Malcolm (Henchmen MC Next Generation 2)

The building itself was red brick with a couple windows out front that had always been barred, but also looked like they'd been boarded up from the inside.

"What about the clubwhores?" Dezi asked, glancing over at me.

"What about them?"

"Ever consider our club and their club might share them?"

To be fair, we didn't have the kinds of clubwhores that other clubs often had. Dozens of scantily-clad women just sucking and fucking anyone with a cut on. But I guess we did have a few. And it never occurred to me before that we might not be the only club they were gracing with their presence.

"Good question," I said, looking over at Brooks, who was jotting down some notes. Aside from being a step or two ahead of everyone, Brooks was an almost compulsive note writer. And he had a weekly ritual of burning anything up he thought might be incriminating.

"Worth looking into. Even if they don't have shit to give you, might want to make sure they aren't sharing shit with them."

There wasn't much, thankfully, that a random woman could share that wasn't already pretty well-known around the area. Tons of people had been in and out of the clubhouse over the years. The general layout was no secret. There were only a few places no one was allowed to visit with strangers. Like the basement where we kept the safe. Or the glass room on the roof. But only because you had to cross through said basement to get to the glass room.

And, sure, a fair amount of the guns were kept in the basement safe, but Fallon and Reign had been taking steps on moving those around as well, not wanting all of his product in one place. Only certain members of the club knew the locations of certain storage centers. Same went for the money. They said they didn't want it to be possible to grab one of our men off the streets, and be able to torture all the information out of them.

In the case of a total massacre of the club, like Reign had seen earlier on before most of us were even born, the information about all of the money was saved in three locations. A safety deposit box a few towns over from Navesink Bank, a lockbox stored up at the paramilitary camp Hailstorm, and a third in highly encrypted code left with the president of our sister chapter. The cipher to crack that code was left with someone else still.

There was almost no way these days to steal everything the club and its members had worked so hard to build over the years. So the fear of someone just being in the clubhouse and talking about the layout of it, that was low on our list of concerns.

Though, if we did find out one of the women was passing information—or even just swapping spit—with the Vultures, I knew Fallon well enough at this point to know she would never be allowed in our clubhouse again.

"So, how'd these fuckers steal our business?"

"Long story," Brooks declared. "Above your pay grade."

Prospects didn't get paid at all. They got free food and lodging with us. And the relentless dirty work we threw at them to test their spirits.

"Getting the feeling he doesn't like me," Dezi declared, jerking his chin at Brooks. "I can't imagine why. I'm a fucking delight," he declared, shooting me a wicked smile. "Oh, wait now. Is that... is that the president? Shit. I'll honeytrap for the club if you guys want me to. It would be a real hardship, but I'm sure I can find a way to manage. Over and over and over again," he said as he leaned a bit closer to look down at Danny.

"I'll pass that along," I said, taking the binoculars from him.

"Hey now, you're a taken man," Dezi said, tssking his tongue at me. "You shouldn't be eye-fucking anyone else but that pretty little waitress."

"He's not taken," Brooks declared, confused. He'd already been on duty watching the rival club when Holly had shown up with cookies earlier. Always doing more than the rest of us. I probably should have been stepping up my game, so he didn't feel like he was the only one pulling his weight.

"She baked him cookies, man. He's taken," Dezi said, shaking his head. "Bomb-ass cookies too."

"She used to work at a bakery," I told them, not knowing why I felt the need to share that information. Perhaps because I was more pleased than was likely normal to possess that information, to know anything at all about her life.

"If she wants to make some extra cash, I'll pay her for a weekly cookie delivery," Dezi announced, sounding serious.

"You don't make money," Brooks reminded him.

"Got me there," Dezi admitted. "But I will buy whatever supply she's got until I run out.