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Chapter 1
Twenty Years Ago
Kingpin
The color of money is fucking unmistakable. A greenish, iridescence covered the old wooden floors of the bar, the stages, every surface of the clubhouse like a fresh fallen snow. Like a fucking dream.
Two million, I assumed.
“We’re saved,” Claudine squealed in delight. Topless, she bounced, her titties about knocking her out.
“Everyone leave,” I shouted at the strippers bagging the money at Murder’s direction. A few of them clutched a handful on their way out the door to the kitchen. “You too,” I told my brothers from West Virginia, the other boys from out of state and my own crew.
“This more than pays off Pharaoh’s debts to Mr. Fond. Looks like you’re President of Nashville now, Kingpin,” Murder said on his way out.
“Yeah, but at what cost?” I said under my breath.
In the blink of an eye, I sat alone on the edge of the stage, my boot buried in cash.
Bubba, my twin brother called my bluff. I’d threatened to out him, to tell the press he’s not who he claims to be, but he knew I wouldn’t dare. In turn, Bubba and his posse dumped cash all over our clubhouse to humiliate me on our opening night. Buy me off like only he could. Fuck, I should’ve killed him when I had the chance. The memory of putting a bullet in him coursed through me.
In the last couple years since I’d been out of the slammer, out for the second time, I’d helped Pharaoh build a clubhouse to rival all others. To hell with Las Vegas, fucking family friendly tourist trap. Our clubhouse would be a new destination for high rollers and folks looking for a taste of Sin City. People just threw away money these days, millions, gambling or buying a quick thrill. And we planned to be a big golden trash can.
Too bad Pharaoh wouldn’t see our chapter flourish. Fucking Noah Fond got to him. Ruined him. Pharaoh pulled the trigger, splattering his own brains all over his office, but that man killed our President. As a result, the Nashville chapter of the Royal Bastards MC owed a mint to the richest man in the city. With Pharaoh gone, Mr. Fond wanted his debt paid in full. Not only did he take our leader, he was about to take our clubhouse, just as it was finished.
Bulldog, the President of our mother chapter out in Washington state was not happy with us, not in the least.
“Two million dollars?” Satan held his chest. He about fell over learning how much Pharaoh owed his investor.
“My brother owes me that much and so much more,” I’d remarked, but I hadn’t expected him to pay up. Not like he did. Not without agreements being made. I couldn’t refuse the money now that he’d sprayed it all over the club. Not with Pharaoh’s blood still fresh on the walls. Now my twin brother not only used my life story to make his bread, he owned the club’s debt. He owned me even more. But with my President dead, why shouldn’t I take over? Our Vice President, Satan had said any one of us who could get the club out of this mess had the job.
Speaking of the devil, Satan waded through the cash to join me on the stage. He lowered himself carefully. The wrinkled, white-haired man had been through the ringer in his long life, surviving WWII before taking a beating from club life. Multiple motorcycle crashes, gunshot wounds and otherwise, marred his movements but not his spirit. He slapped my back hard, reminding me that at seventy-eight, he could still put up a fight. “Fucking cheer up, President.”
I chuckled. “It should be you.”
“I’m on my last legs. I can barely ride my Harley. This place is your baby anyhow. Your and Pharaoh’s deformed love child. She’ll grow up to be a whore only a mother can love. I’m sure of it.”
“I guess I should call the girls back in. We should clean up this money, huh?”
“You’re my boss now, son. You call the shots.”
Taking a breath, I let the weight of it all crush me. I let it drag me down to the depths of darkness. There I found myself in a dank ass cell. I shared it with Pharaoh, and he put the gun in his mouth. But then I exhaled and remembered something said to me so long ago, “You could have it all if you just had the balls to take it.” The weight disappeared as I pocketed the charge. I became stronger. I turned to Satan, “Getting this shit bagged and tagged, that’s what Pharaoh would do. So, fuck that. I say this is a once in a lifetime opportunity.”
“For what?” Satan asked.
“To party on a mountain of cash. Besides, fuck Bubba. I don’t owe him shit.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“We’re going to celebrate.”
“I’m up for a patching.” Satan started to call everyone back into the bar, but I stopped him.
“Wait.” Putting my finger to my lips, I said, “I’m calling dibs. Now, who am I going to fuck first?”
“Memphis is here.” Satan offered his granddaughter.
She was around my age, and I was twenty-six. Well, maybe she was a few years younger. Memphis got her name from her hometown. The fucking hottest girl around, blonde and perfect, like she just stepped off the cover of a magazine, she’d been Pharaoh’s plaything. Satan always wanted her to be Pharaoh’s ol’ lady. But he’d been old enough to be her dad. I wondered if that was why it never happened. Now I guess Satan offered Memphis to me.
