to not only make sure no one messed with him again, but to also add some cash to the Bastards’ pockets. It had been going good for the last year, but now it looked like John was trying to get out of the deal just because the original threat was now gone.
“We did a lot for that asshole,” Tank said again. “Those pussy-ass punks may have left Reckless months ago, but we put a lot of money and muscle into helping John rebuild that place and making it known that he wasn’t to be touched.”
Scars sighed and inhaled from his joint. “It’s a damn shame.” He turned and looked at them, but he took two more hits before speaking again. “I liked John and his family, but we had an agreement that he’d keep
