Depending on the club and the territory, that’s a huge offense. Clubs go to war over who gets to name a territory on their bottom rocker all the time.
“I’m not gettin’ involved in their beef.” Pants glances at the pack again. “You think we need to?”
He really needs to ask? “We’re aligned with the Iron Bulls who’re aligned with the Dragons,” I remind him.
“They find out we knew,” Dex adds, “it could make things sticky when we’re all trying to get along.”
“That gettin’ along bullshit’s for pussies, anyway.” Smoke sneers at us. “You baby bros don’t get it. Those beefs go back decades. You can’t just let them grudges go and get along. Outlaw life don’t work that way.”
“Priest’s not exactly a teenager,” I point out. “And he’s in favor of these alliances.” Fuck, if anything, Priest keeps pushing harder and harder for us to play nice with other MCs. Anything to stick it to law enforcement and make their jobs harder. Smoke’s approach to outlaw life would land all of us behind bars doing hard time until we’re as old as he is or dead.
“Please enlighten us, gramps,” Jigsaw taunts. “What beef have Kings and Bulls ever had?”
“Eh. You don’t get it.” Smoke waves his hand at Jiggy, dismissing the question.
“Senile motherfucker,” Jigsaw mouths at me.
“Red Storm’s responsible for blowing up one of our clubhouses in the late Eighties.” Pony’s hand inches near the holster he’s wearing under his cut. “Lost good brothers. We don’t forgive or forget.”
“No one’s asking you to,” I say, careful to keep my tone respectful. “We definitely need to handle this. But we need to think before acting.” Why is this such a hard concept for grown men to understand? No wonder Priest’s such an ornery bastard sometimes. Been putting up with this hot-headed bullshit for years.
“They’re in our territory without a courtesy call,” Smoke points out, pulling a gun from a holster at his back. “You wanna call daddy Priest and ask permission, be my guest. I ain’t waitin’.”
“Easy, old-timer,” Pony warns, slapping his hand on Smoke’s chest and stopping him in his tracks. “When, where, and how we handle this is my call. I’m the prez.”
Nice of you to remember your role here.
The whole time this conversation’s going on, Shelby’s quiet, almost like she’s trying to blend into the scenery. But she’s also slowly scanning the parking lot and watching everything around us.
Not wanting to call attention to her presence, I move my body in front of hers but reach behind me to squeeze her arm. Last thing I need is Smoke to remember she’s here and start bitching.
“We’ve got two issues here,” Dex, always the level-headed one, says. “They’re in our territory without permission, and they’re still openly claiming a territory one of our allies runs—”
“Fuck your allies,” Smoke sneers.
Dex grinds his teeth. “We’re not trying to get along with the Bulls and Dragons so we can all play a round of Pretty, Pretty, Princess next time they’re in town. We have actual business deals lined up with both clubs.”
Smoke scoffs. “You scared Romeo’s gonna kick your pretty boy ass?”
Dex shoots a death glare at Smoke. “No, old man. It’s a matter of trust and respect. If they spotted Vipers runnin’ around wearing Empire, NY or Upstate, NY rockers, we’d want them to tell us.”
“Fine, so call him. Let ‘em take the ride up here and sort that out after we handle our biz.”
Pony hangs his head, shaking it slowly from side to side. “Jesus H. Christ, Smoke. When did you turn into such a trigger-happy old fuck? You’re not startin’ shit in my backyard and leaving me to deal with it when you go back to wherever the fuck you came from.”
We’re a fairly large group. Hard to miss. The Red Storm leader stops and watches us for a minute. The smartest thing for him to do would be to wave and offer a greeting of some sort. Even if it’s weak, he should give an explanation for why the fuck they’re in our territory. Show basic respect to fellow bikers.
But he doesn’t. And the longer the staring contest goes on, the more agitated my brothers get.
“We need to do this somewhere less public,” Hopper says. “If it goes sideways, the club can’t afford more heat.”
President or not, Hopper still pays attention.
Pony jerks his chin toward the store. “Friend of the club owns this place now. They ain’t callin’ the cops.”
Well, that’s a step in the right direction.
The bell above the front door jingles. Acorn and Heather emerge. He keeps his eye on the Red Storm guys and his arm around Heather. When they reach us, Hopper grabs his daughter, pulling her inside our circle.
“The fuck they doing here?” Acorn’s question is just loud enough for us to hear.
Hopper glares at his son-in-law. “Told you the girls shoulda gone home earlier.”