Page 62 of Property of Kevlar

This guy should be worried about homecoming and chasing cheerleaders, not hanging out in a biker bar, approaching the president of a criminal chapter.

The kid furrowed his brows. “What?”

Kevlar leaned over the table, resting his elbows on it and joining his hands. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

Kevlar lowered his chin and glared at the youngster with an arched brow.

The kid’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he fidgeted, switching his weight from one foot to the other.

Oh, he definitely got in with a bogus license. Kevlar should probably inform Jerry. That was the right thing to do. No one wanted unnecessary heat on the place.

But…

Hadn’t Kevlar been guzzling beers here when he was a teen?

“I won’t get you thrown out,” Kevlar assured. “I just need to know for this conversation to move forward.”

The man before him nodded and lowered his gaze. “Nineteen.” His voice was low, barely audible over the music and conversation in the bar.

Kevlar didn’t buy it. Shaking his head, he considered the kid. “Come back in two years, and I’ll tell you about it.”

“But,” the guy protested.

Kevlar shook his head and waved him off. Reluctantly, the eager teenager trudged away and disappeared into the crowd. Maybe he’d see him again when he had matured a little.

While Kid and Kevlar got to prospect the Roughneck Riders super young, that wasn’t how Kevlar would run his club. Youth was riddled with impulsivity and volatility. They made poor choices and didn’t understand shit about loyalty.

Kevlar had decided long ago, before he was ever a Royal Bastard, that if he got the chance to run a chapter, he wouldn’t allow anyone below twenty-one to prospect, let alone patch in. It was too risky. He wanted solid brothers with good heads on their shoulders.

While he may hurt for members, he wanted quality, not just quantity.

As he lifted the bottle to his lips, his ass vibrated from the cell he kept in his back pocket. His hackles rose. Not many people had his number. If they were calling at this hour, it wasn’t good.

Putting the beer down, he reached for his phone and checked the screen.

Thank fuck Kelsey wasn’t contacting him. Not that he didn’t want to see her again but because that would mean Yogi was stirring shit up. At least the early morning message had been understood.

Tapping the green button, Kevlar brought the phone to his ear. “What’s up, Remi?”

She probably wanted to know if he and Kid were showing up to help at the shop tomorrow. They’d been doing that since they came home. They were in town; it was the least they could do.

“Who the fuck did you piss off?” she screamed.

Kevlar’s spine straightened. That list was long as hell. While Kevlar was only thirty years old, he’d been a criminal one percent biker since the day he was born. Pissing people off was his favorite activity.

“You’re going to need to be more specific,” he said.

He slapped Kid’s arm and gestured toward the back room—their makeshift clubhouse until they got something more permanent.

Kevlar plugged his ear so he could hear better.

“The cars outside the shop had their windows busted and tires slashed,” she announced as they moved through the crowd of people. “A few have bullet holes.”

Shit. That wasn’t good.

“Do you have any idea how angry my customers will be?” she seethed.