Cyrus (The Henchmen MC 9)

It was a good crew.

We had many a good nights, even when few or none actually went home with anyone.

So their asses could wait for me to finish my set at the coffeehouse before we hit Chaz's for some fun, then maybe took it back to the clubhouse for a little after-party. Besides, doing the set would make some of the girls there, trying to be good, trying not to hit a bar every Saturday, follow us down the street for some drinks and more.

"Are you going to embarrass yourself, and the whole organization again this week by singing some fucking singer-songwriter pop bullshit?" That was from Virgin, the kind of man who would gnaw off his own limb before he would subject his eardrums to the music of John Mayer or Michael Bublé.

I mean, it wasn't my kind of music either, but whatever got the panties wet was what I was going to play. So my catalog went deep.

"I'm gonna sing whatever it takes," I said with a shrug.

"Why do you still do the coffeeshop gig?" Roderick asked, shaking his head.

It was a valid question. I had been with The Henchmen for a while. We made good money, way more than I had ever made at the coffeehouse, even when I worked there most nights of the week. I wasn't sure exactly what the drive was to keep it up. Maybe it was as simple as enjoying playing the guitar, which I did. Or, possibly, it had something to do with liking having an identity outside of a biker. Possibly, it was just a fun hobby.

Whatever it was, I liked doing it. And as long as the girls who owned the joint wanted me, I was happy to be there. Singing John Mayer if need be.

"Just like it," I said with a shrug, it being as close to the truth as possible.

"Who is going to hold down the fort if we all head out?" Virgin asked, always being almost a crazy level of vigilant about the club. One could imagine that would stem from the fact that he had been inside a club since he was still in his teens, had had the rules literally beaten into him from that age.

It was obvious that he was still adjusting to the somewhat more laid-back rules that Reign set forth. In general, if you kept drugs out of the club - and your body - and respected women, he was a happy fucking prez. That being said, the club wasn't so far past the shit that went down when numbers got decimated, and they had needed to rebuild from the ground up, that Reign was breathing easy yet. Hell, Repo's shop had just finished being rebuilt six months before. The memories were still fresh for the older members. As such, there was an unspoken rule that there had to be a few guys around at all times to keep an eye on the clubhouse.

"Go on," Cash said, walking in from the kitchen. "Lo is out of town, so I got nowhere to be tonight. Reeve and Edison are on their way back from the drop. Oh, and Roan is up in the glass room like he does, so we're all set here."

"What the fuck is with him and that fucking room?" Virgin asked something we all silently wondered on more than a few occasions.

He was a hard dude to get a read on, which was likely thanks to a life in intelligence. Yes, like a spy. The dude was a real-life fucking James Bond or Jason Bourne or some shit. He didn't talk about his work days, and everyone kinda got the vibe that they shouldn't ask. So no one did. He was, as far as any could tell, a good brother and a huge asset given his varied skill set.

But, well, the man was a bit odd.

For example, him and that glass room.

If ever you were looking for Roan, especially at night, he could be found in that glass room. Why? No one knew. That was just where he was. With no music, no TV, no books, not even his fucking cell phone. In fact, he didn't actually have a cell of his own except the burner Reign insisted he carried for emergencies. He just sat up there, staring off at the darkness. For hours on end.

Fucking weird.

But, hey, if he wanted to be a loner, it meant the rest of us could party it up.

"You about ready?" Roderick asked, clearly antsy to get out of the clubhouse.

"Yeah, just gotta get the keys to the SUV," I said, going behind the bar. They would take their bikes. But I knew from experience that a guitar on your back while you rode your bike was, well, awkward.

She's Bean Around wasn't a huge spot. There were a bunch of little tables set up that sat maybe two or three people each, a large coffee bar where one of the owners, this night - Jazzy - stood to make drinks, and a very small stage that really couldn't fit more than one person. Hell, even one person was kinda pushing it.