Page 106 of Courting Danger

“Bet he got a kick out of that,” Danger said.

“That man was a real sadist,” Pope replied as he sipped his beer. “Came out with a stogie in his mouth, tapped me on the shoulder, told me if I killed that lilac bush, I’d be the one digging the hole to replant it. Soon as I managed to right myself and turned to look at him, he blew a plume of smoke in my face and back in the bush I went. Later, he sat me down for a chat. Said the point wasn’t to teach me not to drink, but what to expect if I didn’t learn to do it in moderation.”

“My first hangover was from Goldschläger,” Ocean admitted. “Worst morning of my life. My head felt like a firework show was going off in it, while my stomach was being rolled by a rogue wave. I woke up on the beach beside my two buddiesand barely managed to avoid puking on one of them when I got up and the world spun. Couple seagulls were screaming at us and diving down to pick corn chips out of the sand. I didn’t even remember having corn chips until I noticed the busted bag and a bunch of chips spilled all over the place like we’d been throwing them at one another. The worst part was the noisy as fuck bus ride to the other side of the island where I promptly had the worst showing of my entire life when I hit the waves. Had to work extra hard the next day to get back on the leader board and only placed third in the end. I never drank before an event again.”

“Booze has a way of teaching lessons most of us weren’t ready to learn,” Pope said.

“You can say that again,” Danger replied.

“What was your first hangover?” Ocean asked.

“Ugh,” Danger groaned. “Dandelion wine. Smooth and sweet going down, putrid coming back up with everything else I’d eaten that day. My mom made it. Had me and my old man picking dandelions until our fingers were stained so yellow I didn’t think it would ever come off.”

“I’ve had a couple bottles of that stuff over the years,” Pope said. “Some were as mellow as a wine cooler, and others had so much octane to them that they knocked me on my ass. That’s the danger of homemade stuff.”

“Hearing you guys talk about it, I’m glad I’ve never had a hangover,” Roan said. “Whenever someone offered me a drink, I took it, then nursed it, since ick, I hated the smell and how strong the alcohol tasted, even in sticky sweet fruit punch which masked absolutely nothing. Sometimes, if no one was paying attention to me, I’d just find a potted plant or something to dump it out in.”

“And left some wilting geraniums in your wake, I’m sure,” Danger shot back, making them all snicker.

A shrill whistle pierced the air, drawing everyone’s attention to where Mark stood bathed in the glow of the flickering flames.

“Alright fuckers, it looks like everyone whose gonna be here is here, so we’ve got a bit of club business to attend to before this shindig kicks off,” Mark declared once silence had filled the beach. “Where’s Roan.”

Oh shit.

Fear shot through him as he mentally tried to catalogue everything he’d said or done the last few times he’d been in the clubhouse, unable to come up with anything that could have pissed the Prez off.

“Right here,” Danger called out, pointing to him while Ocean pressed a hand to his back, urging him out of his seat.

So he went. Head held high, proud that he didn’t trip over his own two feet in the squishy sand.

“Now, we all know that when Roan came to us, he was a bit of a problem child,” Mark announced, causing Roan’s face to flush, and not just from the heat of the bonfire. “But you name a single fucker out here who wasn’t.”

Chuckles followed, as Roan felt himself beginning to relax again at their Prez’s words.

“Thing is, he took a lot less time to get his head out of his ass than some of us did,” Mark declared. “And while he was doing it, he worked his ass off for us, both in and out of this clubhouse. We all know the image we cast in these kuttes and the feelings some folks get when they see them. Yet when the time came to show them what the Jokers were truly all about. He didn’t hesitate.”

Clapping, snapping, and whistling followed. Mark waited for it to die down naturally before speaking again.

“Prospecting has been a longstanding tradition. It gives folks a chance to see if this is where they really wanna belong and it gives us a chance to see if they’re a good fit. A vote tookplace in chapel this afternoon, unanimously declaring that Roan will no longer be considered a prospect. He’s a Joker now.”

“Wha…” It took a moment for the words to sink in as cheers rose up again.

“Take that kutte off kid and pass it here,” Mark said, so Roan did as he was told. “You’ll have it back by the end of the night with that prospect patch gone and your full colors added.”

When Mark hugged him, Roan felt like he’d finally been welcomed home. The man’s backslaps were heavy, but damn did it feel good, and when he stepped back, it was into the embrace of his men as their pups pranced around their feet. He’d done it. He’d earned his place, won their acceptance, and shown that even a brat could change his ways.

Those weren’t the only hugs either.

He was embraced by everyone in attendance, with words whispered in his ear expressing pride, brotherhood, respect. It was all he could do not to let the tears that stung his eyes fall where everyone could see them.

When Scout hugged him, Roan clung, because damn, he’d nearly fucked things up trying to go to war with a man who’d gone through as much, if not more shit than Roan, trying to make his place with them.

“Congratulations, brutha,” Scout said.

“Thanks man.”

“I knew you had it in you.”