Page 16 of Sprog
The bike isn't going to fix itself.
CHAPTER 4
Austin
Six Months Later
Six months in and the club has become the thing I do instead of thinking. That's not an insult to it. It's the highest compliment I know how to give, because I needed something big enough to fill the space that Savannah left, and the Black Saints MC turns out to be exactly that kind of big.
I know the workshop the way I know my own hands now. I know which bay runs cold in the morning, which light flickers, and which drain takes twice as long to clear as it should. I know who arrives first, who arrives loudest, and who quietly does twice the work of the man next to him without ever mentioning it. I know Knuckles takes his coffee black. That Pops has a bad knee he won't discuss. That Cash and Ramsey communicate in a language that's made up mostly of looks and a shorthand that developed over years I wasn't here for.
I know Seb's tells when he's bored on gate duty, the way he starts tapping the inside of his wrist against his thigh in a rhythm that only he can hear. I know that Brick watches me more than he letson and that the watching isn’t suspicion. It's something closer to the opposite of that.
I know where I fit here. After six months, I finally know where I fit.
What I don't know yet, what nobody has told me directly though I've felt it building in the way you feel weather coming before the sky shows it, is that Razor has been watching me too. Quietly, the way Razor does everything. Taking inventory.
Gate duty at night in November is exactly as grim as it sounds. Seb and I stand either side of the main entrance for the first two hours barely talking, watching the road and checking our phones. When the Eastside brothers finally roll through it's almost midnight and my feet have gone numb inside my boots. We check their cuts, wave them through, and that's the sum total of the evening's excitement.
We get relieved at two in the morning and I'm heading back to my room when Razor steps out of the office.
"Prospect. My office." And the way he says it tells me this isn’t about anything I've done wrong.
I follow him inside and he closes the door. His office is sparse, the way all of the Prez's spaces are sparse. There’s a desk, two chairs, and a filing cabinet that I suspect nobody has opened in years. There's a map of the county on the wall and a photo of the original Black Saints above it, twenty years old at least. The men in the photograph are either dead or retired, or somewhere I can't picture.
Razor doesn't sit. He stands behind his desk with his arms folded and looks at me for a moment without speaking, and I've learned in the past few weeks that this silence means he's deciding whathe wants to say rather than waiting for me to fill it. I keep my mouth shut.
"You've been here six months," he says finally.
"Yes, Prez."
"I've been watching you."
"I know, Prez."
"You know what I've noticed?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "You never complain. You never push for recognition. You do what's asked, you do more than what's asked. You put the work down and walk away without looking for a pat on the back. That's rare." He pauses. "It's also what I look for."
My pulse ticks up but I keep my face neutral.
"There's a situation we need handling," Razor says. "Supplier over on the east side of Millfield. He's been skimming from our arrangement for the past three months. Small amounts, which is exactly why nobody noticed until now. Small amounts add up." He looks at me steadily. "I want you to go and have a conversation with him. Bring back what's owed plus whatever you think appropriate in interest. Don't take anyone with you."
I absorb this. "You want me to go alone."
"That's what I said."
"And if he doesn't want to cooperate?"
The corner of Razor's mouth moves. "Show him your cut, Prospect. Let him understand who's asking. Most men understand that."
I nod once. "When?"
"Tomorrow morning. Early." He moves to the door and opens it. "And Austin."
He's used my name. Not Prospect. I go very still.
"Don't come back with anything less than the full amount and an apology."
He doesn't look at me again. I walk out of his office with my blood running warm and my head already running through everything I know about Millfield.
