Biker’s Collar: Property of Scrap (Rebel Barbarians MC #6)

Chapter 2 – Scrap

Two

Scrap

Present Day: The Gambling Room

Southpaw: SOS

Bear: In KC.

T here’s only one reason for a Shaw to be in Kansas City. We all have various shades of the problem. Southpaw might be the best one out of all of us since he quit gambling. My brother, the leader of the Rebel Barbarians rarely has a reason to put out an S.O.S.

But I’m suddenly alert. My brother has me stationed at Oske’s trailer watching the most demented shit go down. I almost miss Oske’s voice calling me “Owie-Owie” when she was begging me for weed money. Owen does not need a nickname. I have a club nickname, which she was more than welcome to use.

Bear’s confession that he’s in Kansas City pretty much confirms he’ll be useless and I’ll end up doing whatever bullshit our brother wants from me.

Scrap: Degenerate.

Southpaw: Meeting. Sending Location.

He sends a set of coordinates.

Bear: What is your thing with the Indians?

Southpaw: I’ll explain. 7 p.m. tomorrow.

I wish I could say I had something better to do than this meeting, but I don’t. Since Ruger discovered Darlene’s infidelity, my main job for the club has been watching him to make sure he doesn’t beat on her too hard. I don’t know how the fuck Southpaw expects me to stop a man from laying hands on his property.

Watching Ruger is easy compared to riding all over the country hunting shit down, running guns or carrying out break-ins. I smoke some weed – courtesy of Oske – and try to drown out the sounds of Darlene screaming. Don’t expect me to get all riled up for a cheating whore. Not my type.

Any woman who cheats on me would be six feet under.

I would use any excuse I could to get away from Ruger. The meeting isn’t far away, but again — any excuse. I leave my spot on the chair in my bedroom, ignoring the fact that I reek of sweat and weed. As I get closer to the door, I hear him beating up on Darlene again.

“HOW MANY TIMES DID YOU LET HIM FUCK YOUR ASS!” he yells. If I was still sitting down, I would have heard that one from the chair. They keep going like that far longer than any sane person ought to be having that argument.

My phone vibrates with some good news. Finally. I won my $3 bet on that ostrich race. Not much — just $250, but I cash out immediately so I can pay Oske back for that weed I smoked. I’m shocked she hasn’t found her way back here yet to bitch about how we don’t give her any money or treat her with respect.

I knock on the door to Darlene’s prison. The smell of piss and shit comes out from under the door once I get within three feet of it. Ruger ought to clean up after her, but he’s been a real sicko since he got a hold of her. I don’t know how he can stand it in there.

“I’m busy,” Ruger says. I hear his boots stomping in an impatient rhythm.

“Stay busy,” I shout back to the other side of the door. “Southpaw called me out. I’ll be gone a couple nights.”

“NO!” Darlene shrieks.

“Quiet, you dumb bitch,” Ruger snarls. I hear his flat palm connect with her cheek and she yells again. She’s pregnant — making this sort of activity goddamn dangerous… but Ruger hasn’t been in his right mind since his mom went to prison. Doc was the only person who could control him. I won’t be the one who tries.

“I’m heading out,” I tell him. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Where’s Oske?” Ruger replies. It’s a suspicious question, but I don’t care. I’m sick of hearing his bullshit and I would rather hang out with my brothers and place a few bets than do this anymore.

“Gone for a while.”

“I’ll see you.”

No proper goodbye. Nothing like that. Wouldn’t expect anything more from Ruger. He has the manners of a wolverine. At least he doesn’t smoke much of Oske’s weed. That sort of drug doesn’t go well with him — makes his ass even crazier. I pocket as much of the weed as I can on the way to my bike and leave the trailer without packing my shit, without so much as a look over my shoulder.

There’s a decent-enough cheap motel near the coordinates of our meeting point, owned by Rage. A Hollingsworth — so a cousin on our mother’s side. Tanner’s younger brother.

Deacon Hollingsworth is just as tall and red-haired as Tanner, but he doesn’t like people. He has a stockier build, with legs the size of fucking sequoias. Wouldn’t want to end up in a fight with him. He’s damn good at poker too.

We were both “little brothers”, so we joined the club in the same year, but Deacon is far less social than I am. He kept his distance after patching in, purposefully spending time as far away from the Old Route 66 highway as possible.

It’s a miracle he’s nearby now…

Deacon sends his club dues and extra, so nobody bothers him. I appreciate someone who understands that I need space from the big mess of Shaws — especially my sister Tylee who has been even crazier than normal since her pregnancy. When I stop for gas, I text him.

Scrap: Coming to the motel tonight. Meeting with Southpaw tomorrow.

He responds instantly.

Rage: Perfect. Big poker game tonight. $1,000 buy in.

Scrap: Fuck. Who you got?

Rage: Just get here, asshole. And bring your buy in.

No problem. I might not have a thousand dollars for anything else, but I sure as fuck have it for a poker game. I’m ready.

Deacon waits at the edge of the motel property with two short Indian-looking women standing next to him. I ride my bike all the way up alongside his and he hands a box of cigarettes to one of the women, and a pistol to the other before gesturing inside. The woman with the pistol hides it as Deacon spreads his arms wide, putting on some of his rarely accessed Texas charm.

“SCRAP!” he yells out my club name. “Welcome to Deacon Hollingsworth’s house of degeneracy.”

Everyone has always said that Deacon sounds just like a country singer. I throw my arms out to give the ginger bastard a big hug. He clutches me tight, like we’re real brothers, but pulls away quickly. “I hope you have the money. I would hate to keep you out of the game tonight.”

Just like a Hollingsworth, he can’t help but keep his mind on his money.

“What’s so fucking special about the game tonight?”

“Southpaw didn’t tell you?”

“We don’t talk about gambling.” We haven’t since he quit. It’s for his well-being. I understand that. When you have a wife and kid, you can’t afford to fuck up a bet. My situation is a little different.

Deacon doesn’t care about our gambling problem, so he just shrugs it off. The Blackwoods occasionally dip into some religious sentiment over gambling. Hunter hates it because of how often he’s had to clean up my brother’s messes… but the Hollingsworth family views gambling as any other way to make a living. No judgment.

“It’s a trap,” he says. “So I need you to win at least one round tonight.”

“I plan to win every round I play.”

Deacon gives me a sympathetic look. “All you need is one.”

“Why didn’t Southpaw tell me this?”

“Well… He told me not to encourage your degeneracy and suggested I get someone else in the game but… I think you’re gonna be my best shot.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

I follow Deacon into the motel lobby. There’s a Hollingsworth at the front desk. That side of the family is so fucking big, that I don’t know her, but she has hair as red as Tylee’s that can only come from that side of the family. Deacon leads me to a door at the back of the lobby, opening it to reveal his illegal off-rez gambling operation.

The two Indian girls from outside are running a blackjack table. Four bikers hunch over the table as they play. The poker table sits three. The fourth seat is mine, I’m guessing. Small globes of orange light barely illuminate the sketchy back room filled with thick cigarette smoke.

I glance at the men sitting at the poker table. Bikers. I recognize one as a fellow Rebel Barbarian, the newer member Warden. But the other two… I glance at their cuts. What the fuck? I don’t want to betray anything, so I sit down at the poker table, although my heart starts pumping blood when I read the names on the patches and the club name stitched on the back of their leather jackets.

I’m playing poker against the Midnight SS.

And I don’t know why I agreed to get into this shit.