Page 2 of Property of Kevlar

“Pres is looking for you,” he said, jutting his chin toward the rear of the clubhouse.

Twisting, causing his back to crack, Kevlar glanced over his shoulder to confirm Jameson’s location. “What about?”

“Didn’t say,” Kid replied nonchalantly.

Of course he didn’t. Jameson didn’t mince words. He spoke what he meant to whoever needed to hear it. There was never a question of his intentions, and the people who had to know, did. Those who didn’t were left in the dark. There was no one more cut-and-dried than their president.

Kevlar nodded, and his creaking bones carried him toward the blond man in the corner, watching over his club—his kingdom. He accepted a few claps on the back, half hugs, and “welcome homes” from those he passed. These were his brothers-in-arms. His chosen family. They bonded over spilling blood and making money. Was there anything better than this?

Dropping onto the old couch, he greeted Jameson. “Pres.”

Slowly, Jameson took a pull from the glass in his hand and rolled it around in his mouth before swallowing. “How was the run?”

“Productive.” But Jameson knew that already. “Profitable,” Kevlar added.

The president nodded before he dragged his focus away from the center of the clubhouse. His gaze scanned Kevlar, as though assessing him.

Kevlar shifted in his seat under the scrutiny.

“You’re from down south, right?” Jameson asked.

“Oklahoma.”

Pres licked his bottom lip while swirling his glass. “Tulsa?”

“OKC.”

“We’ve got a situation.”

Kevlar leaned in closer while scanning the room. All was how it should be. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Nothing was out of place. What was he missing?

“Koyn needs to retire,” Jameson explained before taking another mouthful of alcohol.

Kevlar’s brows rose. Retire? That wasn’t a word in their vocabulary. Once a Royal Bastard, always a Royal Bastard. No one left. At least not willingly. They remained a part of the club until their dying breath.

“We need someone down there to keep our lanes open and business running,” Jameson said.

Kevlar nodded. Made sense. Whatever the circumstances, Oklahoma was a key state in their operation. They couldn’t give that up.

“I figured with your connections, you’d be the best to do it.”

Kevlar blinked, unsure how to process this information.

Blunt. To the point. That was the way of the president of the mother chapter of the Royal Bastards. There was no room for uncertainty. Yet Kevlar couldn’t believe his ears.

“Be the new president,” Jameson clarified.

Kevlar’s jaw fell slack. That wasn’t where he thought this conversation was going. Go help the Tulsa president? Sure. But take over? Be in charge? Holy shit balls.

“Bring your brother with you.” Jameson gestured toward the bar. “He’ll be your VP. Set up in Tulsa or go to OKC. I don’t care. Just maintain our foothold in Oklahoma.”

Leaning forward with a grunt, Pres then stood his full six feet in height. He stretched for a moment, as though he’d been sitting too long, waiting to have this conversation.

Bending slightly, he clapped Kevlar on the back and offered a rare smile. “Celebrate your promotion tonight. You can leave in the morning.”

Nothing more was said. That was it. Jameson moved on to other business.

Kevlar had been promoted to chapter president.