8
Judge
Anyone who thinks that being the boss of a motorcycle club means that your life is a nonstop joyride has never sat in a boss’s office on a boring morning of paperwork. The paperwork is different from the kind done in a usual office, of course. I sort out which of my men will be assigned to which jobs, the pay scale, all that fun stuff. My office is in the same room as the bed in which I slept last night. I sit behind a small desk. Behind me, the first Numb leather hangs on the wall, frayed at the wrists from where Giant Steve fell from his bike and slid one hundred and twenty yards over tarmac.
I’m just finishing up assigning the men to a job early next week when somebody knocks on my door.
“Yeah,” I grunt.
Patrick walks in, his mouth a set line. Last night at the restaurant,
