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Shadow, posted up at the back, eyed me like I was a puzzle to solve. “A truce? With them? What’s the angle for us?”
The room buzzed anew, a mix of skepticism and intrigue.
“I ain’t got all the pieces yet. But consider this. Brat’s old man runs the Gods’ main chapter,” I laid it out, using the fact to highlight the potential upside. “This could shift the game for us, put us in a spot we’ve never been in before.”
Doubt was written all over their faces, but the mention of Brat’s ties made ‘em think twice.
Lynx cocked his head, weighing the facts. “We ain’t keen on being under the Gods’ thumb again, Riptide. Last time nearly wiped our identity.”
I got where they were coming from. “I hear you. But with Brat and me, I’ll make damn sure we stay Slayers. We won’t lose ourselves. But just imagine, no more watching our backs for the Gods or Heelz.”
Another brother piped up, “We ain’t looking to merge with the Gods!”
“That’s not the play,” I assured them, firm and clear. “On my watch? We never lose our edge. With this alliance, we secure our turf. We turn potential enemies into allies, easing off some major heat. It’s about setting us up strong for what’s ahead.”
“It’s about you getting what you want, Riptide. Some biker bitch,” Bull said, challenging me.
Biting my lip, I considered my next words carefully. “Bull, you call my woman a bitch again, and I’ll skin you alive. I’m still the president of this damn club unless someone wants to challenge me.” I took off my jacket, ready to fight it out if I had to.
The air was charged, my brothers throwing glances around, contemplating what this alliance shift might mean for our leadership.
Bull cut through the tension, a sly grin on his face, lightening the mood. “So, say we get busy with one of those Heelz…”
Silence fell, the gang chewing on the idea. Bull leaned in, his voice laced with a bit of mischief. “Does that mean the Heelz chicks are fair game for us too?”
A wave of laughter rolled around the Lair, slicing through the thick atmosphere, as the brothers started to see some upside amidst their reservations.
“Go ahead and try,” I shot back with a grin, easing up a bit. “But be ready to face their fury. Those Heelz ladies, they’re no joke.”
What followed was a fierce back-and-forth, every brother laying out his take as we grappled with what was on the horizon. Yet, as we hashed it out, you could feel the room gradually turning. The thought of banding together against bigger threats, the allure of worry-free nights at the Roost, started to sway them. The vibe in the room shifted from outright resistance to a cautious openness to the idea.
After the meeting wrapped, my brothers, still reeling from the bombshells dropped, started warming to the idea. Led by the likes of Bull, Boiler, Shadow, and Lynx, they began to see the upside in my pitch. With some arm-twisting, they came around to the notion of a ceasefire, seeing it as a gateway to a fresh chapter for the Slayers, a chance to turn old feuds into smart alliances, transforming nights at the Roost from battlegrounds to brotherhood.
My mission wasn’t complete. Out in the night’s chill, I hit up Scar’s number that Brat had given me on pins and needles. The call connected, and I was met with Scar’s gravelly tone. “Yeah, this is Scar.”
“Scar, it’s Riptide, prez of the Florida Slayers,” I said, keeping my voice level. Brat mentioned she’d loop him in. “We need to hash out some things about our clubs and your daughter.”
A heavy silence fell, thick enough to cut. Finally, Scar broke it, “Heard your name from my girl. I’ll make the trip down. We’ll square off face to face.”
Hanging up with a meeting with Scar in the works, I felt one burden lift and another heavier one land. The thought of paving a new road for our clubs was big, but first, I had to square things with Brat’s father.
Back at the Lair, Rage and I sealed our tentative truce with a firm handshake, her eyes scanning the club’s interior with a hint of disdain. “Let’s see where this goes,” she remarked, clearly unimpressed by our hangout.
“Maybe it could use a lady’s touch,” I quipped, eyeing the mess that screamed bachelor pad.
Rage snorted, “Heelz ain’t here for housekeeping.” She gave me a serious look. “Don’t screw this up, Riptide. And keep Brat happy. She’s like a daughter to me, doesn’t like drama, but I’ll raise hell for her.”
I swore to her I’d do right by Brat.
That evening, we Slayers rolled into the Roost, signaling a new chapter. The place buzzed with energy, a blend of rock tunes and engine growls, as we stormed into the Heelz’s domain.
The Roost was wild, filled with the sounds of female bikers owning their ground, their laughter mingling with the clinking of bottles and the shouts of men who were their equals in spirit and strength. It was a mad mix of leather, ink, and the fresh vibe of a budding alliance.
Spotting Brat among the crowd, her red hair shining, she pulled me into her world, her embrace cutting through the party’s chaos. I held her close, soaking in the atmosphere.
The Heelz ruled the place, their bold laughter challenging anyone to second-guess their dominance. The guys, my Slayers included, matched their energy, respect and camaraderie. I think my men were just happy to have so many ladies around, since the Roost not only hosted their club but women from the community that chose to party where they may have some protection in the form of a lady bouncer.
The night rolled on, and so did the wild bash hinting at a possible peaceful future, the roar of shared laughter and tales weaving through the smoky, beer-soaked air of the Roost.
