Page 22 of Angel’s Claim

**Phoenix:** Church. 1 PM. Don't be late.

Fuck.

I check the time, 12:47.

I have thirteen minutes to get to the clubhouse and figure out what the hell I'm going to say when Phoenix asks me why I gave my cut to a girl I met less than twenty-four hours ago.

The truth, probably.

I pull back onto the road and head toward the clubhouse, and for the first time since I started prospecting, I'm not sure I'm ready for a conversation.

The clubhouse parking lot is full when I pull in at 12:58.

Every patched member's bike is here—Phoenix's, Judge's, Brick's, Wraith’s, Canvas's, Echo's, Ranger's, Diesel's, Saint's. Plus, the other two prospects' bikes parked in the designated area near the garage.

Fuck.

I kill the engine and sit for a moment, gripping the handlebars. Through the window, I can see movement inside: brothers gathering, probably already talking about me. About the prospect who gave away his cut to a stranger.

I swing off the bike and head inside. The common room goes quiet the second I walk through the door. Canvas is at the bar nursing a beer, and he grins when he sees me.

"There he is."

Brick is on the couch, and he raises his beer in mock salute. "The prospect with the death wish."

Saint is by the pool table, and he just shakes his head. "You're fucked, man."

The other two prospects are standing near the hallway: Razor and Priest, both older than me.

Razor's the second prospect, joined about three weeks after I did. Tall, wiry build, covered in tattoos that were done in prison. Dark hair, sharp green eyes that miss nothing. Ex-con who did a few years for aggravated assault, got out and needed somewhere to land. Phoenix made him wait two weeks before even talking to him.

Priest is the oldest of the three of us, joined two weeks after Razor. Graying hair kept neat, serious brown eyes, quiet in a way that's different from Echo, like he's choosing his words instead of just not having any. Got the name because he still wears a small cross on a chain under his shirt and has been known to quote scripture when the brothers least expect it.

We get along fine, the three of us. Work together, run errands together, cover each other's watch rotations. But we bicker like brothers, constantly testing each other, pushing boundaries, trying to figure out the pecking order.

Right now, both of them are smirking at me.

"Nice cut, Angel," Razor says, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. "Oh wait… You don't have it anymore, do you?"

"Gave it to some chick he met at a bar," Priest adds, his voice deadpan. "Real smart move for a prospect."

"She was cold," I say evenly.

"She was cold," Razor repeats, shaking his head. "Man, when I give my cut away, it's gonna be for a better reason than that."

"Like what?" I ask.

"I don't know. Saving her from a burning building. Taking a bullet for her. Something that makes me look like a hero instead of a guy who can't handle a pretty face."

"She is pretty though, right?" Priest asks, and there's genuine curiosity in his voice now. "I mean, she's gotta be if you're willing to get your ass chewed out by Phoenix over her."

"That's enough," Canvas says from the bar, but there's amusement in his voice.

I ignore them both and head toward Phoenix's office. The door is open, and I can see him inside sitting behind his desk. Judge is standing beside him, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Neither of them looks happy.

Phoenix sees me approaching and jerks his chin toward the interior. "Get in here. Close the door."