“Any female in this club is off limits,” Judge cut in. “Hang-arounds are not. A hang-around wants to fuck you, have at it. Just wrap it tight. You don’t treat any of the women in this club like shit. You touch them, mouth off to them, disrespect them in any fuckin’ way, you’re done.”
Sig leaned forward and rapped a knuckle on the table. “And by done he means you are done.”
Judge picked back up. “Remember these names: Reilly, Tessa and Saylor. Don’t even look in their direction. Don’t even whack off to fantasies of them. You do, I’ll know and—”
“You’re done,” Sig finished in a growl.
Trip took the reins back. “You listen to the orders of any patched brother in this club. You listen to any of the ol’ ladies. They tell you to do somethin’, you do it. I don’t care if it’s lickin’ the mud off their fuckin’ shoes. They order you to do it, you drop to your knees and start tonguin’ their muddy shoes. You got that?”
Two deep “yeahs” and one whispered one rose up from the line. Rook knew exactly who whispered his answer. He sighed.
“You ain’t nothin’ but a slave for the next year. Remember that,” Judge said.
“Also, no hard drugs on this property. Wanna get stoned? Fine. You bring in anythin’ harder than that? You’re gone. I don’t care if you see a patched brother snortin’ an eight-ball off the naked tits of a sweet butt. You better say no if he offers. You can’t stay off the hard shit?” Trip jabbed a finger toward the door again. “Get the fuck out now. You end up busted for somethin’, anythin’ other than somethin’ we asked you to do? You’re gone. That means keep your fuckin’ nose clean unless one of us sittin’ at this table orders you to do it.”
“These terms can change at any time,” Judge added.
Trip narrowed his dark eyes on the three men. “Since you assholes are all still standin’ there, thinkin’ you wanna stay? That right?”
“Yeah,” again came in unison from the three men.
“Welcome to the suckiest year outside of prison in your fuckin’ life, boys,” Sig announced with a shit-eating grin.
“Now we get to pick your new names. You’re probably gonna hate it but we don’t give a fuck if you do.”
“Oh, pick me! Pick me!” Ozzy yelled, raising his hand and bouncing in his seat like he was no older than Daisy, Cassie and Judge’s six-year-old daughter. “I get to fuckin’ name them this time!”
Trip and Sig exchanged glances. The VP shrugged, so Trip continued with, “All right, Ozzy here’s gonna give you your prospect names. That’s what’ll go on your cuts for now. For the next year you go by those names and nothin’ else. You got that?”
More “yeahs” but quieter this time. Rook glanced at his prison buddies, seeing none of them looking too excited. But all of them had done time and doing a year as a prospect shouldn’t mean dick to them.
They’d all make it if they wanted to.
Ozzy had left his seat and now stood in front of the three men with his hands on his hips, inspecting them from head to toe while sucking loudly on his teeth.
The secretary stepped in front of Charlie Black, a light-skinned black man who would be the first black Fury member in the club’s history, if he made it. The Fury had always been made up of white men, but Rook figured good men were good men and loyalty was the most important thing, not the color of a man’s skin.
Charlie was one of Rook’s cellmates while doing a short stint in Cumberland County Prison. Besides Dodge, Charlie had been Rook’s best and closest cellie. Rook had checked with Trip about Charlie not being snow white like the rest of the Fury members and the prez had no problem with it.
Thank fuck.
Charlie would be an asset to the Fury. He got along with most people, unless he was given a reason not to. If you fucked with Charlie, you wouldn’t regret it because you’d most likely no longer be breathing. And if you were unlucky enough to still be breathing, you’d wish you weren’t.
Charlie was six-foot-four and built like a brick house. He spent a lot of time honing his muscles every time he did a bid. Which was a lot. Rook warned him he’d need to do his best not to go back.
“This fucker’s as big as a fuckin’ castle. Your name’s Castle.”
Charlie stroked a hand over his short black goatee. Probably to hide a grin, since the name Castle didn’t suck.
Ozzy moved to the man in the middle. Fitzgerald, the only name Rook knew the man by, was just above average height and heavily tatted. Rook had been his cellblock mate at FCI Schuylkill a few years ago. Out of the three new prospects, he was the one Rook worried about sponsoring the most. He trusted the man, for the most part, but wasn’t sure if Fitz would be able to stay out of prison. The man was institutionalized. He knew not much else other than life behind bars.
He was also the oldest of the three. At forty or so, he was already set in his ways. Good or bad. His beard sported a few grays and the wiry hairs along his jaw were split by a long scar from a knife fight. That knife fight was why Fitz ended up back in federal prison. He’d broken the terms of his parole, along with a man’s hand, jaw and a few ribs.
“Got a teardrop tattoo. Only stupid fucks have to advertise that they’ve killed someone. You think that tat makes you look tough and scary, when it makes you look like a fuckin’ pussy.” Ozzy jerked his head backward. “You see anyone sittin’ at that table with a fuckin’ teardrop tattoo?”
Fitz’s narrowed, dark eyes scanned the table. “No.”
“Right. We don’t advertise it, dumbass. It’s like never zippin’ your fucking jeans and always lettin’ your junk hang out. No one needs to know what you’re packin’ down there ‘cept the slit who’s suckin’ or fuckin’ it. Keep that shit a mystery.”
“Agree with that,” Trip called out. “Thinkin’ you need to remove it if you wanna prospect with us. Shit like that draws unwanted attention, ‘specially with the pigs. You willin’ to get it lasered off if the club pays for it?”
Fitz shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Ain’t attached to it.”
“You got any kinda Nazi shit inked on you? Any white supremacist bullshit?” Judge asked.
Charlie, now Castle, gave Fitz the side-eye.
Fitz didn’t bother looking back at him. “No.”
Judge nodded. But Rook had already known that answer. He wouldn’t knowingly bring that shit into the club. He knew better than to invite anyone with that kind of mindset to become a prospect.
“You’re ugly as fuck, too, besides bein’ dumb, so... Gonna name you Scar.”
“What the fuck, Oz!” Sig yelled, just about jumping out of his seat. “Prospect names are supposed to suck ass.”
Ozzy grinned and shrugged. “This stupid ass will probably keep that as his road name because he’s a dumb fuck. He’ll think the name will scare people just like that stupid tattoo.”
Rook rolled his lips under so he wouldn’t snicker. Fitz, now Scar, was probably fighting the urge to pound Oz into the ground. Rook was glad the man kept his shit packed tight. The man could do a lot of damage in a fight, but he was no match for every Blood Fury member in that room. Not to mention, the ones waiting downstairs. A man has to be smart when he’s outnumbered.