Outlaw's Vow: Grizzlies MC Romance(115)

The room was dead silent. The two men looked at each other, nervous as hell. It would've been funny if I didn't have so much shit on my mind.

“The difference is, this time we'll be calling you our brothers. Welcome to the fold, boys. You've earned your bottom rockers, and the vote was unanimous.” The Prez stopped and looked at me. “Roman?”

My cue to get up and hand them the patches I've been sitting on since we got into the room. The boys stared at me like their damned eyeballs were about to melt.

They probably couldn't believe how quickly they'd been patched in. Well, there's more of that these days, especially with good men dropping like fucking flies along the border.

Before we really started to tango with the cartel, we were the biggest MC west of the Mississippi. Flash forward a couple years, and we'd lost hundreds, rivers of blood spilled to gain the upper hand over those bastards from Mexico. Not to mention some of our own brothers, who'd turned this club into such a shithole it was too weak to push the invaders back where they belonged in the first place.

“Congratulations, brother.” I shook Stryker's hand, a tall man, former soldier.

Then I moved to Beam and offered the same thing. He had more of a punk ass skateboarder's look, but whatever. Seeing dudes with weird styles was nothing outta the ordinary in any MC.

“Take your seats, brothers. We've got business.” We all nodded and found our places while Blackjack limped back to his.

The Prez's bum leg probably wouldn't ever heal. He'd taken a bullet when the boys fought Fang, our old fuck of a Prez, not long before I got outta jail. When I showed up for duty with the new and improved Grizzlies MC, I wasn't sure what to expect. Luckily, the past few months have proven it's a big improvement.

Anything beat the old group of thugs, killers, and honorable outlaws getting their asses kicked by the cartel. I went away after killing for the brothers I trusted. Since I took the Enforcer promotion, it was my job to make damned sure no man sat at this table or wore this patch who couldn't be called a brother in the fullest sense of the word.

Once everybody was seated, Blackjack looked at Brass, our VP, waiting for him to deliver the latest war report.

“We're still struggling with these ambushes, Prez. The Devils are working with the Oregon crew, helping hold things down up north. But they hit us every week in LA and San Diego. Sacramento's got spots we don't control, even after several months.” He paused, as if he didn't want to say the next part. “They're still going after men's families. They beheaded a brother's old lady last week in SoCal.”

Fuck. Christ.

Hands went up and slapped the table. Men shook their heads. My guts spooled up like a goddamned chain getting ready to snap.

The brothers who've got women they've claimed looked the worst. At our table, that was Brass and Rabid, but several other guys were just as pissed. I felt it too – an iron hot fire making me wanna hit the road and strangle a few cartel soldiers myself.

Thinking about those fucks butchering an old lady only fed the shit running through my head. It wasn't just about the dead chick – it was the ultimate slap in the face, the ultimate way for those cocksuckers to squat on us and take a steaming dump on the entire club.

For a split second, it made me think about her, before I shoved Sally outta my skull for the dozenth time that day.

“Christ.” Blackjack's lips twitched angrily, taking a few seconds to collect his words. “All the more reason to end this thing before Christmas.”

“I hope it's that easy, Prez,” Rabid said, breaking in. “Shit, I'd give up Jack all winter if we didn't have to worry about those fucks breathing down our throats.”

“Quit bullshitting, brother. I'd settle just for the Mexicans breathing down our threats, instead of fucking cutting them.” Brass stared at his friend across the table.

“Enough. You know why we're here.” Blackjack peered out at all of us, one by one, stopping on me dead last. “We need manpower. The two brothers we've just patched in are just the beginning. Roman, you're going to choose three new hangarounds by the end of the week. Make them prospects. Make sure they're ready to face hell for this brotherhood.”

A few guys exchanged icy glances. The club's power structure was too damned new for a lot of 'em to openly grumble to the Prez. Not me.

I couldn't slack off when the stakes were this high – even if the Prez was wrong.

“Prez, I told you last week we can't be flipping through these strangers like a revolving door. Hell, this isn't the army where we can snap our fingers and draft a bunch of bastards from Redding just looking for a little action and some mean tattoos. We can't pick up every motherfucking kid fresh outta high school who likes Harleys and thinks wearing this patch'll show all the ladies his balls have dropped.”