Blood & Bones: Rook (Blood Fury MC 7)

Charlie was one of Rook’s cellmates while doing a short stint in Cumberland County Prison. Besides Dodge, Charlie had been Rook’s best and closest cellie. Rook had checked with Trip about Charlie not being snow white like the rest of the Fury members and the prez had no problem with it.

Thank fuck.

Charlie would be an asset to the Fury. He got along with most people, unless he was given a reason not to. If you fucked with Charlie, you wouldn’t regret it because you’d most likely no longer be breathing. And if you were unlucky enough to still be breathing, you’d wish you weren’t.

Charlie was six-foot-four and built like a brick house. He spent a lot of time honing his muscles every time he did a bid. Which was a lot. Rook warned him he’d need to do his best not to go back.

“This fucker’s as big as a fuckin’ castle. Your name’s Castle.”

Charlie stroked a hand over his short black goatee. Probably to hide a grin, since the name Castle didn’t suck.

Ozzy moved to the man in the middle. Fitzgerald, the only name Rook knew the man by, was just above average height and heavily tatted. Rook had been his cellblock mate at FCI Schuylkill a few years ago. Out of the three new prospects, he was the one Rook worried about sponsoring the most. He trusted the man, for the most part, but wasn’t sure if Fitz would be able to stay out of prison. The man was institutionalized. He knew not much else other than life behind bars.

He was also the oldest of the three. At forty or so, he was already set in his ways. Good or bad. His beard sported a few grays and the wiry hairs along his jaw were split by a long scar from a knife fight. That knife fight was why Fitz ended up back in federal prison. He’d broken the terms of his parole, along with a man’s hand, jaw and a few ribs.

“Got a teardrop tattoo. Only stupid fucks have to advertise that they’ve killed someone. You think that tat makes you look tough and scary, when it makes you look like a fuckin’ pussy.” Ozzy jerked his head backward. “You see anyone sittin’ at that table with a fuckin’ teardrop tattoo?”

Fitz’s narrowed, dark eyes scanned the table. “No.”

“Right. We don’t advertise it, dumbass. It’s like never zippin’ your fucking jeans and always lettin’ your junk hang out. No one needs to know what you’re packin’ down there ‘cept the slit who’s suckin’ or fuckin’ it. Keep that shit a mystery.”

“Agree with that,” Trip called out. “Thinkin’ you need to remove it if you wanna prospect with us. Shit like that draws unwanted attention, ‘specially with the pigs. You willin’ to get it lasered off if the club pays for it?”

Fitz shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Ain’t attached to it.”

“You got any kinda Nazi shit inked on you? Any white supremacist bullshit?” Judge asked.

Charlie, now Castle, gave Fitz the side-eye.

Fitz didn’t bother looking back at him. “No.”

Judge nodded. But Rook had already known that answer. He wouldn’t knowingly bring that shit into the club. He knew better than to invite anyone with that kind of mindset to become a prospect.

“You’re ugly as fuck, too, besides bein’ dumb, so... Gonna name you Scar.”

“What the fuck, Oz!” Sig yelled, just about jumping out of his seat. “Prospect names are supposed to suck ass.”

Ozzy grinned and shrugged. “This stupid ass will probably keep that as his road name because he’s a dumb fuck. He’ll think the name will scare people just like that stupid tattoo.”

Rook rolled his lips under so he wouldn’t snicker. Fitz, now Scar, was probably fighting the urge to pound Oz into the ground. Rook was glad the man kept his shit packed tight. The man could do a lot of damage in a fight, but he was no match for every Blood Fury member in that room. Not to mention, the ones waiting downstairs. A man has to be smart when he’s outnumbered.

Ozzy finally stopped in front of the last man. Simon was the youngest out of the three. He’d been way out of his comfort zone while housed at Lycoming County Jail. Dodge and Rook had taken him under their wing, saved his virgin ass from being tapped and becoming a jailhouse bitch, then helped him nut up. The kid had been in way over his head while wearing orange and needed some guidance. Apparently, still did.

The club would give Si the home he needed and help him become the man he wanted to be. Or at least, that was Dodge and Rook’s hope for him. Si had gone to jail for something minor. The problem was, once caught in the system, sometimes it was hard to break free of it. Rook thought of him as a kid, though he was far from it. Si might be twenty-two or twenty-three. Old enough to be a man.