B - stard (Royal Bastards MC) - Sapphire Knight Page 0,23

a way to get on the DA’s good side, then ain’t fuck all changing for us…or Baker.”

I chug the rest of my beer and toss it into the bin we have reserved for glass. I know what you’re thinking, and just cause we’re bikers doesn’t mean we can’t recycle. We drink a lot, so it only makes sense we make a haul of glass and cans to the recycling center every now and then.

Whiskey grumbles, throwing in, “I just checked up on our brother. He’s holding up. Bitchy as ever, but he’s managing. The money we’ve been throwing at county has kept the jailers off his back.”

“Bet.” Plague nods.

“We need to get him the fuck outta there; it’s draining his cut of the pie, and I hate to see the brother get out to be left on his ass. You feel me?”

Whiskey agrees. “We’re family. We have his back.”

“Truth…this club has all our backs. Doesn’t mean we can’t acknowledge that being locked up is bad for business, and fuck if the other charters don’t have their own shit hitting the fan.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Whiskey declares stubbornly. At times, the older man has been a rock to me. I’ve known him damn near my entire life. He and my ol’ man were close when I was a kid. My pops is in the life—not this club, but another. He and Whiskey met up when the clubs came together on a run back when I was six or so, and they’d remained friends ever since. While my father would never be in the Royal Bastards, I’m glad Whiskey had wanted in when his old club went their separate ways. It’s not often a club just breaks down and separates like his did, but it allowed him to pledge to another set of colors.

“House!” Blow hollers out behind us, garnering our attention. We spin around wearing wry grins. Blow is always up to some shit with Powerhouse. Those two are like twelve-year-old BFFs joined at the hip at times—often getting into some sort of shit together.

I let out a snort at the sight before me. Powerhouse is naked save for material tied at his hip. It looks like they ripped up a sheet or some shit. He’s wearing black, white, and red body paint. The brother looks like a fucking painted up goofball.

“The fuck is this shit?” Whiskey calls as the brothers and prospects hoot and holler loudly at our massive SAA who’s got everything except his cock out on display.

He starts chanting some shit with Blow joining in, and we’re all busting up. They stomp their feet, staying in the moment, both wearing surprised looks at us cutting up over the display. I have to put a stop to this nonsense. I hold my hand up, “You two fuck sticks want to explain what’s happening?” I can barely ask with a straight face, gasping for air from laughing so hard. Obviously, these brothers have been cooped up too long to get them to start up shit like this. It could be worse, I guess. They could be trying to kill each other.

Powerhouse stops, resting his hands on his hips, frowning at the room. His muscles flex, having been warmed up from his little stomp dance he’d just put on for us.

Blow shares, “We were looking at intimidation tactics. Figured we needed to come up with something good for House’s next fight since he was called out. The videos said the symbols were protection and a sign of strength. We wanted to show it off before doing it at the fight.”

“Un-fucking-believable,” Whiskey complains, shaking his head. “Bunch of goddamn kids around here.”

I start yelling in disbelief. “You’re motherfucking bikers! Powerhouse, you’re bigger than every fucker in here, and that’s your intimidation tactic, brother? Christ, you two need to find a fucking hobby that doesn’t include snorting the product and watching videos of this shit.” The guys still chuckle in the background. Quietly, of course, or I’d be calling them out too.

Powerhouse stomps off, acting like a bitch who just got grounded. Hopefully, the sensitive fucker went to shower that shit off himself. Blow rolls his eyes and plops down in a chair. They remind me of chastised kids—the crazy fuckers.

“This is why I don’t do drugs,” Whiskey points out after a minute of silence.

“This is why I do drugs,” Plague counters.

I chuckle. “This club is crazy, plain and simple. Maybe it’s good Angel is away. He’d have decked both those idiots for