Memphis Streets 4: Skeletons

Chapter 18- Lucifer

The Angels of Mercy are not my favorite muthafuckas in the world—but they serve a purpose: to keep my soldiers armed through our two wars spreading throughout the streets.

For decades, Cousin Skeet filled that role, and when Mason was presumed dead, I went around his shady ass and established a new connect. It's clear that these rednecks can't stand my black ass, but like every area of my in life, cash moves everything around me. When I informed Mason about the relationship, he wasn't happy.

But now with Cousin Skeet gone, the connect is more important than ever. We load up two SUVs. Me and Mason in one, and Dice and Tombstone in the other. The second I climb into the passenger seat, I'm reminded of the last time I rode shotgun with him—and how it ended in disaster.

"You're sure that these muthafuckas are cool?" Mason asks. "We'll never be invited to their family barbecue if that's what you're asking. But as long as our money stays green, our transactions will always be as smooth as butter." Mason grunts his doubts while keeping his eyes on the road.

He's in a strange mood today—all business. I spent the morning updating him on the set's business activities. I kept waiting to see if he was proud, but instead he appeared to be annoyed. Maybe I ran shit a little too well. I get it. No one likes the idea that life goes on without them. The baby. I need to tell him about the baby. I look at him, but the words get stuck in my throat.

I love him—and I believe he loves me—but I need to get some resolution about Sasha. I don't like the possibility of being the rebound chick. We fall into a weird silence during the rest of the ride to the Royal Knights motorcycle club. The large wooden shack is located off the beaten path and nestled in the middle of no-damn-where.

When we pull into the gravel lot before a sea of Harley-Davidsons, Mason mumbles under his breath, "I can't believe that I'm about to deal with this Aryan Nation bullshit."

"They're not Aryans—just racist hicks," I correct him.

"Same fuckin' thing." He shuts off the engine and stares up at the large wood shack. "I don't have a good feeling about this shit."

"Money over everything." I open my door, but Mason grabs my arm before I hop out.

"Are you telling me that you actually trust these fools?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I don't trust no damn body." I turn and hop out of the vehicle.

Mason's gaze remains trained on me as I head toward the front door. Loud metal rock blares out of the Royal Knights, giving me an instant headache. Mason climbs out of the SUV and signals for Dice and Tombstone to follow suit. This shit is on me and, truthfully, it can go sideways real quick. We gather on the wooden plank before the door and give each that look that says, Prepare for anything. I take the lead.

"Let's get this shit over with." I push open the door and in two seconds everything grinds to a stop. Hundreds of leather-clad bikers with a wide variety of facial hair and beer bellies glare at us with a combination of rage and shock.

"Y'all lost?" Even though the word nigger wasn't said, it hangs like a noose in the middle of the room.

"Nope. We're just making ourselves at home." I push up a half smile and stroll into the place as if I own it.

I've been in here several times, but not with a three-man entourage—and certainly not with someone as large as Mason, Tombstone, or even Dice. The sight of three virile men tends to itch these Confederate boys' trigger fingers. Ignoring their outrage, we make a beeline through the place to the back door, where I knock and wait.