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PRIEST
Present day
I sit at the bar nursing a whiskey; I’m not proud of myself since I quit last month. Then again, I did get shot a few months ago so I shouldn’t be too hard on myself. Lucky for me, the bullet only grazed my shoulder, but it hurt like a bitch.
The only good thing to come out of it was the fact our enemies — the Devils Ink — are all but wiped out and their prez — Forger — is now dead after a year of being on the run.
While I’m glad that’s all over, it didn’t come without complications. The Italian mafia were involved in the crossfire and it ended in gunfire. Cash, our prez, took retribution on the underboss Salerno who did some bad shit to a couple of brothers in the club when they were kids. That shit don’t fly.
The only assholes to make it out alive — aside from my club brothers — was Big Papa; the man who runs the underworld drug and fighting rings.
We got a standing ovation from the Irish mafia; their Captain Rowan and our club have been allies for years. We trade off from time to time and help one another out.
But the NOLA Rebels stay out of illegal shit. We turn a blind eye to the underworld, and keep the peace for the most part. Until Cash went postal and started shooting.
Don Carlo, of the Italian mafia, is under the belief that the gunfire between his brother and his men was a drug deal gone wrong with the Devils Ink. And we’d like to keep it that way. As far as anyone knows, we were not involved.
Since it’s been a month, and Don Carlo has been silent, their plan to take over the French Quarter from the Irish was in vain.
Carlo Caruso and his family moved out of New Orleans decades ago and predominantly operate in Houston, Texas — until recently when they decided to come back to their roots. Whatever beef they have now is with the Irish, and we’ll gladly pass the torch on and let them settle their factions like men.
For now, it looks like the NOLA Rebels are in the clear. Though, it’s been all over the news. You can only cover up so many bodies, and the cops are always happy to come in and look like the good guys. Cleaning this town up is a priority, according to their chief.
Riot sits down next to me at the bar as Amber pours him a beer. The clubhouse is a place where we can all relax and play pool, drink, have parties, and where we hold all the club’s important meetings, affectionately known as church.
“You been nursin’ that drink for the better part of an hour.”Riot is the secretary in the MC. He looks after all the paperwork and meeting agendas. Bronco, along with Nevada, ensures the safety of the riders. When we’re on our motorcycles going on a ride, they stay at the back of the pack to ensure safety from the rear. Our club is moderate to large and some members come and go, but since I took on the role of club chaplain all those years ago, I never looked back. Everyone has their role in the club, we're all brothers.
Cash and this club saved my life. Being in prison may have opened my eyes to all the things I didn’t want for my life, but it was being on the outside that was even harder.
Facing my own demons and letting go of the past has been a journey. One that I have to work at daily. I drank a lot and had dark days in prison, but that's all behind me now. I did what I had to do and I have no regrets.
I may be the most composed and calm of the MC, but it wasn’t always that way.
“You got nothin’ better to do?” I fire back.
He snorts. “I guess not.” He slaps me on the back. “Please tell me one of the sweet butts took care of you after you were grazed by that bullet.” He likes to emphasize the ‘grazed’ part and not the ‘shot’ part.
He — as well as most of the club — are well aware of my vow of celibacy for the time being. And it’s got nothing to do with my religious beliefs. Too much of a good thing can be bad for you, and when that happens, I start to lose myself. I call it my cleansing period, though the boys think I’m a soft cock.
It isn’t like the sweet butts — the women of the club who hang around for free drinks, grub and sex — haven’t tried. But when I make a vow, I stick to it.
And in any case, when I feel like my time to relinquish is done, they’ll be the first to know.
“If you all took as much interest in sortin’ out your own miserable love lives and stopped worryin’ about mine, you’d be a lot better off.”
“Nah, that would be borin’.”
I roll my eyes. A text comes through from my friend, who was a Pastor, but now goes by Father Dan. I'm supposed to be helping out at the Soup Kitchen tomorrow while he’s away and I said I’d watch over the flock. I’m technically Catholic, or was brought up that way, but I don’t practice. I’m more on a spiritual path. The nickname Priest kinda stuck; a joke from my club brothers, but I don't mind it.
Dan
Bro, you good to help out tonight?
I frown. Tonight?
Me
I thought you said tomorrow?
