those two goons never saw us again, and that store never saw its diamonds again. But I met my best friend, and Shepherd and I have been cruising around the States and Mexico for the last couple of years basically getting into shit and then getting ourselves out of it.
The HQ is an old airplane hangar on a forgotten airfield that nature reclaimed. It’s surrounded by woods, and not far from Blackthorn itself, which is great. The main hangar itself is our dining hall and clubhouse where we conduct business. Around it, we’ve built up almost a little town of other buildings—a garage that Ryker, Axe, and Stone helped set up in their roles as “ex members of the old Lost Devils slash consultants for the new club.” Shep and I and some of the new guys put up a bunch of cabins around the property, too, to house us and any new Lost Devils members or pledges.
I park in front of my own cabin, but I can hear the sound of a welding torch over in the garage, so I head over that way. Hopefully, someone’s got some coffee going.
I might be dead tired, but when I look around at the paradise I’ve found myself in somehow, I grin. It’s a good life here in Blackthorn—a really good one. Well, aside from owing money to that fucking psychopath Barnes. I shake that aside, and instead, it’s Delphine that fills my mind as I head over to the garage.
The new faces over the last few months have come in slowly, but it’s a real club we’ve got forming here, and people are into what we’ve got going on. We’re not a gang, or a criminal enterprise, though there’s shit we do that isn’t exactly above the law. The first goal though is that we’re a protection force for the folks who live up here in what’s basically a dead zone between counties. And that means no real services, since Blackthorn isn’t technically a town at all. So that’s where we come in—protecting the people who call this place home, especially since most of us have plenty of demons in our past that might come looking for blood.
There’s Shepherd, of course. My best mate and the new President. I never would have thought of him as a leader, but shit, he’s got it. He’s got that charisma people look up to. I don’t, and I’m fine with that. I’m the class clown—the annoying cunt that won’t shut the fuck up, which suits me just fine, except it does land me in trouble pretty much constantly.
Rowan’s our Vice President. He’s actually an ex-cop turned outlaw, and it doesn’t hurt that he’s married to Shep’s sister, Lucy, who by the way rides full patch with us. I’ve seen dumb cunts out on the road give her shit or try and label her as some biker bitch. But they don’t laugh much after, or eat solid food for a few months, because that girl can fucking hit like a sledgehammer. Rowan’s definitely got his hands full, that’s for sure.
Hush is one of our newer guys, and the Sargent at Arms for the Devils. He’s actually the last holdover from the old Lost Devils. Before, it was Ryker, Stone, Axe, Hush, and a lot of other guys. Most of them are dead now, and some of those guys were dead or at least thought to be dead. Hush recently resurfaced in Mexico about a month ago and found his way back here—him and his girl, Catalina—a cartel boss’s daughter he stole back with him.
And then there’s me. I’m just a member, and that suits me just fucking fine.
Black Rebel Motorcycle Club is blasting over the garage speakers, and there’s a welding torch roaring away across the garage when I step inside. Two brawny, tattooed figures are standing over the tailpipe of a bike, their welding masks flickering in the light of the torch. One of them catches sight of me, and they both glance up as the torch turns off.
“Hey, what’s up man?”
Bishop, a guy in his late thirties who looks like he was carved out of stone, with a beard, and inked arms, greets me first. He pulls his welding mask up and smirks at me.
“Shit, up early or still up late?”
The other guy stands and chuckles as he pulls his own mask off.
“Up late. His bike was gone when I woke up an hour ago.”
Bastion, who arrived alongside Bishop, is about ten years