Page 9 of Courting Danger

Chapter 3

Pope

What a goddamn fucked-up day. Pope headed for the bar the moment they entered Joker’s Wild and reached for the bottle of tequila he always kept hidden on the bottom shelf, right beside Mark’s favorite bottle of Scotch, which the Prez was already pouring from. Night had hurried into the kitchen to start whipping up food for the guys, while Kazzy and Bellamy rounded the bar and started pouring drinks for the rest of the crew.

A presence at his side reminded him of the newcomer in their midst, and he straightened up and offered Ocean a drink.

“I’d love a beer, thanks,” Ocean replied.

The heavy tread of guys still filtering into the club, coupled with the pissed-off conversations going on around them, meant talking in here would be difficult. Fortunately, Mark nudged his shoulder before jerking his head in the direction of the hallway that led to the game room.

“Wreck went to get Dalton; Saint and the rest of the old guard will join us in the back,” Mark said. “We just need agopher, since Scout’s down at the shop with Cody, Creature, and Sinn, assessing bikes and putting together a parts list.”

“From what I saw, they’ll have their hands full for the rest of the night,” Pope grumbled and stood with his bottle.

“Unfortunately,” Mark replied as movement along the edge of Pope’s vision drew his attention to Roan skulking around without the man whose side he was supposed to be glued to.

With Doc having set up shop in one of the crash rooms at the end of the hall, it had likely been too crowded for the kid to be allowed to remain when he wasn’t injured. It would be best to keep him busy before he gets himself in trouble again.

“Prospect!” Pope bellowed, “Get your ass over here!”

He’d started heading their way the moment he heard the wordProspectand stopped, hands behind his back, shoulders squared, when he presented himself to Pope. Silent. Alert. Focused. He made eye contact with Pope first, since he’d been the one to summon him, then Mark, acknowledging his seniority and position of authority. Only then did his gaze flicker to Ocean, widening a fraction, the tip of his pink tongue poking out as he eyed the newcomer up and down.

Not that Pope could blame him. Ocean was a beautiful blend of tanned skin, tattoos, and a lithe build perfect for riding the boards he’d had strapped to the top of his Jeep. His t-shirt hugged his shoulders, showing off the definition beneath, right down to flat abs and a trim waist. The board shorts he wore allowed Pope to study the jellyfish tattoo wrapped around his calf, tentacles extended across his shin in pale purple and blue shades, like the Jeep he’d been driving. He had other ink in similar shades, all sea creatures of some variety, including an octopus riding a surfboard on the side of his neck.

Sun-streaked blond hair cascaded over his shoulders in waves, while expressive green eyes took in everything around him, betraying nothing of his thoughts or impression of them.He looked every inch the California surfer boy he was, and yet there was an edge to him that was all Rip, even if the man had passed out of his life two decades ago. If anything, seeing him standing there was like being struck by déjà vu. The last time he’d laid eyes on Rip, he’d been just about the age Ocean appeared to be now. Same shade of hair, same glittering green eyes, and the same impressive collection of ink etched into skin sun-kissed from riding the waves.

And then it hit him.

“Oceanus Monroe,” Pope chuckled. “Son of a bitch.”

If Pope putting two and two together shocked him, Ocean didn’t let on.

Yeah, his old man had taught him well.

“Prospect, you have one job this afternoon,” Pope declared. “Keep the bruthas happy. Food, drinks, or whatever they need, you get for them. No fucking around, no delays; you keep your trap shut, your head down, and your ass out of everyone’s laps, understood?”

“Got it,” Roan replied.

“I hope so,” Mark declared, leading the way to the back.

Inside, Dalton’s wheelchair was parked in the corner, while the man sat in a plush, overstuffed chair to the left of the head of the table, across from Saint. Weathered faces, bushy white beards, and long hair pulled back in silver ponytails, the men and women who sat around the table were what was left of the original crew, put together during Mark and Saint’s father’s days. In the heyday of the club, they’d been true one percenters, everyone having put in the work to earn the patches on their backs in ways that had landed many of them behind bars. Now, they were living history books, never failing to remind the younger members of the principals the Jokers had been founded on.

Family.

Community.

Freedom.

It was a tradition Pope was proud to be a part of.

Race had never mattered, nor had gender, the color of anyone’s skin, or who they chose to take to their bedrooms. Damn near everyone in the club was a kinky motherfucker who enjoyed utilizing the dungeon below the building and the live entertainment held there and at the Joker’s Delight. They rode hard, they played hard, and they protected one another with a fierceness both feral and passionate, even when they were feuding with a club member.

Mark dragged an empty chair to the head of the table, sliding his to the side to make room for two of them there.

“Come on, kid, everyone’s dying to meet you,” Mark said, plopping in his seat once Ocean was seated in the one beside him.

Pope saw Roan produce a notepad from his back pocket and immediately start working his way around the room, quietly, efficiently writing down their requests to deliver to the bar. Mark waited for him to finish and leave the room before addressing those in attendance.