Domino by Ivy Black
Chapter One
Domino
Sitting on the top of the picnic table, I look around the yard of the clubhouse. My eye falls on the embossed Dark Pharaohs logo—the old Egyptian god Anubis with a half-helmet fitted with his tall jackal ears, a long snout, and bandoliers of bullets crisscrossing his chest—emblazoned on the inside of the gate.
The wind stirs the tops of the trees that sit just beyond the wall surrounding the compound. The salty scent of the ocean blends with the musky, earthy scent of the forest around us, creating a heady aroma you’re never going to get in one of those fancy twenty-dollar candles. It’s calming. Soothing.
It’s something I took for granted when I was younger, and it was only when I was overseas in the shit that I think I truly came to appreciate and miss it. But I guess that’s the way of things. We never truly appreciate those things we have until we don’t have them anymore.
“What are you doin’ out here?” Derek Moore asks as he sits down beside me.
“Waitin’,” I say and glance at my watch. “They’ve been in there for more than an hour.”
He shrugs. “They’re probably leavin’ you to twist out here just to fuck with you. You know how it goes, man.”
A wry smile touches my lips. “Yeah. I know. Still can’t help but feel nervous, though.”
“I hear you. But it’s not like the vote’s not goin’ to go your way.”
I shrug. “You never know.”
“I never take anything for granted, dude.”
“Probably wise in most cases. This one, though? Give me a break, man.” He laughs and waves me off.
Derek and I became prospects around the same time, and he’s probably the closest friend I’ve got in the MC. He’s a couple of years older than my twenty-six years on the planet but somehow looks ten years younger. Like most of us, he’s a veteran, but unlike most of us, he didn’t see any combat. It’s the lack of experience I envy about him.
He’s a slender guy, though he’s fit. His muscle is lean, and he looks more like a swimmer or maybe a runner. He’s got wavy black hair that’s slicked back and looks artfully tousled and penetrating hazel eyes. Derek’s got the sort of high cheeks bones women kill for and a chiseled face covered with a scruff that’s stylish these days. There’s a definite James Dean, Rebel Without a Cause, kind of vibe about the guy.
Maybe because he didn’t see combat when he was over in the shit, and he doesn’t necessarily have that hard, angry edge that seems to be a requirement among the guys. But I know he can be intense and can handle his business when push comes to shove. I’ve often wondered how he ended up rollin’ with this crew. He’s usually pretty vague about his reasons for signing on. But then, the MC calls to different people for different reasons, I suppose.
“When’s your vote comin’?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I dunno, man. You know how these things go. Could be another six months.”
“I doubt it’ll be that long.”
“As you like to say, you never know.”
I laugh as I pull a cigarette out and light it, drawing in a deep breath. As I exhale, I watch the plume of smoke drift away on the breeze, wondering for the thousandth time what’s taking them so long. I like to believe that I’ve proven myself to them. That I’ve proven not just my loyalty, but after the recent shootout at the lodge with the cartel men, my value to the club as well.
Just then, the sound of rumbling engines fills the air and bikes start flowing through the gates. Seeing the rest of our MC roll in ratchets up my tension a hundredfold. If the rest of the club’s been called in, the decision’s obviously been made. Now, it’s just a matter of hearing what they’ve decided.
As if thinking about them again summons a response, the door to the clubhouse opens, and Doc, the club VP, steps out onto the porch. He gives me a nod and then disappears back into the clubhouse.
“Looks like it’s time,” Derek says.
“Looks like it.”
He gives me a handshake and a pat on the back. “Good luck, brother.”
“Thanks, man.”
I start to walk off, but his voice stops me, and I turn around.
“All I can say is that when you get your patch, you’d best not order me to wash your bike like I’m some damn prospect.”
I cock my head at him and flash him a mischievous grin. “But isn’t that what you are?”
He gives me the finger. “Screw you, man.”
We share a laugh as I head for the clubhouse, my gut twisting itself into knots with every step I take. I remind myself yet again that the worst-case scenario is that if the vote’s not unanimous, my kutte remains plain for another year. It’s the last thing I want, but it’s out of my hands. I’ve done all I can do.
Actually, that’s not true. The worst-case scenario is they decide I’m not Pharaoh material and strip me of my kutte. But I really doubt that’s a possibility, so it’s not worth thinking about. Still, the nagging voice in the back of my head keeps whispering to me, telling me it could be more of a possibility than I think. I do my best to shut it out, though. That’s not going to happen.
On my way to the clubhouse, I pass by the guys who are dismounting their bikes. Not a single one of them greets or acknowledges me in any way. They all act like I’m not even there. It’s tradition, though, so I don’t sweat it. I’m not technically one of their brothers yet. At the moment, I’m not even a prospect. I’m just hanging in a sort of limbo and will remain there until after the vote.
I take three steps up to the porch, then cross to the door and slip inside. The door to the Leadership room is closed, but Trigger, the club’s Sergeant-at-Arms, is standing just outside of it. He’s tall and wide, thick with taut muscle, golden, sun-kissed skin, and blue eyes. He’s also got that laid-back California-surfer-boy attitude, which belies his ability to kick some serious ass when he needs to. Trig is definitely not somebody I’d challenge.
“How you feelin’?” Trig asks, his voice deep and gravelly.
“Hangin’ in there,” I reply.
“That’s good. You ready for this?”
“I’ve been ready.”
A slow smile that looks menacing stretches across his face. “Good answer.”
He opens the door and lets me inside before following me in and shutting the door behind him. Leadership is sitting around a long, rectangular table made of wood so dark, it’s almost black. The surface is polished to a glossy shine and is embossed with the MC’s name emblazoned down the middle of it with our location, “NorCal”, just beneath it.
In each corner of the room stands a statue of our Anubis logo, a match to the one that stands just inside the door of the clubhouse. The wall to my left is filled with framed pictures of the club. Guys with their bikes and also photos of the guys when they were overseas, in the shit.
Prophet is sitting at the head of the table, with Doc to his right. Poe, the club secretary, sits to Doc’s left, and Cueball, the treasurer, beside him. Cosmo, our Road Captain, sits across from Doc, on Prophet’s left, and Trig takes his seat beside him, all of them in large, black oversized chairs. That leaves me standing at the far end of the table, my guts twisting as they all stare silently back at me.
“We took the vote,” Prophet starts.
I nod but don’t reply. To get fully patched in, I need the votes of everybody in Leadership and our five most senior riders. And the vote has to be unanimous. I clear my throat and stand at attention as I wait for the verdict.
“Would you like to know how it went?” Prophet asks.
“Of course.”
“We all done some talkin’ about you. There was some vigorous debate, and we decided that you need to take off that kutte, son,” Doc says.
I turn to him, confused. It was the last thing I expected to hear. The door opens behind me and Monk steps up beside me. His long sandy brown hair is tied back into a tail that falls just below the shoulders, and his silver-blue eyes are as intense as ever. My mind spins as the disbelief washes over me. It’s the one possibility I tried to shrug off. The one thing I didn’t think possible. And to see it unfolding before me feels like they all just took turns kicking me in the nuts with steel-toed boots.
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“He said take off your kutte. Is that in any way unclear?” Prophet barks, his voice low and gruff.
Monk turns to me, his frown deepening. He looks as if he’s about to whip my ass and take my kutte from me if I don’t do as they say. As I stand here, the anger starts to build inside of me. Why are they stripping my kutte? Taking a beat, I try to bite back the indignation that’s bubbling up within.
“Mind telling me why?” I argue when I’m calm enough to speak. “I’ve done everything you guys have asked. I’ve proven myself—”
“Have you?” Prophet asks.
“Yeah, I have,” I fire back.
Leadership exchanges glances with one another, all of them smirking to one another, which sends pure fire flowing through my veins. This is not how I expected this to be playing out. At all.
“You gonna take that kutte off?” Monk asks. “Or am I gonna have to take it off of you myself?”
He stares me down, but I glare right back at him, my frustration and anger continuing to grow. I’ve done everything I needed to do to get patched in. But they’re gonna strip me of my kutte and not tell me why?
“The man said to take it off,” Monk repeats.
I look at him hard for a moment, then turn my eyes to each of the men around the table. They all return my gaze impassively, none of them saying a word.
“You know what? Fine,” I spit. “Fuck this. I’ve given you guys everything for the last year. I’ve done my best to carve out my niche with this club. But if it ain’t good enough for you—if I’m not good enough for you—fine. Fuck it.”
I yank my kutte off and toss it on the table, the prospect rocker across the bottom staring back at me. As if it’s mocking me. And then, everybody around the table erupts into laughter. It’s a howling, side-splitting, funniest-thing-they’ve-ever-heard kind of laughter. Monk nudges me, and when I turn to him, he’s smiling wide and holding a new kutte in his hands.
“You gonna take your new kutte, or you gonna stand there looking like an idiot?” Monk says and laughs.
Waiting for the punchline to drop, I reach out and take it from him, expecting him to yank it away. The leather is black and new. It’s soft and pliable. On the left breast is a white patch bearing the words, “NorCal Original”, in black lettering, with a white diamond-shaped patch with a “20”—the year I’m being patched in—just below that. And on the right breast is my club name, “Domino”. It’s a nod to the white patches in my black beard, one above my top lip, and one below the bottom.
Trying to control my smile, I turn the kutte around and admire the club patch in the middle. Above it is the rocker with the club name, and below it is the bottom rocker bearing the “NorCal” inscription. It’s a work of art, and as I stare at it, I realize I haven’t drawn a breath in a moment. Letting it out slowly, I turn back to the guys. Their laughter had faded at some point, but they’re all still smiling at me.
“You’ve done good, kid,” Prophet says. “We’re proud to call you our brother. Now, put that thing on.”
As I slip the kutte on, the guys stand and embrace me one at a time, each of them thumping me on the back and offering their congratulations. The pride I feel as I look down at my new kutte can’t be measured. Being a part of this club, part of this brotherhood… fills me with as much joy as being a part of my old unit back in the Corps. I would give my life for any one of these men, and I know they would give theirs for me.
“Let’s go,” Prophet says, throwing his arm around my shoulders. “Time to party. Let’s not keep your new brothers waiting, huh?”
They walk me out of the clubhouse and into the yard of the compound. There are several barbecues going, the smell of ribs and steak filling the air. The music is blaring, and when we step onto the porch, the yard erupts in cheers and whistles. In that moment, I feel like a goddamn rock star.
A beer is thrust into my hand, and I’m passed around to the rest of the guys, everybody congratulating me and welcoming me to the club.
As a friend.
As a brother.
