Jinx (Kings of Carnage MC) - Chelsea Camaron Page 0,4

the one who found this place as a perfect hideaway to move some product through. It’s been a profitable avenue for the Kings of Carnage MC for sure.

Release.

I’ve had it.

Revenue.

I’ve got it.

Ride.

Now I get right back to it.

The open road under the night’s sky on my way back to Uprising and my life as a King.

Damn, I’m one lucky son-of-a-bitch.

One

Jinx

“Integrity is doing the right thing even when no one is watching.” CS Lewis – I do what is right by my code and not anyone else’s. Watch away motherfuckers, Jinx

The night air is crisp with a slight chill as I sit out on the back deck of my house. After leaving the clubhouse, I’m still restless. Something inside me is off. I can’t explain it. I simply don’t fucking like it.

Kings of Carnage Motorcycle Club is my life.

Typically, I’m at the clubhouse balls deep in club ass until two or three in the morning. Only tonight, it’s midnight, and I’m already home. The appeal of sex for the sake of sex isn’t what it used to be.

I look up to the stars, “Is this what you meant about growing up, Momma?”

The stars don’t reply. The wind blows a gentle breeze, surrounding me with a hint of jasmine in the air reminding me of her perfume. The days pass on and the loss doesn’t get any easier. There aren’t many people who can bring me to my knees, but my mom could with one look. She’s been dead five years now, and not a single day goes by where she doesn’t cross my mind.

With a longneck bottle in my hand, I lift the cold glass to my lips and take a long pull of my beer. Left alone in my thoughts, I can’t shake the ominous feeling that something big is on the horizon. I don’t get this wound up inside often. The unpleasant feeling is unwelcomed, and I don’t know how to shake it.

Uprising, Georgia is a dot on a map that very few people even care to know about. My house lies on the outskirts with my property line literally up against the train station. Not a public train system but a private freight corporation. I bought this house four years ago specifically for this location. The three-bedroom, two-bathroom farmhouse with a full wraparound porch only lacks one thing … a garage.

I plan to build one eventually, but it’s one of those things I want to do myself and I haven’t found the time. Sitting on fifteen acres settled at the back of a long dirt road, I’m all alone with only the train station behind me. No one wants to live by an active freight station, so I got the house cheap, and I like the privacy. This is a win-win for me. I’ve even considered buying the other acreage around me.

In the quiet of the night, the only thing breaking up my thoughts is them. The party the hobos are having is obviously just beginning for the night. Apparently, they hitched their ride in on this last load and how long they will stay is undetermined. I hate this shit. People who aren’t in my circle being anywhere near me simply pisses me off. Frankly, I hate people that aren’t my people, meaning Kings. Unless it’s my Pops or a King, I don’t like them. There is no winning me over. Fuck, I barely tolerate the prospects. Until they earn those rockers, they are shit to me just like everyone else.

My annoyance grows.

Gazing over to the railcar closest to my yard, I see the glimmer of the lock under the starry sky. Taking another pull of my beer, I let out a sigh of relief; at least, the bastards haven’t touched my shit.

That is their death sentence— the moment they cross the line into my world.

The single railcar on the far track never moves. It’s a decoy. The stuff inside is only a portion of what moves through these tracks and my property. Sure, the quantities found inside are felony levels but nothing like what we really move through this town and many others. The guns are in pieces where nothing works together. Only a King knows where the other parts are hidden. This is how we like it. The drugs inside might feed the fix of a teen trying shit out, but nothing hard for the meth-heads and crackheads. Weed, acid, and supplies for the cook to make the meth, sure, but again, nothing in the