Blaine shivered and pulled on his gray hoodie over his oil-stained white t-shirt. He wished that they would turn up the damn heat in the garage at night; the only time he had to work on his bike. Even though summer was right around the corner, the night was crisp.
He jumped as he heard the scattering and smashing of beer bottles and cans as they clattered across the concrete garage floor.
“Fuckin’ guys.” A gruff low voice echoed through the garage. It was Zeb, the President.
“Blaine, get over here and clean up these fuckin’ bottles.”
Blaine jumped up, grabbed an empty beer case, and wished that he hadn’t just walked around the pile of bottles on his way into the garage.
“You spend so much time working on your bike. You’re not going to like it when the fuckin’ tires are all full of glass are you?”
Blaine was used to the yelling, he had been raised in the clubhouse. After his dad, the club’s secretary, died in a bike accident, he and his mom were taken in by the motorcycle club, the Brass Bonds, MC. His mom never got over the loss of her husband, Marty, and blamed the club life for his death. She took off when Blaine was four and the guys had raised him ever since.
He knew that a biker club wasn’t the best environment for a kid to grow up in, but he loved it. He got to ride on the back of bikes, get his hands dirty fixing things, and stay up late. As a teenager, it had been amazing: women; booze; dope, anything he wanted, he could have. He didn’t have to go through the hazing process that all of the other new prospects had to go through, and he was thankful for that, the club put their prospects through the wringer.
All that freedom at such a young age made him seem much older than his years. He was 24 and hid his baby face behind a scruffy ginger beard. Yeah, he had done some shitty stuff in his past, but now that he had senior status in the club he didn’t have to get his hands dirty too often.
Once the bottles had been cleaned up, he grabbed a couple of cold ones from the fridge, fell into the leather chair beside Zeb, and tossed him a can of beer.
“Thanks, kid.”
They cracked open their beers and sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. When they finally spoke, it was to admire the exhaust modifications that Blaine had made to his bike. It’s going to sound so fucking boss. Blaine thought to himself and took a swig of his beer.
“Blaine, I’m putting you in charge of organizing the security and location for the next meeting of the chapters. Use the prospects for anything you need to get done.”
“When is that again, beginning of September?”
“Yep.”
“I’m on it,” Blaine sighed. He hated the AGM. It was always a total shit show. The location changed every year as it was hosted by the different chapters of the club. This year was his chapter, Torver’s, turn. When all of the Brass Bonds got together, fueled by booze and coke, there were always crazy incidents, fights, and gunfire.
Blaine leaned forward on his knees and shook his head as he realized the weight of the big responsibility that had just been tossed onto his plate. The first step in organizing the damn thing was going to be securing the location. What farmer or campground wants hundreds of Brass Bonds camping out on their land? They had a huge presence in Torver county, and everyone knew who they were, for good or bad. Landowners knew that they were better off agreeing to donate their property for the weekend, or face the alternative. Blaine always felt guilty strong-arming hard-working folk, but he got a kick out of beating up slick businessmen. He loved seeing them fumble around in their Italian leather shoes. Maybe he would try to find some property owned by a fancy developer and force them into hosting the club’s meeting. The second step was going to be getting the local authorities on board. That part wasn’t going to be tough, seeing as the Bonds already had the sheriff in their back pocket.
He flipped open a spiral notebook and started his to-do list. He scrawled out: bust up slick businessman, and smirked as he reread it.
He loved his club and he loved his brothers, but was starting to get tired of the lifestyle. He had gotten partying and wild experiences out of his system at a young age, and was feeling a little bored with it all now. He was even tired of the women. They were all the same. Usually blonde with huge fake tits, armband tatts, skinny as hell, and slightly orange from tanning beds. The gashes loved the MC and would do anything any of the members told them to do, without question. Sure, the girls acted tough, but if he snapped his fingers, the club girls would do whatever he said.
Even the fucking was getting boring. Most of the club whores had been through half the MC. He knew that some of the girls didn’t want to do the dirty stuff, but did it anyway. The weakness of those women made him despise them. If a club girl stood up to him, he would actually respect her a lot more.
Blaine threw his leg over his bike, an old pan-head chopper, and kick-started it to life. He smiled to himself and took a swig of beer, appreciating his bike’s new growl.