Page 35 of Property of Kevlar

From his mouth to Satan’s ears. That was the plan.

19

Kevlar

Early afternoon was the perfect time to have a few beers and celebrate. Finally! A goddamn win. Kevlar and Kid had secured a temporary clubhouse. They wouldn’t have to bother Remi. The ball had begun to roll. Things were looking up.

Now all they needed was membership. As competent as he and his brother were, they wouldn’t stand a chance against the Scorpions alone. Kevlar shouldn’t have to call in reinforcements three days into being a chapter president. He wanted to impress Jameson and show him he’d made the right choice in giving this to Kevlar.

No doubt, Yogi wanted to do the same with his president. The most dangerous situation in the world was two men fighting over something to prove with nothing to lose. There were no limits to the lengths they would go to.

As Kevlar threw back his third shot of tequila, he stared at the bottles lining the wall behind the bar. He needed numbers—good ones. Unfortunately, with recruitment, he could either take people on swiftly or he could patch in quality brothers. There was no way to have both.

Sighing, he ran his hand through his short strands and twisted on the barstool. This would be his new home. A biker bar would be the perfect place to study and collect a few men for his cause, but he couldn’t accept everyone. That was one of his father’s many mistakes that Kevlar would not repeat.

While open for business, the bar was practically empty, but the hour was early. They’d need a few weeks as he worked on building his club.

Movement caught his attention. Shifting his focus toward it, he watched Vanessa stroll out of the men’s room, fixing her shirt and fluffing her hair. When Kid came out pulling his zipper up, Kevlar snorted and shook his head.

Well, apparently, his assumption about his brother was confirmed—there was something between those two. The question was whether it started before or after Diesel’s death. He hoped before. Diesel had always been a fucking jackass. He deserved everything he got.

“Hey!” Kid greeted.

Flicking his focus to the door, Kevlar grinned. A wave of relief swept through him at the sight of the man with the thick, coppery shoulder-length hair. He high-fived Kid before pulling him into a hug and clapping him on the back.

Torch.

The man had once worn a prospect patch for the Roughneck Riders. Kevlar had sponsored him. This was the type of man he needed. People he knew to be solid and could join the ranks quickly. Thankfully, his old friend wasn’t wearing a cut. No one, least of all the Scorpions, had scooped him up.

That wasn’t necessarily true. The sign outside declaring no club colors remained and would. No one but the Royal Bastards could wear their cuts. Jerry had agreed to that rule earlier. It would send a message—this was their turf.

As Kevlar watched Kid chat with Torch, he noticed his friend hadn’t come alone. Beside him stood a Black man wearing a beanie and a gray tank top. From a distance, Kevlar couldn’t make out what was said, but clearly Torch introduced him to Kid.

Two for one, maybe.

Kevlar stroked his beard as he studied the two men. As far as he was concerned, if Torch wanted it, he’d earned his patch already. He’d prospected for nearly two years and proved himself worthy. This new guy, well, time would tell.

Kid raised his eyes, met Kevlar’s, and gestured toward him. When Torch turned his head, he smiled a wide, toothy grin and raised his arms. “Weston!”

The sound of his legal name made him smile. No one had used it in years. Even Kid didn’t call him that.

Sliding off the stool, Kevlar strolled, closing the distance between the men who were already on their way to him.

“Good to see you, Torch,” he said as he wrapped his friend in a brief hug.

Backing up, Torch nodded. “Heh. No one’s called me that in forever.”

Good. Kevlar hoped that was a sign he hadn’t sniffed around for another club after the Roughneck Riders dissolved. Unlike Kevlar and Kid, Torch had ties to the community. As a welder, he held a union job with the city. He had it made and couldn’t take off like they had.

Fingers crossed that worked in his favor.

“This is my friend, Lionel.” Torch gestured to the man beside him.

Kevlar’s gaze ran up and down the tall, fit man as he offered his hand. “How are you doing?”

Lionel, who had a good three inches on Kevlar, accepted it with a bright smile, which he quickly wiped off his face. “Fine. Good.”

“Kid told me you were back in town,” Torch said with his gaze fixated on the patch on Kevlar’s vest.