Chapter Twenty-Five

BISHOP

"Rafe's still not quite back to full form," Hawk commented, the two of us gripping the ropes on the boxing ring, watching Rafe and Whip go toe-to-toe.

Rafe had been at this for years and had the kind of skills you'd see in Olympic boxers, but he was still working off a concussion and a pretty nasty sprain in his wrist from his accident. Whip wasn't new to throwing a punch and was quick as hell on his feet, but definitely not at the same level. However, with Rafe still not feeling great, Whip seemed to be keeping up with him, a sharp difference from previous times they'd faced off.

"Yeah, I think Blue's worried he's taking it hard since he can't train like he usually does. Rafe sees fighting as his gift to the club, the thing he can do for us. He doesn't want to let anyone down. We need to let him know it's more than that."

Hawk nodded. "Agreed, before he gets too in his own head."

As I'd been paying more attention the past couple of weeks, I'd begun to notice Rafe had a few triggers—things that set off his anger or just had him second-guessing his place in the world.

Sometimes, they were physical, like someone surprising him.

Other times, they were more mental or emotional, like people talking down to him or treating him a certain way. He was always ready to argue or fight back with people like that as if he had something to prove. What he needed to learn was how important actions were over words.

Punching someone in the face because they called you weak won't solve any problems.

But working your ass off every day and proving just how strong you are, let them argue with that.

"Bishop, you want to come down and take a look?"

I glanced over to see Callan, our builder, standing at the end of the hallway, a hard hat on his head. I was already walking toward him, not even bothering to answer.

Of course, I wanted to look.

I needed to know when we could start moving forward.

I followed him down, instantly hit with the sound of power tools and banging. The sounds going on in this small space were enough to make me want to put my head through the fucking wall, but the past few weeks had been so fucking chaotic that I hadn't had time to come and check in on the progress.

We wandered for about ten minutes, checking materials and finishings and questioning anything that didn't look right. His attention to detail was amazing. He made notes of little things I would have blown off, making sure they'd be fixed the next time I came by.

"We've reinforced the ceiling like you wanted and pushed these walls out a few feet," Callan practically yelled, even though we were only standing three feet apart. "The ring is being custom made so that won't be installed for about a month."

I nodded toward the stairs, and Callan followed me back up into Brawlers.

"But everything else is on track?" I questioned when we found a much quieter corner.

He nodded, scratching at his short beard and leaning into the brick wall. "Everything's running smooth. This place is going to be epic."

Callan Scott owned Scott Brothers Construction, a family business that had been passed down through two generations, with Callan taking it on a few years ago as the eldest of his four brothers. My road captain, Cain, was also his cousin, which was why Callan was the only man I trusted to get this shit done to the standard I wanted while also keeping his mouth shut.

"That's the plan. Our Las Vegas chapter does security for a place like this. I sat in on a few fights when I was down there last year and couldn't help but see the benefits. I'm just gonna run it a little different."

The basement, when finished, would be able to house a hundred people comfortably with the ring in the center. While it would have legitimate purposes, the underground fights would bring in the heavy hitters.

Politicians, police chiefs, lawyers, city council members—the squeaky clean on the outside but completely fucked up on the inside types. They all had deep pockets but didn't like to be seen promoting the violence of boxing or MMA. Instead, they wanted somewhere to go where they could get that fix, that taste for blood, with no judgment.

And while that kind of fucked-up shit came at a cost, it was one I already knew they'd be willing to pay.

"Sounds expensive," Callan said with a laugh. "You think I could get a discount to borrow it every once in a while? Throw my brothers in there for a few hours and let them sort out their problems."

"Only if I can take bets on who throws the first punch," I joked, patting him on the back. "My money would be on River. Middle-child syndrome is strong in that one."

The Scott brothers were known for chaos.

They came from a small town not too far outside the city limits.

Cain said he and his sister couldn't get out of the place fast enough, obviously not made for that small-town lifestyle filled with people you've known since you were in diapers and a gossip mill to rival reality television shows. But all five of the Scott brothers had stuck around. Somehow, I think, finding it their mission to stir the pot of that gossip mill for their own entertainment.

"I might take you up on that one day," Callan joked.

The club had plenty of business ventures, but if Brawlers worked out the way I wanted, we could put more time and effort into this and have the return be much bigger than some of the other little side things we had going on.

Not only that, but it had the opportunity to expand in the future, which was also the plan for Backroad in a year or two because the sports bar business was booming and would never get old.

Neither was the thrill people got from watching two people they didn't know get in a ring and beat each other bloody.

This was the club's future.

We'd spent years running drugs, guns, and other bullshit that had found more than a handful of my brothers doing time. At the time, it was what we had to do to support our families and brotherhood.

The underground plans with Brawlers weren't completely above board, but the risk was much lower, meaning my men got to stay out of lockup and keep providing for their families.

This was the future of the club.

And I was proud of the direction we were headed.

"Hey, Prez!" Blue crossed the gym, dodging a couple of stray punches that were meant for bags. He waved a yellow post-it note between his fingertips, holding it out for me. "Match sent me that address you wanted from Shay's tracking."

I plucked it from his hand, narrowing my eyes as I fought to make out Blue's horrid handwriting. "This is only like twenty minutes from here."

"Fancy part of town, too," Callan agreed as he leaned in and took a peek. "Right on the river."

That alone made me even more furious.

The club had rules about drugs.

My boys smoked their weed and drank like fish, but we drew the line at anything harder than that. Hard drugs caused problems. They stopped people from thinking logically. They made people willing to do things they wouldn't usually do, just to get a fix. I didn't trust a man to have my back if I couldn't even trust him to hold my wallet.

That didn't mean I policed the streets of Detroit to keep the drugs away.

No. That wasn't my fucking job. I policed my club.

I made sure my men had self-control and their heads on straight, and they made the right choices despite being surrounded by temptations.

That being said, there were always exceptions to the rules. And I was about to make one.

"Grab Rafe and Cain, and meet me at my place," I told Blue, flicking at the paper in my hands. "We're gonna take my truck."

"The kid's ride still needs a little work to fix it up—"

"I don't wanna ride. If we're gonna pay this asshole a visit, I don't want to alert him to our presence when we arrive."

Blue's grin grew wide, and Callan let out a booming laugh. "Man, I'd love to be a fly on the wall for that conversation." He took a couple of steps back and headed toward the basement stairs. "Update me later, though. Yeah?"

I scoffed, sending him a sharp salute as Blue and I fell in step, heading for the front door. "I wonder why Callan never joined the club," Blue mused. "Cain said he tried to talk him into it a few times."

We stepped out onto the street, and I paused beside my Harley, picking up my helmet. "I think his hands were full trying to wrangle the four brothers he already has. Adding a few more probably didn't sound all that appealing."

Blue's head bobbed. "Yeah. You're probably right. Those Scott brothers do have a reputation for chaos."

I snorted out a laugh. "Unlike us, right?"

Blue smirked as he headed back inside to find Rafe and Cain for our field trip, calling back over his shoulder, "Yeah, unlike us!"