When They Stole My Home, I Called His Gang

Chapter 4

A guy in his early twenties came out from behind the iron gate. His vest had only one patch on it: Prospect.

“Private property, girl. Turn around.”

I didn’t say anything.

I pulled Dad’s vest from my backpack, shook it open, and held the back toward him.

The color drained from his face.

“Where the f**k did you—”

“Get your president.”

He stumbled back two steps, grabbed his radio, and his voice cracked.

“Preacher! Front gate… there’s a girl out here. She’s got—she’s got Compass’s cut!”

Inside the yard, one sound after another died out.

A wrench hitting the ground.

A beer bottle being set down.

Then—

Dead silence.

The door of the low building opened.

A huge man with a gray beard stepped out. Six foot four, with a crow tattoo on his arm faded to bluish gray.

Preacher.

In ten years, he’d aged twenty.

He walked slowly to the gate, his eyes locked on the vest. His Adam’s apple moved once.

“Give it to me.”

I pulled the vest back against my chest.

“Hear one sentence first.” I looked up at him. “My dad told me to tell you—Compass never betrayed his brothers.”

Preacher grabbed the chain-link fence. One by one, his knuckles went white.

“You’re Rose.” His voice was rough as sandpaper. “Jack’s little Rosie.”

His eyes moved from my face to the vest, then back again.

“Ten years,” he rasped. “You’re all grown up.”

“Open the gate,” I said. “I have something to show you.”

The clubhouse smelled like beer and leather.

A dozen men closed in around me.

No one said a word.

Someone took off his hat.

Behind the bar, one wall was covered in black-and-white photos. At the very top was a picture of seven young men sitting on Harleys—the Original Seven.

The face of the third man from the left had been scraped off with a knife.

I recognized the plaid shirt.

It was Dad’s.

I slapped the certified copy of the deed and the note down on the bar.

Preacher read them word by word.

The second time through, his hands started shaking.

By the third, this six-foot-four man turned away, his shoulders caving in.

“Ten years.” He faced the wall, forcing the words out of his throat. “We cursed him for ten years.”

At the bar, a big man with a thick beard turned his head and wiped hard at his face with the back of his hand.

Somebody muttered a curse and punched the wooden wall.

“Judge,” Preacher barked into his phone, his voice splitting. “Get your ass over here. Right now.”

He hung up, poured himself three fingers of whiskey, and knocked it back in one swallow.

Then he looked at me, his eyes bloodshot.

“Sit down, kid.”

“There are things you should’ve known a long time ago.”

He poured another drink and pushed it toward me.

Halfway across the bar, he pulled it back.

“Never mind,” he said. “You’re still a kid.”

The men gathered closer, boots scraping against the floor.

Nobody spoke.

“Your dad—”

“didn’t run.”