POWERHOUSE

It’s taken us three days to get all of the details of our escapade finely lined out. Now that all of our I’s have been dotted and our T’s have been crossed, we’re ready to move forward.

While Salem was waiting for us to get our shit in order, she compromised on the areas of Oakley’s routine that don’t require specific layouts. They’ve been working in the backyard on the more mundane parts of her routine—her technique mostly since that doesn't need any supplemental, protective measures, such as the mats for her tumbling or the need for hardwood flooring so that Oakley can slide during certain portions of her performance.

Oakley seems to be taking it in stride, however. She’s determined to execute every aspect of her showcase expertly, including pointed toes when directed as well as the placement of her hands and how her fingers should be angled.

There are more rules, regulations, and guidelines to follow for dancing than there are in football. It’s more brutal in ways than contact sports are, and I find myself impressed at how she’s so focused on what she’s doing

Salem has told me stories when we’re lying in bed of girls she’s witnessed brawling over starring roles. Tiny girls smacking down with other smaller girls when they are threatened by their talents is freaky as fuck.

Seven-year-olds throwing jabs at one another is jaw dropping in normal settings and a little frightening in the grand scheme of things because these youngsters mature becoming more vicious and venomous—little heathens all grown up. That’s a scary perception.

Salem has some underlying concerns because Oakley has what it takes to become a principal dancer and Juniper is talented, but not naturally so like her sister happens to be. Salem’s worried it may become a thorn of contention between the two as they age and start to compete for leading roles.

I don’t see Master and Aspen sitting back and letting it happen with their girls without intervening. They’d nip that shit in the bud before it ever had a chance to take root. Those two value family above everything else and would move heaven and earth for their kiddos. Their big brother, Nash, would knock their heads together and insist they snap out of it. He’s exceedingly protective of the two girls and would lose his ever-loving mind if they ever turned on one another.

Nash is an exception to the rule when it comes to siblings. He’s lost everything, gained a newfound family, and he’d fight tooth and nail to keep what he’s attained. Master and Aspen haven’t replaced the love he had for his biological parents no matter how shady they were, but they’ve filled a void. The two parental figures have earned themselves a new type of love and respect from Nash, one that won’t be easily tarnished or taken away.

Nash has settled and trusts them explicitly. I don’t know a lot about his upbringing before Master took him in as his own, but what I do know isn’t full of rainbows and sunshine. From the small amount Master has shared, the kid lived a life of fear—fear of his parents’ associations, always worried they’d have to hide because of his dad’s ties to criminal, depraved organizations.

Whereas we don’t walk on the right side of man-made sanctions, we aren’t degenerates either. We have certain decorum, morals, and codes in which we abide by. We work hard to ensure our lawless way of living doesn't blow back on our old ladies or kids. Our moral compasses may be skewed but not where it pertains to women and children.

“Powerhouse. What time are we expecting the delivery to arrive at the lodge?” Kruger asks me. I was assigned the task of ordering and receiving the building materials.

“Gotta meet the fleet carrying our stuff at three this afternoon,” I answer, looking down at my wristwatch to see how long I have until then.

“Is the crew working at the warehouse gonna meet you there?” Kruger proceeds.

“A few of them are. The rest are sticking there to continue with the cleanup. They’ll be fine-tuning things tonight, sweeping and whatnot, so the girls can get back to practicing.”

“What? They’ve been practicing,” he reiterates, confused by my phrase.

“Not full out, they’ve only been pinpointing some of the more pesky, tame things according to Salem,” I advise. “She’s made it abundantly clear more than once that time is of the essence, and they need to get down to the nitty-gritty of Oakley’s routine—whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean.”

“Don’t ask me, that shit confuses the fuck outta me and makes me glad that I have a boy,” he mumbles.

“Better knock on some fucking wood, Kruger, otherwise, you could end up with a houseful of girls from here on out.”

“Bite your motherfucking tongue, Powerhouse. That shit’s not funny in the least. There’s not enough ammo in the world to fill my guns for me to take out any of the little fuckers who’d swing their teenaged dicks at any girls Stella would saddle my ass with.”

“Don’t you mean gift you with?” I ask with merriment.

“Did I stutter, motherfucker? I meant what I said and said what I meant. I’d be saddled with the task of taking out any juvenile dick that swings in the general direction of any girl Stella’d birth,” he maintains. “You’d better knock on some wood, Powerhouse, because if Stella gives me any girls, I’m coming for your ass. Got me?”

“Whatever you say, man,” I chuckle while shaking my head. “What is it about having a girl that scares you most?”

“Um… hello, Powerhouse. Didn’t I just say it? Little dicks swinging in their direction. Me wearing prison stripes for the rest of my days and a cell partner I’d have to fight for my daily dose of twinkies. Isn’t that enough of a reason?”

“You’ve got me there, VP. How am I supposed to argue against that asinine logic?”

“Exactly,” he states, fervently nodding his head and aiming his pointer finger in my direction. “Wait a minute, did you just call me an idiot, Powerhouse?”

“I don’t know, did I?” I turn around and leave the clubhouse allowing him to stew on that word and its definition.

Kruger has street smarts coming out his ears, there’s no one else I’d have at my side during a scuffle, especially if he’s mapped out, polished, and streamlined all of the battling aspects of the upcoming fight.

But when it comes to schoolbook learning, he’s iffy and noncommittal.

Not because he’s dumb as a box of rocks, but because it’s boring and repetitive to him, which means he puts next to no effort into reading or memorizing important details unless they’re ones he’s come up with or is interested in knowing.

* * *

As I idle into the parking lot of the club’s newly acquired lodge, I notice a nondescript car parked down the road, watching the comings and goings of the place. Maybe this trap is going to work and pull Sicily out of the woodwork after all.

As soon as my back is turned toward the vehicle, so they don’t know I’m aware of their presence, a smile splits across my face. Pulling the keyring from my front pocket, I unlock the front door and enter. Looking around, I notice that the bones of this place are solid, we’ll just need to do some updating in order to get this place up and running again. Paint is chipping in several areas along the walls and ceiling, waxed wallpaper is hanging loosely from the edging, and some of the tiling is splintering down the center of the plastered squares.

As I walk through the lobby, I notice the tapestry is old and outdated, something that even my mother would’ve never willingly hung in her home—it's antique, musty, and obviously hasn’t been maintained for years.

The floral patterns, all pink and gold in color, has my nose wrinkling in revulsion of what I’m seeing. It’ll all need to be ripped down, trashed, and rehabilitated from the ground floor up. No man could keep his manhood by walking through these doors and enjoy his stay here… his dick would shrivel up and jump into his woman’s purse without remorse.

A whistling sound has me turning around. I heard their motorcade of revving bikes pull in. I knew it was my brothers who were coming inside unannounced and without knocking first but was in such a state of shock and utterly appalled by the interior that I couldn’t think past everything that needs to be dismantled.

“It’s bad,” I admit.

“It’s a chick place,” Shamus hisses. “It’s gonna be more work than what Gunner suggested it’d be.”

“It’s not that bad,” Gunner defends his purchase. “A little elbow grease, a new slab of paint on the walls, and some updated furniture.” He pauses, shrugging his shoulders. “And we’ll be good to go.”

“What fairytale realm are you living in?” Country asks. “Neverland? Because that ain’t reality. This is gonna require more than some scrubbing, painting, and updating the furniture. The structure is good, the foundation is sound, but that’s the only positive thing I see about this place.” Country turns in circles; with each thing he notices, his brows raise further into his hairline. “Fucking hell, Gun. This is gonna take months to get updated and renovated.”

“Stop whining. Y’all sound like a bunch of spoiled schoolgirls who’ve never worked a day in their life,” Gunner scolds. “A little work has never hurt anyone.”

“A little work, he says. Let’s restore this old lodge, he says. It’ll be fun, he says. Well, Gunner, I say stop saying shit,” Texas spews. “Cause nothing you’re saying makes a lick of sense. Who put him in charge of buying new businesses, anyway?”

“I did,” Gunner seethes, flicking Texas in the back of the head. “And as the guy in charge, what I say goes. Got me?”

“I got that you suck at this,” Texas rebuts, stepping back before Gun’s swinging fist has a chance to connect with his shoulder. “Why do you always resort to violence, pres?”

“Because that’s the only language you seem to comprehend, Texas.” Gunner hurls back at him, his words fueled with frustration.

“Only twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week,” Malice shamelessly inputs. “Try living with him.”

“You’re an asshole, Malice. You both are,” Texas sneers, aiming a scowl at both Gunner and Malice.

“Can we stop comparing dick sizes and get to work? This place isn’t going to repair itself, as much as I wish it would. Not to mention, I’ve gotta sleep in this fucking cesspool and it stinks like cattle has been dropping their shit here. First order of business is to air this place out,” Master bosses, hands pushed into his hips. “I’ll open up the windows in the main areas.” Master walks away, tackling the windows to our left. Only when he goes to lift it up, it doesn’t move. “Fuck. I bet this has never been opened.”

“Let me help,” I offer, heading in his direction. As both of us exert ourselves, it finally cracks loose of the paint that has it sealed to the panel, and budges. From there, we all team up and hit different areas, opening up windows to begin our operation of airing the place out.

“Did you notice the car out front?” Master asks me as we hit our next room.

“Yeah, I saw that when I pulled up. Couldn’t tell who was behind the wheel or how many occupants the car had in it. Did you get a good look?” I question.

“Nah, the windows were tinted, but the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. It’s like I could feel their beady eyes on me,” Master grunts. “Took all of my willpower not to march over there and yank whoever the fucker is out.”

“That would’ve been a sight to see,” I comment, grunting as we work the next window open. “This shit is ridiculous. What dumbass paints a window seal shut like this?”

“A moron, that’s who,” Master snaps, scoffing at the windowpane as if it’s the offender and not the jackass who plastered it shut. Then he reverts back to our prior conversation. “Luckily, I had enough common sense to act as if I didn’t even notice the car. If they’d happened to have gotten away, they’d be on to us, and we’d lose our upper hand.”

“True. Then we’d be back to square one,” I add. “We need to get this shit resolved. I’m sick of hearing the old ladies bickering, complaining, and their snippety comments are enough to have me grinding my jaw.”

“Overall, they haven’t been too bad this time around,” Master defends the ladies.

“Haven’t they? Did you hear them this morning in the common room? They were planning a revolt. I heard the words laxatives and coffee. Needless to say, I refused to accept the mug Charlee offered me.”

“That explains a lot,” Gunner answers, walking out of the restroom buckling his belt. “That little shit’s earned herself some payback.”

“Yeah, she has,” Shamus agrees, walking out of the same public bathroom Gunner just exited, zipping up his jeans. “I’ve barely gone five minutes without feeling like I’m gonna shit my drawers. Not to mention, I’ve shared a restroom with several of these men during that time, and let’s just say we’ve left quite the reeky impression on several of the places we’ve had to make a pit stop at.”

“I think the Dump and Pump station on the corner of Market Avenue and Walker Street has permanently banned us from entering their store unless we’re pumping gas,” Gunner interjects. “Which sucks, because that’s the place Cameron likes to stop at when we go on our Sunday rides. The bitch behind the counter leered at me and pointed at the ‘we have the right to refuse service’ sign above her register.”

“Well, if that ain’t a passive-aggressive way of reneging our open invitation to shop at their place, I don’t know what is,” Malice snorts. “I’ll give Donovan, the owner, a call later and explain why we had to make an urgent stop at his store and make use of his toilets.”

“That’d be great. I’d hate to explain to our women why they can’t go there to dispose of our recycled material. They get fiery if we aren’t doing our part in keeping the community clean,” Gunner says, shaking his head.

“I don’t understand their way of thinking. How’s turning in some milk cartons and grocery bags keeping the community clean? You’d think burning that shit would be best,” Texas says.

“Ask Jessia about it tonight, Texas,” Malice advises. “She’ll give you a list of reasons.”

“I’m thinking this is one of those times you’re setting me up for failure. No thanks, I’ll keep my trap zipped shut,” Texas huffs.

“The one time I want you to talk you decide to do the opposite. You’re a conundrum, Texas. You make no damn sense,” Malice mutters then walks to the other room to pick up where he left off.

“He’s setting me up, isn’t he?” Texas asks me, elbowing me in my ribs.

“How should I know, fucker? Keep your bony joints to yourself,” I state, jabbing him in the side with my elbow. When he whines, I say, “Hurts, doesn’t it.” His response is to narrow his eyes and pucker up his lips, sending me an air kiss. “Dumbass.”

“Takes one to know one,” he rebuts.

“Delivery’s here!” Malice booms from the front room, shifting my attention from the verbal smack down I was prepping for. Texas skips from the room tossing the bird over his shoulder.

“Fucker’s lucky,” I murmur. Master gives me a pat on the shoulder, letting me know he understands my dilemma.

“It’s just his way of coping.” Master excuses Texas’ behavior.

“Time to get to work, gentlemen,” Gunner announces, twisting on his feet and following the path of Malice’s shattering roar.

“Let’s see if we can’t get the license plate off that car while we’re at it,” Master suggests.

“On it,” I notify. “Keep the other guys busy and I’ll walk out of the back and down the alley. I’ll sneak up on their ass end and hide on the other side of that building and jot it down.”

“Will do,” he agrees, splintering off from me as I go to the back exit.