on, my phone rings. With a sigh that’s supposed to be calming, I look down at the screen. Mom is calling.
“What do you want, asshole?” I greet, bringing the phone back up to my ear.
Mom chuckles on the other end. “Fuck you too, prick. Is that any way to talk to your buddy after not speaking for three months?”
I grin. “Pretty sure it’s not my fault. Your phone works just as well as mine does.”
Mom groans on the other end. “I wasn’t exactly on vacation here, Judge.”
“I know, I asked you to go there.” My smile fades. “You good, brother?”
“I’m coming home, man. I’ve done all I can do here, and shit with Marie is hitting the fucking fan. I gotta sort out my own life before I can do much more for this club.”
I lean my ass against a nearby picnic table and stare down at the ground. “You got an escort?”
“Yeah. V is heading back with me. Thinking he might stick around a while.”
“Good. Get your ass home, brother. The club needs their VP back in one piece.”
“Their VP needs his old lady to stop being such a fuckin’ psycho.”
I chuckle, knowing that Mom loves Marie’s psychotic side almost as much as her fancy new tits. “See you soon.”
Disconnecting the call, I shove my phone back into my pocket. Mom and I have been around since the beginning of the Black Hoods MC. We’ve seen and done a lot of shit together. He’s been gone, dealing with an upheaval in the SoCal chapter, but I wasn’t lying when I said we needed our VP back.
Not only does Mom fill that role in our club, but his name is Mom for a reason. These guys look up to him. He takes care of them, offers advice, and bakes fucking pies, of all things. He’s a weird fucker, but he’s ours.
And even if the club didn’t need him, I do. Becoming an instant dad hasn’t been easy, and who better to offer me parenting advice than the man who has a pack of burly, grown-ass bikers calling him Mom?
A car pulls into the parking lot, and Karma motions for me to get my ass in gear.
Moving toward the others, I watch as Sharon Palmer pulls up to the front of the garage and gets out of her car. Sharon is an old friend. We’d gone to high school together, and her old man had been a good friend to the Black Hoods before he died. She’s also the real estate agent listed on this particular garage.
“Hello, boys,” she purrs, sliding her sunglasses up on top of her head while flashing us all an easy smile. The woman has balls of steel. Not too many people would be comfortable pulling up to a parking lot filled with Black Hoods, especially not good-looking women driving a fancy Tesla.
“How you doin’, darlin’?” I ask, stepping forward and holding out a hand to her.
“Can’t complain.” Grasping my hand in hers, she gives it a firm shake, not once losing her smile. “But only ‘cause complaining is against company policy.” Turning to the others, she throws out her arms. “So, I hear you boys are in the market for a new garage?”
“Don’t think there are many of those kickin’ around here, are there?” Karma drawls.
“Just this one,” she replies, pointing at the building behind us. “Let’s go take a look around.” We all follow as she walks toward the front door and unlocks three different deadbolts. “What kind of business are you hoping to run here? Body shop? Maybe a custom motorcycle garage?”
I look around the reception area of the old garage. It needs some TLC, for sure, but it definitely has the potential to be exactly what we’d all been hoping for.
“Neither,” I respond. “This town needs a basic garage. Just somewhere to go for a tune-up, or an oil change. Find out what the squeal from under the hood is coming from without paying an arm and a leg for shit parts.”
“Well, this place would be good for that.” She opens the door to the garage bay. “There are six bays here, each of them with fully operational lifts and power doors. And right through here,”—she enters another door at the back—“is a bathroom, a small kitchenette, a furnace room with space for storage, and an office. The property extends all the way to the corner if you’d want to expand the structure in the future. Perfect for the right buyer who has