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

Chapter 30 – Owen

Thirty

Owen

I thought when Hakeem died, my life would get easier and I would get to spend every minute of my free time fucking Vickie all over Vegas. Nothing could be further from the truth and I need release. Hakeem’s death and the assets the club seized all over the city have become a headache to sort through, leading us to hold another club meeting tonight.

Deacon Hollingsworth, club name “Rage”, calls for an emergency meeting at our new temporary digs in Vegas. We got a lot of good business from Hakeem, but some of the buildings, people and situations we have to deal with are going to be a whole new nightmare.

Southpaw gave me this task for a reason. Now that Hakeem’s dead, I have to build up our club in a city that will burn your ass to a crisp if you spend any time outside in the sun. Our meeting is late at night and I’m taking Vickie with me. I understand my brother’s intentions – to make Vegas the “Beta chapter” of the Rebel Barbarians – but for that to happen, we have a mess to clean up.

I walk downstairs, half expecting Vickie to not be ready. But she’s ready.

“You better put a jacket on over that top,” I snap as I look at the sexy ass outfit Vickie’s wearing as she lounges on the couch, gazing at some cake baking video on her phone. Vickie puts her phone down and I can tell she’s going to catch an attitude.

“This is a very demure top,” Vickie says. “What’s your problem?”

My problem is… everything. I’m nervous about tonight and I don’t want anything to happen to Vickie. Magnum has been recruiting Rebel Barbarians who either just patched in or want to patch in so we can get shit started over here.

“Your tits look incredible. You should cover up,” I tell her. “They’re bikers. Not saints.”

Vickie gives me another one of her irritated looks.

“What did I say?”

“I can wear what I want.”

“Not around the bikers.”

“This shirt has no cleavage,” Vickie says sassily. “I can’t deflate my tits.”

Well, that’s not exactly what I want but…

“Will you at least wear my cut?”

“That musty thing is going to ruin my fit.”

“Wear. It.”

I walk over to the couch and take Vickie’s hand. She stands up, bringing those tits even closer to me. No way I want her heading out with a top that tight.

“It’s a tight top.”

“If you don’t put my cut on…”

I shrug it off, which appears to distract Vickie as she stands there with her mouth hanging open as I drop it into her hand. Don’t know what the hell she’s looking at. Vickie throws my long-sleeved cut over her shoulders and she just keeps staring at me. Won’t have much need for that cut in Vegas.

“Your arms…” I mutter to Vickie when she gives me a puzzled look. “You should cover those up.”

I laugh. “They’re men. I don’t have to worry about my exposed arms around them. A hot woman on the other hand…”

“You’re crazy,” Vickie says.

“Ready to go?”

Vickie nods. She makes me feel way less nervous about this meeting coming up, honestly. When I have her on the back of my bike, I feel even better. Her body curves around mine perfectly and she gives me a second purpose. Hope that I can get my family back together and get this club situation off the ground.

My older brother Ethan is going to call me about Waverly tonight. Since we completed the Vegas job, Vickie and I are moving into a new house and it’s Ethan’s job to get Kaylee-Marie to sign over the rights to our daughter… No more court. No more fighting. I want my daughter. I want my woman…

Wyatt wants to give me a fresh start, and I want to take it.

The new meeting spot is a gutted-out speakeasy that used to serve as an underground casino where Hakeem had roulette tables and slot machines for bigger gamblers, far exceeding the legal limits for bets in Vegas. Our parking lot behind the speakeasy is perfectly concealed from the main road. Magnum’s bike is already parked out front, but Deacon isn’t here yet.

There are a couple other bikes and I recognize Thorne Shaw’s because he uses the same brand as Ethan. His first bike might have been one of Ethan’s discards. He likes getting a new bike every couple of years, so many younger Shaws have benefitted from his indecisiveness. The Ducati stands out from all the rest. Rides like a dream, but I would never sleep at night owning a bike that nice. Deacon will buy just about anything. He has a gambler’s perception of money even if he doesn’t play – it’ll just keep coming if you just keep going.

I wonder how many recruits the Barbarians are going to convince to come out to Las Vegas. The more men we have out here, the stronger we’ll be. And while this might be controversial, perhaps these men need to get the right old ladies by their side…

What do I know about leadership? Not much. But I’ll learn tonight. I unlock the door to the club, grateful that Magnum wisely kept it locked after leading the men through to our temporary meeting room.

It feels good to have Vickie on my right arm. I knock on the door to the back room. I smell tobacco and whiskey, which is a nice, nostalgic smell right now. Magnum opens it and I’m greeted by the family. Every decent Rebel Barbarian or potential Rebel Barbarian gathered together in one room – each vetted personally by Magnum Sinclair.

The boys all cheer when I walk in. No other women sit in the room, making Vickie the only old lady present. She looks as good as a queen – and I’m glad I made her cover up.

My cut over her tight t-shirt and bootcut jeans makes me even more possessive of this fine, thick ass woman. It takes everything for me not to palm her ass like an animal in front of the club members. But we’re not here to party or act unruly, we’re here to work and determine the strategy for taking over this city at Wyatt’s request.

Even if the Barbarians don’t know Vickie, they don’t question her presence. I don’t have to face the slightest bit of disrespect…

“Rage is on his way,” Magnum says. “Want a drink?”

I glance around the empty room, picturing about eighty grand in repairs that would need to be done to bring the place up to speed. The pool table is the only thing intact in the entire room, oddly perfect amongst the mess with a single, glowing warm bulb suspended precariously over its green fuzz.

Everything else is fucked beyond recognition. Peeling wallpaper. Broken chairs from bar fights. A thick layer of dust that smells like weed, beer and urine.

There are a few tables. A black leather couch with suspicious white stains. Enough furniture for temporary use, but we need to outfit this place with all new everything. After that, we could make something of it for sure. We would need people we could trust working the front door. Solid bouncers and good clients. High rollers who earn a lot and pay their bills.

Not all of the businesses seized from Hakeem are gaming related but hey, this is Vegas. Magnum’s drink offerings add to my excitement about what we’re going to get done here tonight.

“Sure thing, man. Wild Turkey. Neat. Vickie, these are the boys. The boys… this is my old lady. Vickie”

Those two words still mean something in our club. They all give Vickie a nod of respect and introduce themselves. Thorne Shaw is the skinniest of the bunch – and the tallest. He played basketball at the University of Kentucky for a year but got his stupid ass kicked out for selling Adderall to sorority chicks.

He’s still family. Still works hard for the club when we need him too. My cousin has dark, curly black hair and terrifying eyes. Dad never liked his eyes, which he would often say when drunk in a deeply unnerving way, totally out of character for dad, like he was genuinely unnerved.

Vickie has met Magnum “Condom” Sinclair before, but tonight he looks like much less of a mess, although his wide array of liquor and current drunken state indicate he’s spent plenty of time partaking in the family hobby tonight. They seem to get along since they both disapprove of my gambling decisions.

No Deacon yet, but someone scrounged up a few Hollingsworth boys. Cody Hollingsworth is Tanner’s younger brother. They don’t get along. Haven’t spoken in years. Cody is rich as fuck, owns three successful dude ranches out in Idaho. He has a patch, but only shows up to the quarterly meetings or to occasionally bail out the club.

He’s more of a biker and a businessman than a gangster. And he drives the Ducati out front. Which is the douchiest fucking bike you could possibly imagine. Cody has the perfect tight end physique. Six-foot-five and good enough that he played for Kansas City for half a season before his severe injury. It’s a shame what happened.

Grayson Hollingsworth sits next to him, opening up a pack of cigarettes to share one with his half-brother. He doesn’t look like a typical Hollingsworth. He’s only 6’1”, which is still tall, mind you, but he doesn’t have Cody’s head of untamed ginger hair. Nope. Cody is as blonde as the teenager who gave birth to him. Knocking up biker chicks was a Don Hollingsworth pastime. Grayson hasn’t patched in yet, but he would make a good club member. I don’t know the details, but he might have been in prison.

The other two at the table are Blackwoods. I have to hold back my visible surprise that Priest is in the room with us. I thought his ass was still in prison. There’s a man next to him I don’t recognize.

“Who’s that?” I ask Priest, staring at the blond newcomer as Magnum pours out some whiskey. Vickie declines the whiskey he’s offering her, which makes me feel a lot better knowing that she’s going to have her head on straight. I have to drink to keep the men in line but… I want my head clear.

I look at the blond sitting next to Priest. He shows promise, but he’s young. Not patched in. Looks like a real thug. Blond as every other Blackwood.

“Ruger’s half-brother,” Priest says, giving me an amused smirk. Ruger had some of the shittiest parents on the planet. Half of dad’s stories about the club were related to his father, the trouble he got into, the crimes he committed, and the women he fucked and fucked over.

Still, Doc Blackwood kept good track of his brother’s illegitimate children, so I’m surprised to find one so… young. Not just that – one that I haven’t heard of before. I suppose while we have been handling the situation with Oske, everything has been going tits up on the Blackwood side of things. Gideon and the rest aren’t the type to talk.

Well, Ruger would talk. But nobody wants to talk to him and he probably has Darlene’s head cut off and baking in the oven like the fucking nut job he is. Hearing Ruger’s name makes me uneasy.

“Since when does Ruger have a half brother?”

I wish I could hide my uneasiness around the new guy. He has that typical dead-eyed Blackwood stare. I fucking hate it.

“Since this motherfucker was born,” Priest says, pouring more whiskey than he needs down his throat. I swear this asshole is being an idiot on purpose. I turn to the new kid.

“Name?”

“Zebulon.”

“What the fuck did you say to me?”

I’ve never heard that word a day in my goddamn life and just in case this is an insult, I need to be mentally ready to handle it.

“Call me Zeb,” he says, looking up at me through half-closed hooded eyes. He reminds me of Ruger. A little too much for my liking.

“You plan on joining?” I ask him.

“If y’all will have me, sir,” he answers with a very thick Louisiana accent. He had to have spent some time in the Deep South. I nod approvingly at his presence. We’re all here. All ready to discuss the future of our club and it feels good.

Feels fucking righteous.

I don’t give the kid a direct answer, because that type of position in our club is earned, not given. Even we had to earn our spots in the club. Deacon knocks on the door. He’s the only one missing, so I know the knocker before Magnum double checks and then allows him in.

Magnum offers him a drink and we settle in for the meeting. I sit at the head of the table, imagining what this room might look like as a fully outfitted club house, just to get my head in the game.

I didn’t call this meeting, so I’m assuming Deacon Hollingsworth has something to report.

“I’ll give it to you straight,” Deacon says. “Hakeem owes a gang of black men about $500,000. With everything we can legally seize from his properties, secret club houses, and everything else… we won’t be able to come up with that money in time to pay his debtors. And believe me… they’re coming for the money.”

Nobody in this room could possibly float $500,000. Maybe Tanner Hollingsworth has that type of money liquid. Magnum does, but the reason he has that kind of money is because he doesn’t bail the club out of their stupid ass decisions unless it’s completely necessary. Understandable. He handles all the club’s real estate needs so we stay out of his hair.

I’m lucky Southpaw put him on my team.

“Why can’t we come up with the money?” I ask him. “It’s Vegas and we seized all of Hakeem’s assets…”

“We have problems with the slot machines,” Deacon says. “Most of Hakeem’s people took the deal. A few stayed. One of the girls told us that someone fucked with the slot machines and he hasn’t earned any money from them in nine months. That’s a big fucking problem. They’re the biggest earners in underground casinos because they’re programmed to get around the betting limits.”

“Programmed?”

I don’t like college words like “programmed.”

“I can fix slot machines,” Vickie chimes in.

You could hear a fucking pin drop. Women don’t typically chime in at club meetings and it’s a well-known rule amongst bikers and Rebel Barbarians specifically. Vickie doesn’t seem to know how she fucked up, exactly, but she knows the energy in the room just shifted as the men all wait for me to respond.

How the fuck do they expect me to respond?

I’m not my brother. I squeeze Vickie’s thigh and give her a warning look.

She can’t talk out of turn again, but I can’t push her away if she has a skill that we desperately fucking need.

“You can fix slot machines?” I ask Vickie.

The potential for her to be extremely skilled in this capacity might surprise the other men in the room, but it doesn’t surprise me. Vickie is smart as fuck, and I know she made the most of her time here with Hakeem…

She shrugs, and since I asked her a direct question, she has to answer. “It’s a little hard, but I did a course. I can make the chance at a jackpot even smaller if you give me a week or two.”

Deacon nods appreciatively, along with Magnum Sinclair. The only person to have an unusual reaction is the new Blackwood kid.

“A black girl can fix machines?” Zebulon asks with all the audacity you would expect of a Blackwood fresh out of the fucking sticks. Just the way he says ‘black’ sounds too racially charged for me to remain completely calm.

I’m about to snap at him, but Vickie beats me to it.

“I can fix a man too,” Vickie says. “Snip, snip motherfucker.”

Zebulon turns red and mutters something unintelligible before gazing down at his black Ariat boots.

“When can you look at the machines?” Deacon asks. Vickie looks to me for approval, which I truly fucking appreciate. There is something so goddamn refreshing about knowing that she trusts me implicitly for answers. That she turns to me. I nestle Vickie deeper into my lap.

“She’ll start tomorrow.”

Vickie leans in, and I kiss her. Damn right, woman. It’s like she understands her place here and better yet… she’s ready for it.

“That solves that problem. Anything else, boss?”

“Since we’re here… We might as well check in on our progress and play some cards. Vickie? Want to deal?”

“Deal? Cards?”

An uncomfortable chuckle moves its way around the room.

“I won’t let him lose too much, doll,” Deacon says. “Deal us some cards and let’s have us a good night.”

“I’m only going to deal three hands. Three hands and that’s it.”