Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 111416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
“Nothin’.”
“He’s disrespecting Nash’s husband. I don’t think Nash would appreciate it, do you?” Jamison asked.
“Heard ‘im,” Hawk growled, keeping his eyes locked on Nugget. “Get up an’ get gone.”
“But—”
“Get up an’ get gone,” Hawk repeated in an even more ass-puckering tone. “You were supposed to escort ‘em in an’ out, you simple fuck, not send shit sideways.” He put Booger in his sights next. “Get ‘im up, then both of you get gone. I got it from here since you two keep provin’ yourselves useless as a fuckin’ boar with tits.”
Booger offered Nugget a hand and helped to pull the prospect to his feet. No one said a word until both prospects disappeared up a stairway in the back corner of the common area.
Jamison had informed them that the DAMC had rooms above their church. Fletch hoped he wasn’t forced to live in one of those. He probably wouldn’t be able to sleep without keeping at least one eye open.
And he’d need his sleep to remain sharp. Especially around this MC.
Once the prospects disappeared, Hawk’s sharp gaze swept the five of them. It stopped on Cross and hung there for a few seconds before landing on Jamison. “Let’s get this fuckin’ over with. Don’t got all day to waste on you.” He jerked his tattooed head toward the open doorway, spun on his heel and strode in that direction.
The five of them shared a quick glance, then followed as Jamison took the lead. As they headed in the direction Hawk disappeared, Fletch took in everything around the common area. The old couches pushed against the wall, the Harley decor and bike parts hanging on the walls, the pool tables, dart boards, the large bar with the large DAMC insignia carved out of wood behind it and what seemed to be custom-airbrushed Harley gas tanks displayed on a shelf surrounded by liquor bottles behind the bar.
He wondered what was so special about those particular tanks that they required a spotlight.
Once Jamison and Cross entered the narrow room, Crew went next, followed by Fletch with Finn bringing up the rear.
“Shut the door,” came from the man sitting at the opposite end of the table from where they stood.
The big biker named Hawk made his way around the table to retake his seat to the right of Zakary Liam Jamison, long-time president of the Dirty Angels MC and blood brother to Shadow Valley PD Sergeant Axel Jamison.
Zak sat relaxed in his chair at the head of the hand-crafted wood table. Similar to the wood sign behind the bar, the center was expertly carved with the club’s rockers and center insignia.
If Fletch had to guess, a lot of history had gone down in this very room, in this church and on this property. The founders had begun building the clubhouse back in 1974, not long after establishing their club. Decades of murder and mayhem had been discussed, planned and witnessed within these same walls.
While Jamison had given them all a thorough run-down on the background as well as the current situation with the club, Fletch had done a bunch of digging on his own. He needed to know who he’d be living with and working amongst for the next few months. Hell, maybe even years.
For fuck’s sake, he hoped this particular assignment didn’t last that long. If it went past six months, he might ask Crew to pull him and let him do something else, even if it meant spending eight hours a day transcribing wiretaps.
Something he detested.
“You turn our granddaddy’s church into a daycare, Z?” Jamison asked his brother as they stared at each other across the long table.
They acted more like acquaintances than actual brothers. Fletch had to guess that was due to who else was in the room because he knew their relationship was much better now than when Zak first got released from prison.
More than eighteen years ago.
Jamison jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Where the fuck did you find those two rejects?”
Zak took his time brushing his knuckles down his bearded jaw before answering. “They were strays. Adopted them from the fuckin’ pound. Decided to give ‘em a good home.”
If he looked hard enough, Fletch could see the resemblance between the two. The obvious similarities, of course, were the matching brown hair, peppered with a few grays, and their blue eyes. Besides what side of the law they both had landed on, the other obvious differences between them were the amount of ink, the length of hair and, of course, the beard. Zak also had a few more creases radiating from the corners of his eyes. But then, from what Fletch found in his background check on the current sitting president, the ex-con was a couple of years older than Axel.
Zak Jamison did a dime in prison after being framed by the former club president. The man named Pierce had wanted to steal the president’s gavel from Zak, so he planted an ingredient used to make meth in Zak’s place. Then someone anonymously called in a tip to Shadow Valley PD.