passed over a roll of papers. Bane glanced at them, then stuck them inside his vest, making a show of buttoning the pocket to keep them safe. “Gonna have to wait on the new rockers. Rushed them, and expressed, but they couldn’t be here by today. No reason to wait. We can cut off your bottom later, and then you’ll have some sewing to do.”
Pulling in a deep breath, Bane turned to face his friend and president, waiting.
Blackie grinned at him, an expression that came easily to the man. “My old lady musta had an idea about what’d go down. She packed not only IRMC patches, but FRMC ones, too.” He shoved out a fistful of fabric towards Bane. “Here.”
Bane accepted them, the weight of the patches somehow more than it should be. Profound moment, he thought, turning to the two men standing shoulder to shoulder on the bottom step. “You two get official permission, brothers?” Both nodded, the lines of their faces strained. Bane couldn’t imagine giving up his patch, and he hadn’t worn it nearly as long as these men had. “Mason, what say you to these men asking to step out from under the skull and key, taking off the colors of the Rebel Wayfarers?”
“I say aye. Pained and reluctant, but an aye from me.” Mason took out a pocketknife and studied it for a moment, then gripped the blade and flung the handle away from the tang. He leaned over and handed the opened knife to Gunny, who accepted it with a scowl.
Bane felt a twist in his chest. “Brother, if you aren’t—”
“Sharon and I have already put down on a house butting up against your property. We’ll be neighbors, brother.” Gunny shrugged out of his vest and started at the front, using the tip of the blade to pick at the threads holding on his officer patch. “Just across the creek from you and Truck seemed to be a good place to start. We’re gonna be in each other’s pockets from the get-go, and this”—he arrowed a glance up at Mason, then over to Bane—“is something that’s been comin’ a while. Had my time in the north, but this southern boy has been missin’ his roots.” He tipped his head to Truck. “This reprobate shacked up with my old lady’s adopted mom, so it’s an ask to leave the RWMC, but it’s no ask at all for me to be here for him and you.” His hands turned the leather over, still taking care as he removed the top and bottom rockers. “We all know the plans, anyway. Couple of years, three at the outside, I’ll be sewing these damn things right back on. Gonna keep ’em for me, right, boss?” Gunny stood and passed the blade to Truck, then handed the worn and dirty patches to Mason. “Be a shame to have to break in new ones.”
“I’ll keep hold of them, sure.” Mason folded his arms across his chest, jaw tight as he watched Truck begin the same process. “Different charters, hell, different clubs, you two are still fuckin’ mine. No way around how that feels. I’ll hold them for you, brother. I’ll hold them.”
Truck worked silently, bottom lip folded between his teeth as he snipped the threads around the edges of his patches, just as road worn as Gunny’s had been. When finished, he made a show of closing the pocketknife and handing it back to Mason before turning to look at the men behind them. The crowd had grown silent and still, the only sounds from the kids off in the field playing, light laughter from a distance, while an air of solemnity lay heavily on these men. “What you see here isn’t the end of an era.” Truck propped a foot on a higher step, stretching to hand his patches to Mason. He nodded at Bane, then settled back on the bottom step. “It’s the beginning of a new one. The king is dead—” He chuckled, and then Gunny joined in on the next line. “—long live the king.”
Bane studied the distance between them and made a decision, taking his time walking down the steps to stand between the two men. He turned to Truck first, holding out the main back patch and top rocker. “Bottoms will be in soon, so I’m told.” In one fist he offered the officer patch, holding it when Truck would have taken it from him. “I’ve known you a while, old man. Trust you with