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patched members. Needless to say, we proved ourselves all right. In ten years, Packer and I have gone from prospects to the VP and President of the MC, respectively. We’ve built up the East Coast charter of the Circle of Death and made it greater than it’s ever been. Packer likes to heap the credit on me, and I’m more than happy to take most of it, but he and the other brothers have pulled their weight and then some.
    I glance around the clubhouse bar, taking stock of my fellow members. There’s Packer, of course, my best friend and VP. Then there’s Lobo, our Sergeant at Arms, and Leon, our Road Captain—cousins who have been around even longer than we have. Lobo is tall and lean while Leon is shorter and barrel chested. You’d never guess they were related except that they’re thick as the thieves they once were. Those two are workhorses and fierce taskmasters, making sure the rest of the guys stay in line and on track. They’re playing each other at pool, each with a sweet butt hanging on his arm.
    Our Treasurer and Secretary came into the Circle of Death fold after I’d already been patched for a few years. Chip, the Treasurer, is a straight up computer genius with a mop of black hair and a maniacal glint in his eye. Dean, the Secretary, is the quietest of the bunch, an Iraq War vet with a blonde crew cut and bright blue eyes. They’re only in their mid-twenties, but I’ve seen them ride, fight, and party hard with the best of us. Chip and Dean are sprawled across the black leather sofa in the corner, jamming to some hard rock pouring out of our rejiggered juke box.
    Leaning up against the wall with his thick arms crossed is Brutus, our longtime Enforcer. He’s built like a fucking tank, and is by far the meanest of our lot. Brutus is our muscle, the attack dog we sic on people who dare to cross us. I’d feel bad about making him do all the dirty work, except that he seems to like it so much.
    Down the bar from me are Xan, our resident model-looking motherfucker, and Otis, the oldest of our group and the only original member left. The Circle of Death MC started up right after the Vietnam War, when a group of New England guys came back to the states and realized that they wanted nothing to do with the lives they left behind. That’s the great thing about the outlaw life—it’s always there for those who need it most.
    These seven men are my family, closer than flesh and blood. I’d die for any one of them and I know they’d do the same for me. Our clubhouse, built onto an old fishing pier and reinforced over the years, is a fortress of sorts. Our home. It’s got a bar, where we entertain our friends—and of course the girls who come looking for shelter and strong arms to hold them. It’s got a “chapel” in the back, a closed room where the brothers can convene and shape the club’s future. It’s even got a couple of boats tied along the dock, for fishing trips and quick getaways from the cops, depending on the day.
    All in all, it’s a pretty kickass place to hang your hat.
    Just as I’m turning back to finish off my well-deserved beer, I feel a gust of cool, salty wind at my back. My sharpened senses pick up the shift in the room as the bar door swings open, casting a long rectangle of early evening light across the sawdust-covered floorboards. I’m on my feet in an instant, hackles raised. The music and conversation cut out as two strangers step across the threshold of our home.
    We don’t get a lot of strangers here at the clubhouse. The occasional fisherman or drifter, sure, but no one like the two men who stroll into our midst now. They’re decked out in sport coats and pressed slacks, and I can practically smell the money on them. They reek of it. Their hair is carefully combed, and their faces are tanned and clean-shaven. They look like the kind of snobs who used to look down on me when I was just a poor kid from Western Massachusetts with a freewheeling single mom. I may be far