Judge (Shady Valley Henchmen 1)

“You must be Judge,” another guy greeted us when we made our way back down to the first floor.

He was tall and fit, covered in ink, with dirty blonde hair and a beard to match.

“This is Sway,” Crow said. “And that over there is Detroit,” he told me, nodding to the dark-skinned man with the body of a linebacker who was coming in the door.

“Slash is right behind us,” Detroit said, and I was greeted by a gravel sound. Like each of the words crunched together as he spoke.

“Had to pick up some alcohol,” Sway explained. “Figure the party is going to end up back here tonight. We wanted to be set.”

I didn’t doubt that. If nothing else had changed in Shady Valley since I went away, there was not a fucking thing to do other than the bar and the pool hall.

The locals would be thrilled to be able to attend a party at a biker clubhouse.

“Judge,” another voice called, and I turned to see the man who had visited me in prison a couple of months back.

“Slash, good to see you.”

Slash had dark brown hair, a cultivated beard, and a fit, yet lean body, and unique gray eyes.

He was covered in ink—over his hands, up his arms, across his neck.

But you didn’t notice any of that when you first looked at him.

Slash, obviously, wasn’t his birth name. It was a nickname someone had given him after whatever he’d been through to leave him so scarred.

The longest of the scars started at his right temple, went down between his brows, over the bridge of his nose, just barely missing his eye, then continued down his opposite cheek before trailing off at his jaw.

It wasn’t a small, thin scar, either. It was big and deep and angry-looking.

There were others as well.

One split his left brow.

Another cut across his lips at an angle.

Whatever he’d been through, he was lucky to be alive.

Though I couldn’t imagine that walking through the world with that much violence etched on your face was easy.

It was no wonder he’d decided to get into arms-dealing. A place where looking tough was an asset instead of a sort of handicap.

“Did Crow show you around?”

“He did.”

“One of the rooms is yours if you want to take me up on the offer.”

Like Detroit, Slash had a rough voice, but Slash’s was a little deeper, a little more intimidating.

“About that,” I said, letting out an airy laugh. “What exactly is the offer?”

“Yeah, couldn’t really talk at the prison,” Slash said, shrugging. “The offer is, you prospect here. If at the end of the prospect period, we’re happy with you, you get a patch,” he said, gesturing toward his chest where the Shady Valley Henchmen logo was ironed on.

“Okay. And what is prospecting all about?” I asked. “I don’t know shit about MCs,” I added.

“It’s basically a trial period where you do the grunt work while we decide if you fit in, if you belong in the club.”

“Okay. And how long is the prospecting period?”

“I guess it differs from club to club. We prospected at the mother club for, shit, I don’t even know. Close to a year. But that president wanted to make sure we had what it would take to run an entire chapter. I think six months or so is fair. We should know you pretty well by then.”

Six months wasn’t bad.

I’d have a roof over my head. My own bed. A private room. It could be a hell of a lot worse.

“I’ll pay you. It’s not standard practice in all clubs, but we were paid when we prospected. So, I figure it is a tradition I will hold up. It won’t be a whole fuckuva lot until you can be privy to sensitive information and can start helping with the actual work of the club,” he said, shrugging. “But you won’t need much around here, either.”

That was true.

There weren’t exactly a lot of places to spend cash even if you had it.

“Alright. That sounds good to me,” I said, nodding.

“Alright. You can take the room closest to the stairs,” he said. “We will wait until tomorrow to start running you ragged. Way I see it, a man who has been on the inside for four years deserves a drink and a woman.”

I couldn’t have agreed more.

A couple of hours later, we were making our way into town.

The destination was obvious.

The Bog was the only bar in town.

It was run by the local Irish mafia.

The Murphy Family.

Last I knew, it was operated by the five sons of the previous owner and previous boss of the family, though I had no idea if that was how shit still stood.

I had a lot of catching up to do on what had been going on since I got locked up.

I figured it would make for good conversation while I waited to find a woman to spend the night with.