Club life was everything Jake said it would be and everything I wanted to be a part of. Just before I decided to make The Kings of Retribution a permanent part of my life, fate had other plans for me. My grandad fell ill. The most important man in my life needed me, and there was no way in hell, no matter what I wanted in my life at that moment, was I going to let him down. Once my grandad was well and back on his feet again, I knew I needed to stay home and look after him, yet I still wanted what was waiting for me back in Montana. After several phone conversations, Jake proposed starting a second chapter and wanted me to head it up — become the Louisiana chapter's President. Recruiting members became another mission of mine. Before long, I obtained property for a clubhouse, and within two years, we had three members, Wick, my brother Cain, and myself. We had ourselves a couple hang arounds, who, at first, appeared to be decent guys who had the potential to prospect for us. Those men, over time, had to go. They started getting mixed up in bullshit the club needed no part of. I don't tolerate addicts and trying to peddle street drugs under the falsehood that they were protected by the club caused problems, so they were dealt with and never heard from again.
Eventually, Fender, our SGT. At Arms came along. We'd known who he was for some time before he expressed interest in our brotherhood. He moved here from Nashville and made his living playing his guitar and singing at all the local bars and street corners. Kiwi, well, he's the youngest member, mid-twenties. We met him on a Vegas trip. He'd been living out there for a little over a year. Told us he was looking for a change of scenery and asked if he could ride along with the club back to Louisiana. The rest is history; better left told some other day. The club is now twelve strong with two prospects. The chapter may be small, but we have become a prominent fixture in the community.
Hearing my cell phone ring, I turn and walk back inside. Going into my bedroom, I look down at the image of my grandad holding a big ass catfish displayed on the screen. Picking it up, I swipe my thumb across the glass surface, answering his call. "Hey, Pop."
"Son, how's the leg?"
"Nothing worth complainin' about. How'd your doctor appointment go yesterday?" I ask knowing he had his six months check up with the heart specialist.
"Ticker looks good. The pacemaker is doing its job."
I nod. "What are your plans for today?"
"Oh, I think me, and Buck will take ourselves down to the lake and do a little fishing before that storm moves in." Meaning him and his best friend plans on having themselves a few beers and talk about who they hope our local NFL team will pick in the draft this season. "Come by and have an early dinner with me today. The ladies from church sent over enough food to feed a damn army," he laughs. "I have plenty, so why don't you invite the guys as well."
"I can do that."
"Good — good. I'll see you later, then." There's a short pause on the line before he tells me, "love ya, Son. I'm glad you're home."
I clear my throat. "Love you too, Pop," and he disconnects the call.
Abraham LeBlanc. Born right here in Louisiana in 1933. My great grandparents made a living fishing; surviving off the land. My grandad grew up on the waters of the Mississippi River and Louisiana bayous. Same place he raised me and my brother Cain. Life wasn't easy, but he helped shape us into the men we are today. We never lacked for love. Our mom ran off a couple of years after she gave birth to us. Abel and Cain LeBlanc; twin boys born on a Sunday morning to Eve LeBlanc. Not that our mother didn't love us, because, in her own way, I believe she does, but she is a wanderer — a gypsy you could say. It's probably how Cain and I would have grown up as well, living a nomadic lifestyle if it wasn't for our grandparents stepping in. I could not imagine my life any other way than how it turned out. Our grandparents raised us by themselves since we were two years old. Sure, Eve would show up out of the blue from time to time over the years; we always knew who she was to us, but there was never that mother-son connection between us. She gave birth to us, but in the end, that was the only gift she gave my brother and me.
My grandma passed away a little over ten years ago. The strongest woman I knew. It was hard enough she lived in a world she couldn't hear, she also raised two young boys full of piss and vinegar, who were always getting into mischief of some sorts. I chuckle at the memory of my brother, and I covered in mud, and small patches of tobacco stuck all over our bodies after we had gotten the bright idea to destroy a hornet's nest; tearing it apart with our slingshots. How the fuck were we to know the bastards would retaliate against us? Aside from several painful welts left on our bodies, Cain and I were okay. But after she tended to the stings, our grandma felt horrible about the situation for a short time. She couldn't hear what was going on, because she was deaf. From an early age, my brother and I were taught ASL, and we learned to communicate well with her. Our grandmother carried the kind of determination in life that I try to take with me through life. Regardless of the hardships, she faced, she adapted and was always kind hearted toward every person she met.
My grandad, on the other hand, is a stern, hardcore military man. He ran his household with an iron fist, and he is the reason I enlisted right out of high school. While in basic training, I learned about Special Forces training. After three years of service, I decided I wanted to push myself further — become part of an elite force — the best of the best. That is where I found my niche. My purpose; until I became part of The Kings of Retribution family.
Since we don't open the bar until tonight, I decide to head down to the clubhouse. Walking into the bathroom, I flip the switch on the wall and stare at my reflection in the mirror, considering whether to shave my beard. I've never let it grow to this length before. Deciding to keep it as is, I run a comb through it and my hair along with some beard oil. Once dressed, I lace up my boots, throw my cut on, and holster my weapon on my side. Grabbing my phone, I slide it into the inside pocket of my cut and walk out into the living room, pluck my keys off the hook hanging on the wall next to the front door. There are two ways into my apartment — one is from downstairs, on the backside of the bar where the staircase is located. That staircase is connected to a hallway and at the other end is a separate door that leads outside.
Locking the door behind me, I walk around the corner of the building to where my bike is parked in front of the bar — a custom Harley Softail. Straddling my bike, I strap on my helmet, turn the key, and rev the engine a few times to warm her up, before taking off toward the industrial side of town near the river. The sun is rising, but the city never sleeps, so I decided to stop by Pat's, an eclectic doughnut shop one block over. As soon as I walk through the front door, he greets me.
"Riggs," Pat looks over his shoulder as he stands in front of the deep fryer flipping doughnuts over with giant chopsticks. "Haven't seen you in a couple of weeks."
"I've been out of town. How's it going?"
Pat takes the cookie sheet full of hot pastries to the counter, coats them in his signature lemon glaze, before turning to face me. "I can't complain. I'm here another day. That's all any of us can ask for." I nod in agreement. "So," he pulls a box from beneath the counter, "You want the usual two dozen this morning?" he asks.
I sidle up to the counter near the register. "Yeah, and throw in a couple of those apple fritters," I tell him. As he places my order inside the box, I pull my wallet from my back pocket, and pull out some cash, and pay for breakfast. "I'll catch ya later, Pat."
"Stay safe." Pat waves as I walk out the door.
Our clubhouse is a small warehouse right on the river. This part of the industrial parkway is all but abandoned aside from the small paper mill located next door. Stopping at the gate, I punch in the security code and wait for it to slide open. In the distance, I can see my brother's bike sitting out front. When I walk inside, I find him asleep, stretched out on one of the couches downstairs. Setting the box of doughnuts on the bar top, I flip the lid open, pull out an apple fritter, biting into it as I stroll across the room toward the back of the building
that was once the breakroom, but we had converted into a small galley kitchen. I find both prospects plus Payton, one of two club girls.
"Hey, Riggs, when did you get back in town?" Payton asks.
"Last night. You got coffee made?"
"Sure, have a seat, and I'll fix you a cup."
At the far end of the kitchen, I take a seat at the square table next to Track, sitting across from me and Everest. "I have a liquor delivery scheduled to arrive in an hour over at the bar. I need you two to head on over there and help unload the truck. Take inventory and stock the bar. Two boxes of whiskey should be sitting in the back of the room marked clubhouse. Bring them back with you." I get right into what needs to be taken care of today. The two of them nod, get up from the table, and leave. Payton places my coffee on the table in front of me. "Thanks."
"Can't be bothered to call your only brother to let him know you're alive?" Cain strolls into the kitchen with a box of doughnuts and shoves half of one into his mouth. He chucks the box on the table and plops down in one of the chairs.
"My ass was draggin' when I landed. The only thing on my mind was sleepin' in my own bed," I tell him.
Payton places a fresh cup of coffee, prepared the way he likes it, in front of my brother. Cain winks at her. "Thanks, sugar," he flirts. That's why we call him Nova. He's a flirt — a manslut. He's been this way his entire life — Casanova on an iron horse.
"Pop wants us to visit this evening," I let him know.
"Ann, from church fix him dinner again?" Cain smiles because we both know the lady is sweet on Pop. "He should go for it. She's a widow, and Grandma has been gone for years now. You only live once," Cain says making a valid point.
"I can tell he has taken a liking to her, but I'm thinking his feelings for Grandma is the reason he's holdin' back."
Fender walks into the kitchen, grinnin' with Kiwi right behind him. "Prez, good to see you, brother." Fender extends his right hand and shakes mine. "Just get in?" he asks.
"Naw, brother. I rolled in around midnight last night."
"My ass would still be in bed," Kiwi mentions as he plucks a doughnut from the box.
"Old habits die hard. I can't seem to sleep past 5:00 am." Standing, I take my cup to the sink. "Pop is feeding us later, so make sure you two clear your schedule so you can come to get some grub. Let's say around, 4:00 pm?"
"You got it," Fender answers.
"By the way. Jake called while you were out of town. He was able to get his hands on those handguns we were lookin' for. They should arrive in another week." Kiwi says with excitement. "I can't wait to test them out."
With having the only indoor shooting range near the city, Kings Tactical makes the club a decent amount of money. Fender and Kiwi run the storefront and range. With Jake having direct access to pretty much whatever weapon he desires, thanks to Demetri Volkov, he's also able to get us things clients are looking for, but most places don't sell because getting through all the red tape to obtain them would take months.
"Where is Wick?" Cain questions.
"Spending some time with his family," I tell them and make my way toward the kitchen door. "I'm about to head back to the bar, pay some bills, and take care of some paperwork. I'll see you guys later."
"Heads up. Lexi was out by the bar when we arrived, and she asked about you, Prez. That woman has it bad for you," Kiwi warns me knowing the reason I've been avoiding her for some time now. She's becoming much too clingy for my liking. No matter how many times I've made it clear I'm not interested, she keeps trying. I've never shared my bed with her, but because some of the other members seem to like her, I've kept her around. If she doesn't cause trouble, she'll be allowed to stay. The moment she crosses a line, she's gone.
Walking into the common area, Lexi immediately spots me as I make my way toward the front door to leave.
"Hey, Riggs." She greets me dressed in her usual attire — a mini denim skirt and barely there top, that does nothing to hold her paid for breasts. My pop didn't raise me to be rude to women, so I respond.
"Lexi." She steps in front of me, stopping me mid-stride, and presses her chest against my body. I look down at her, trying my best to contain my annoyance. "You need somethin'?"
Her fingertips travel along with my biceps, and she licks her overly glossed lips. "I could think of a few things." She tries her best to flirt, but it does nothing for me.
"I don't have time, Lexi."
"Come on, Riggs. I promise you won't regret it." She goes to grab my cock, and I wrap my hand around her wrist, stopping her.
"Show the same respect given to you. The brothers don't touch you if you don't want them to, and the same goes for you. Don't go grabbing a man's dick without being invited to do so. Are we clear?" She doesn't say a word. Nodding her understanding, Lexi turns around and walks toward the kitchen where the others have gathered. Lifting my hand, I look at my watch. With a full day ahead of me, I head out.
Hours later, we are all sitting around the table at my Pop's drinking a beer after stuffing our faces with pot roast, creamy mashed potatoes, smothered cabbage, and some cornbread. "Thanks for the invite, Pop, but we're about to head out. Bar opens soon."
"Glad you boys came by to see an old man." He stands, and the rest of the men follow. "I'll be checking the cages this weekend. Which means we need ourselves a crawfish boil." He walks with us to the front door of my childhood home.
"How about I help you with the traps, then we get the whole club family together. We'll have some mudbugs and fire up the grill. You can cook those famous baby back ribs." I smile at him. Whenever we have a big gathering, with all the members and their families, I use my Pop's property, because the clubhouse isn't the place for kids to play. He lives on five acres of flat open land. On the backside of the property, are water inlets that branch off Wood Lake. The land has been in the family for three generations. I fished these waters growing up just as he did, and his father and grandfather did before him.
Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, Pop takes his cap off his head, then wipes the sweat from his forehead. "Sounds like a plan to me."
Bending, I hug him. Cain does the same, and so do the rest of my men. One final wave, I wait for him to walk back into the house before we pull away.
A few hours later, business starts picking up. About an hour ago the cops closed the street off for the evening, and people lookin' to party began filling the streets and the bar. After walking outside for a breather, I step back through the bar door and sidle up to the bar.
"Prez," Fender stops beside me, he has his guitar in his hand.
"Getting ready for a set?"
"Yeah, but the guy across the room just caught my attention." Fender mentions.
"Who?"
"Tattooed dude, near the men's bathroom." Fender tells me. Looking in that direction, I notice the guy Fender is referring to. After cutting his eyes around the bar, the man passes a plastic bag under the table to the person sitting across from him.
"Shit. I'm tired of these ass wipes comin' in my bar selling dope." I sneer. Weaving through the crowd, I cross the bar and stop right behind the dipshit. The dumbass he just sold his shit to panics and trips over the chair he was sitting in as he rushes away. The dealer goes to stand.
"Yo, give me the rest of my fucking money," he yells at the guy's back as he flees the scene. Gripping his shoulder, I pull him from the table. "What the fuck?" he sneers as I begin leading him past people who have started to stare and shove his ass inside the men's bathroom. He stumbles into the wall near the urinals. "What's your problem, dickhead?" he spins, and the moment his eyes land on me, his eyes widen.
"You, coming in here, in my establishment, and selling drugs is my problem, motherfucker." I get a better look at him. "I believe I've warned you in the past not to bring your ass around here with that shit." I glare at him.
He straightens the collar of his shirt and gets a smug look on his face. "Fuck you, man. I don't answer to you." He takes a swing at me.
Dodging his blow, I grab his wrist. Fisting his hair with my other hand, I slam his face against the brick wall. He falls to his knees.
"Need a hand?" I turn and see Fender standing in the doorway.
"Yeah, take this piece of shit, and throw his ass in the street," I tell Fender, then kneel next to the little fucker, who wipes the blood from the cut on his forehead with the back of his hand. "I catch you near my bar again, I'll kill you." I warn him.
Fender strolls over, pulls the guy to his feet and escorts him out of the building. Walking back to the bar, I take my seat, drink my beer, and wait for closing time.
With the bar closed, I head upstairs. No sooner does my head hit the pillow, my phone rings. Sighing, I cast my blanket to the side, and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. What the hell would Jake need at 2:00 am? "Hey, brother, how's it going?" I yawn and roll my neck a few times until it cracks.
"I need a favor."
"Name it." Leaning forward, I rest my elbows on my knees and listen to what he has to say.
"We have ourselves a little problem. His name is William McGregor. He's a prominent lawyer and political figure in Texas. The asshole is stirring up shit for the club." Over the next thirty minutes, Jake fills me in on all the bullshit him, and his men have gone through over the past 48 hours.
"Any specific way you'd like us to handle him?"
"Do whatever it is you need to do. Let me know if you run into any problems," Jake finishes.
"I'll be in touch." Setting the phone on the nightstand, I slide back into bed, close my eyes, and try to sleep.
Riggs (The Kings of Retribution MC, Louisiana Chapter Book 1) Page 3