Page 4 of Rest In Pieces
“Probe, you’re my brother, and you know I’ve got love for you. But trust me when I say your chances of fucking a movie star are about as good as Kruger winning a beauty contest.”
Kruger flips Blade off, not offended in the least.
Years ago, Kruger was known as Freddie, a drunk seventeen-year-old kid camping with his equally drunk friends. They were attacked by a mama bear protecting her cubs. That old saying about not needing to run faster than a bear, just faster than your friends, turned out to be true. They all took off, leaving Freddiebehind. He tripped over a tree stump and ended up facing the bear alone. The bear took a chunk out of his shoulder and slashed his face down to the bone with her claws before heading back to her cubs.
When he started prospecting, he had a chip on his shoulder and expected people to feel sorry for him. He got over that real quick when he earned the name Kruger and was given the same shitty jobs as every other prospect.
He told me years later, when I was a prospect myself, that he expected everyone to join his pity party. But nobody gave a fuck about what happened to him—except Kruger himself. He found acceptance here, and now, twenty years later, his scars are just another part of who he is.
“I got an email from the studio. They want to know if they can shoot some footage here at Ravens’ Nest. It’d be no more than a week’s worth of filming, and just for a few hours a day.”
“No,” Blade answers, crossing his arms.
“It’s not like we have anything to hide. We’re clean—mostly,” Toot says.
“Mostly isn’t the same as completely,” Inigo points out.
“They’re offering to pay a hundred thousand for the week. And another ten grand a day for every day they go over.”
Mac whistles. “That’s a lot of cash to turn down. I know we’re not broke, but playing it straight isn’t gonna to make us rich either. A hundred grand, and all we gotta do is be good boys for a week? We can’t say no to that, Prez.”
Blade groans. He might be the president, but he always goes with the majority vote.
“You know this is going to come back and bite us in the ass, right?”
“We’ve survived worse,” I remind him.
His eyes flare, probably remembering the night five years ago when our previous VP, Bear, almost killed him and tore our club apart.
“Fine. All those in favor of letting a fucking film crew in for a couple of weeks?”
Almost everyone raises their hand.
“All those against?”
Only Blade and Crane put their hands up.
“Looks like we’re going to have company. You make sure they don’t find anything they shouldn’t. Their access should only get them into certain areas. Anyone caught snooping or filming where they shouldn’t, tell me. And I’ll shove my foot so far up their ass, they’ll taste my boot.”
There's a few chuckles and a couple snorts, but we all nod.
“Next order of business.” Blade looks to Conan, who sighs and nods, taking over.
“I’m going to be stepping down as VP.”
“What? Why?” Drifter and some of the guys ask at once.
“The docs found something during my last check-up. I’ve got prostate cancer,” he says gently, and the room goes silent.
“Fuck, man, I’m sorry. What’s the prognosis?”
Inigo glares at me, but I ignore him. I’ve never been one to hold back, and neither has he, which is why we’ve butted heads so many times over the years.
“Doctors caught it early, so they’re optimistic that with treatment, I’ll be okay.”
“That’s good.”
“Anything you need, Conan. We’ve got you,” Mac tells him, and everyone agrees, voicing their support.