When he pulled into the parking lot and spotted the sheriff’s car, his gut clenched.
Fuck. Here goes.
The lawman stood in the parking lot with Dixon and Tank. A few of the others stood around, set apart from the trio but close enough to listen in.
As Patriot approached, Dixon and Tank threw him take-it-easy-man looks. He kept his fists from clenching as he closed the gap between them. Sheriff Gardener looked up.
“Sheriff,” he drawled out.
“Mr. Stone. I thought I’d find you here.”
“The sheriff was just asking some questions about the thefts you mentioned,” Dixon informed him.
He nodded and looked to Gardener. “I’ve told you all I know, but I’m willing to answer more questions if that helps your investigation.” He wanted to remain as compliant as possible, shake the law off his back and put this all behind him.
“Maybe we can go inside and talk,” Gardener said.
Patriot traded a look with Dixon. “Why don’t you come inside and have a good look around?”
To the side, Tank nodded his agreement. The best thing to do was open every door to the law and show them they had nothing to hide. They wouldn’t need a search warrant—the Dark Falcons welcomed them.
“Lead the way.” Gardener gestured to the door.
Dixon walked in first, with Patriot and Tank at his six. The rest of the guys took up the rear, solid as one. The brotherhood rode together and stood together in all things, including this.
After Dixon and Patriot walked the rooms of the clubhouse with Tank standing guard, the sheriff seemed to understand that he wouldn’t find three grand laying out in plain sight, the heirloom ring or a stolen Harley.
“Mind if I check some serial numbers against the bikes parked out front?” Sheriff Gardener asked.
Dixon spread his hand, gesturing toward the door. “Have at it.” His tone said don’t-let-the-door-hit-you-in-the-ass, but he served it with a smile.
Patriot walked outside with the lawman and tracked his progress along the row of bikes. Knowing he’d find nothing, he still felt relieved when the sheriff climbed into his car and drove away. As he passed a biker on the road, the biker raised a hand.
Patriot squinted at the man rolling into their lot. Who the hell? Then the young kid parked alongside the other bikes and removed his helmet decorated with flames.
A smile broke over his face as he spotted Patriot. “Boss man!”
Patriot smiled at his former employee and shook his head at the nickname the kid used for him. Putting the sheriff’s search behind him, Patriot strolled over and stuck his hand out to shake Hunter’s hand. The young guy gripped it with all the firmness Patriot gave him.
“Good to see ya. You ridin’ now?”
“Yeah, been riding the past nine or so months. My brother got me into it.”
Patriot looked over the bike. “Lookin’ great.” He circled the motorcycle and chuckled. “I dig your license plate holders.” Two chrome hands with middle fingers up locked the plate into place.
Hunter rubbed at his jaw. “Thought it might be your speed.”
“You’re right.” Now more than ever, he felt the need to rebel and flip off the world, but he couldn’t do that in his present circumstances—he had to play nice if he wanted to clear his name, and that of the club.
“Your crew stayin’ busy?” Hunter asked.
Patriot eyed him. He refused to put up with whiners or poor attitudes. Hunter displayed neither—then or now. They’d parted on good terms. Patriot simply let Hunter know that his skills were a passing grade, but he demanded more of his team, and he’d understood.
Seeing nothing but a smile on the guy’s face, Patriot nodded. “Busy enough. What have you been up to?”
Hunter leaned against his bike, ankles crossed and arms folded, settling in for a long bullshit session. “I’ve been working with my brother. He’s heading a crew down near Union.”
Patriot arched a brow. “I’ve heard of some good workers down there. Sounds as though you found your place.”
With a nod, Hunter said, “That’s another reason I’m here.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve heard nothing but good about this club. How do I become a Dark Falcon?”
Considering the guy, he realized Hunter had all the substance they required of a prospect. Hard worker, eager to please. He was a straight shooter, as direct as they came. While Hunter might not have worked out on Patriot’s construction crew, he might be exactly what the club needed as far as a new member went.
“You need a sponsor to become a prospect.”
He arched a brow. “Sponsor? Like in AA or something?”
“Yeah, sorta. Someone to stand up and guide you through the process of becoming a fully patched member.”
“Does this involve some college frat-boy hazing shit?”
They shared a laugh. “No. But you won’t be given cakey jobs—we’ll make you work to prove yourself worthy.”
He nodded. “That’s what I’m lookin’ for. Know anyone who’d sponsor me?”
Patriot shot him a crooked grin. “I might know a guy.”
Hunter slid a glance down along the line of motorcycles parked in front of the club. When he looked back at Patriot, he recognized the desire to be part of something bigger than himself written on Hunter’s face.
“Whattaya say about coming inside and talkin’ to the president?” Patriot asked.
A smile stretched over his features, and he gave a single nod. Pulling away from the bike he leaned against, he said, “I’d like that.”
Patriot twitched his head toward the entrance. “C’mon.”
What better time to initiate a new member into the fold? To show him that even when shit went south, they stuck together.
“You sure about this?” Hunter asked as they reached the door.
He shot him a look over his shoulder. “Having a prospect under me will give back to the club. Besides, you saw all those dirty bikes out there needing a good wash and shine. That ought to keep ya busy for a few days.”
Hunter tossed his head on a laugh. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I better get out my polishing cloths.”
Patriot held the door for him to pass through. Then he located Dixon seated with his spine to the wall, talking to Tank. Dixon caught his stare and raised his jaw in question.
“Everyone, this is Hunter. Hunter, the guys. The honeys are off-limits to prospects,” he added as a side note.
Dixon pushed to his feet. “Did you say prospect? Well, welcome to the Dark Falcons. You better do what this guy says and you’ll do just fine.” Dixon pointed a finger at Patriot.
Grinning, Hunter stuck out his hand and the guys all crowded in to shake it.
Dixon looked to Patriot again. “What’s his first task, man?”
Patriot walked to the bar and a thick stack of fliers they were meant to hang all over the tristate area for an upcoming event at the fairgrounds. He picked up the fliers and returned to Hunter. He shoved the stack at him. “His first task is to hang up about four hundred fliers.”
Hunter wagged his head. “Aw, man, what did I get myself into?”
Patriot thumped him on the back. “Welcome to the Dark Falcons.”