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“You can’t be serious. You really expect me to serve a fourth year as a Prospect?”
“Considering the shit you’ve pulled,” he said, waving the picture at me. “That’s a very generous offer. If you don’t like it, maybe you should see if the Desert Howlers will take you in.”
Too stunned to reply, I watched as Brewer turned away and disappeared inside the clubhouse. I didn’t follow.
Three years.
I had dedicated three whole years of my life to this club in an effort to earn my patch, to belong, to find my place among a family of brothers who looked out for each other. I’d swallowed my pride time and time again. I’d completed every shitty task the other members ordered me to do—whether it was a serious assignment or a joke at my expense to haze the newbie.
And now, the door to membership was closed. Again.
If I wanted to stick around for yet another year, I could give it a shot. But Brewer didn’t sound hopeful that the results would be any different. In fact, his suggestion to try another club told me everything I needed to know.
I was never going to become an Alpha Rider.
As I moved toward my bike, I wondered if this was simply a bad dream. All I had to do was pinch myself and the nightmare would be over. Everything would be back to normal and the promise of an upcoming vote would be waiting for me on the horizon.
A small voice in the back of my mind whispered, isn’t this what you wanted?
With no family, no club, and no Stevie, I had nothing to lose now. I could pack up and leave. LeBlanc might come looking for me and beat the hell out of me for running away.
Then again, he might not. He was an opportunistic feeder, like a shark. Another fish would come along that he could sink his teeth into.
Tugging my helmet on, I started my bike with a deafening growl of the engine. I turned onto the open road, ready to leave Merry Field in my rear-view mirror.
Chapter Eight
Stevie
On the day of the rally, a thin layer of clouds moved in, granting a welcome respite from the sun’s heated onslaught. The smell of greasy food, beer, and cigarette smoke hung in the air. The roar of motorcycles mingled with the buzz of conversation as bikers started rolling into the clubhouse parking lot. By the time the rally was in full swing at three o’clock in the afternoon, hundreds of bikers were in attendance from clubs as far away as Oregon, Nevada, and New Mexico.
“Damn good turnout,” Judge said. He eased himself into a chair beside me under the refreshment tent we’d set up outside the clubhouse. We’d been handing out cold beers, whiskeys, sodas, and water for hours.
“Especially on short notice,” I replied. My gaze swept the crowd for the one face I shouldn’t be looking for.
“Ratchet said donations have reached over $10,000 already.”
I crossed my arms and tore my gaze away from the crowd, disappointment needling at the back of my neck. It was stupid to hope that Diablo would show up. Did I want him to apologize so we could go back to the way things were before? Or did I simply want him to prove me wrong and show that a good man was buried under all those layers of asshole that he shielded himself with?
“We should put the cash in a coffee can when we give it to him,” I said. “You know he won’t be touching a bank after this.”
Judge shook his head. “I don’t blame him. He called me last night, drunk off his ass. The police still don’t have any leads and they’re warning him that there’s a good chance they won’t be able to get any of his money back.”
My gaze shifted to where Tarzan was seated by one of the giant barbecues lining the western side of the clubhouse. Even though he wasn’t thrilled about the Desert Howlers hosting the rally for his benefit, he’d thrown himself into cooking and distributing food since the early morning hours. I couldn’t tell if he worked to pay off the debt he felt toward everyone helping him, or if he worked to take his mind off the fact someone had robbed him blind and he couldn’t do anything to stop it.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Judge said.
I turned to look at him. Judge nodded toward the road. I followed his gaze to see the Alpha Riders filing into the parking lot on their bikes. A quick headcount showed eight members, instead of their usual nine.
No Diablo.
Lloyd strode out to greet them. I glanced in Judge’s direction but he was already way ahead of me.
“Go,” he said. “I have everything covered here. I’ll call Tarzan if I need an extra hand.”
Pushing my chair back, I gave Judge a grateful squeeze on the shoulder and jogged to catch up with Lloyd. Brewer was dismounting his bike as I approached.
“I’m surprised to see you boys here,” Lloyd said. “Didn’t expect you would be willing to show your faces in Howler territory.”
