“There were more than us, weren’t there?” Sig asked. “Had to be. Stella and Jemma weren’t the only girls born to Originals, right?”
“Don’t need females from Fury blood, need more males to fill the ranks. There’s only thirteen of us, includin’ Dutch.” Trip dropped the gavel to the table and scratched the back of his neck. “Thirteen makes us light. Especially when we got a wannabe militia fuckin’ with us.”
“Got Ry,” Cage suggested.
“No,” Judge answered immediately. “My boy’s gonna stay on the track he’s currently on. He wants to change the direction of that track after he finishes his degree, that’s on him. But ‘til then, his ass is goin’ to college.”
“Ry’s pretty damn straight, too. We need some who are a bit more crooked,” Ozzy said. “Brothers who don’t mind gettin’ their hands dirty if needed.”
“Want this club to stay straight,” Trip reminded Ozzy.
“You want this club to appear straight,” Ozzy corrected their prez. “Get it right. There’s a fuckin’ difference.”
Trip’s mouth pinched tight.
“No matter what’s been happenin’, we still ain’t the Originals, Trip,” Sig reminded his brother. “You ain’t Buck. Judge ain’t Ox. Shit’s different. You got what you wanted.”
“Didn’t want us to be tied up in a bunch of bullshit with a clan of rednecks,” the prez muttered.
Cage shifted in his chair. “If it hadn’t been for Red—”
Sig slammed his hand down on the table, making everyone jump. “Shut your fuckin’ mouth, asshole, or I’m gonna shut it for you. You wouldn’t have left her ass on that mountain, either.”
Rook glanced at his brother and saw Cage’s nostrils had flared and his jaw had clenched.
Sig would defend Red to the death. Cage wasn’t blaming Red, he was blaming the situation the Shirleys put Red in. However, you couldn’t tell Sig that. He was always touchy when it came to his ol’ lady. And the fucker had a nasty temper that didn’t take much to make flare.
“All right!” Trip yelled. “Enough! It is what it is. Now we gotta deal with it and we’ll deal with it. Just wanna get it done so we can continue on the path I envisioned. Fightin’ a bunch of dumb fuck hillbillies ain’t it. Wanna get it done soon. Don’t want that shit hangin’ over my weddin’.”
“We’ll get it done,” Judge murmured. “Just gotta do it right.”
“Yeah, we said that before Dyna was taken,” Cage reminded their sergeant at arms.
“Again, it is what it is,” Trip said louder. “Let’s move on. Discussin’ shit we can’t change ain’t doin’ us any good. What we can change is our numbers, if we get the right men. Rook thinks he found some. Long as they pass our inspection. If anyone sittin’ at this table gets a bad feelin’ about any of them, speak up. Don’t matter if they can hear you. In fact, better to put them on the spot to see how they react. So, throw whatever at them and see who’s still standin’ at the end.”
“Where they at?” Sig asked Rook.
“Waitin’ downstairs with Whip and Rev,” Rook answered.
Trip glanced at Sig. “Text Rev and tell him to bring them up.”
Sig nodded and sent a message on his phone. Not even a minute later, boots could be heard stomping heavily up the wood steps.
“Bring them in,” Trip ordered Rook.
Rook went over, opened the door and gave a chin lift to the men. Each gave him an answering one as the three men filed through the open doorway. He closed the door once they entered, shutting Rev out.
Rook had them line up at the end of the table across from Trip, where he previously stood. As they did so, Jury broke free from Judge and trotted around the table to nudge each one in the nuts like she always did.
All three newcomers took being molested by a big bulldog better than Rook thought they would.
Good first test.
Justice, Jury’s littermate, yawned and reluctantly got to his feet from where he’d been curled up under the table near Deacon. He lumbered his way much more slowly over to the men, his curved tail up like a rudder as he sniffed the men’s boots.
Neither dog had wagged their tail, both reserving judgement on the new blood just like the brotherhood would.
The fucking dogs were smart.
He needed to get one. A pit bull or something. Something badass. They could use a dog at the garage instead of all the cats that lived in the boneyard behind the building.
Yeah, he should get a black pittie and name it Jet.
He smothered his grin.
Trip didn’t even bother to stand when he started his spiel. “Don’t give a fuck about your names. If you survive this first step, you’ll be assigned a prospect name. You’ll keep that for your first year. You survive that year, then you get to choose your road name when you get your patches. Not ‘til then. Got a bunkhouse downstairs and it’s required you live here. You ain’t livin’ with Mommy and Daddy, or your regular pussy or butt buddy. You live here.” He jabbed his index finger into the table a couple of times. “One room has bunk beds, you all share that and a common shitter. You don’t like that idea? Leave now. Ain’t as bad as prison, but close. If you make it through your first year, you get your own room with your own shitter.
“Got a kitchen full of food. You make a meal, you clean up your fuckin’ mess. A brother wants you to make him food and serve him in bed while you’re naked with a rose ‘tween your teeth? You do so. No backtalk. You also clean up that mess. Keep yourself clean. Keep your space clean. Keep your shitter clean. The bar downstairs in The Barn is fully stocked. Don’t be dumb about it. Might be asked to do somethin’ at any time, better be sober enough to do it.
“You’ll get prospect cuts. When you wear those you represent the Blood Fury. Take pride in those cuts, but remember they can be stripped at any time. You’re gonna be treated lower than,” he pointed to the two bulldogs, who were both sitting near the three men, looking bored at Trip’s speech, “their shit. Kinda like how the screws treated you in prison. You think you’re gonna have a problem with that? Leave now.
“Listen carefully to what I’m about to say ‘cause violatin’ this next rule will get more than your colors stripped.” Trip leaned forward and planted the knuckles of both fists onto the table. “What happens in this club, on this farm, in the bunkhouse or The Barn stays within this club. Don’t think you can keep your fuckin’ mouth shut?” Trip pointed toward the way they came in. “There’s the fuckin’ door.” Trip sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Rook’s your sponsor. That means if you fuck up, it won’t just suck for you, it’ll suck for him. So, don’t fuck up or you’ll have to deal with him first, then the rest of us after. You got questions? Ask him. Got an issue? Take it to him. He can’t fix it, then he’ll bring it to one of us. But make sure it’s an issue he can fix, ‘cause we really don’t give a fuck about your issues.
“You gotta work. That’s non-negotiable like everythin’ else I just told you. That means your ass is up and outta the bunkhouse when your ass gotta be outta the bunkhouse. No lazy fuckers in this club. We work so we can fill our fuckin’ bellies and drink ‘til we’re drunk. On the same note as fillin’ shit, keep your dicks outta the sweet butts.”