Saving Glory (Hells Saints Motorcycle Club Book 4) (3 page)

Goddamn it.
Jules stared down numbly at the metal bracelets that encircled his large wrists and yearned to rub the place where the steel edges bit into his skin. Damn things were never big enough for him. Standing in the courtroom, he shifted uncomfortably. He was stiff and sore from riding his Harley across two states and then spending the night on the paper thin mattress of a cold jail cell. His right eye was almost swollen shut and his knuckles were bloody and painful. 

It had been a hell of a couple of days.

While Jules waited for the judge to enter the courtroom, he grinned slightly. Images of the bar room brawl he had participated in the night before flashed across his mind. He might have spent the night locked up in a cell, but if Jules’s kicks landed where he thought they had, at least two of the other fuckers would be eating their meals through a straw from here on out.

“Something funny?” One of the court officers threw Jules a look that clearly said—
not so tough now, are you?

When that same officer went on to mutter, “Stand still you big fucking ape or I’m gonna shackle your goddamn feet together.” Jules turned his full attention to the guy in blue and snorted in derision. Then he went on to take a good, long, obvious look at the shiny name badge stuck to the officer’s skinny chest. Jules tucked that information away in his
little pricks that fuck with me
file.

The door to the courtroom opened just then and a meatier version of Judge Judy walked into the room. When the woman bowed her head to look through half-moon glasses at the charges brought forth, her double chin hit the lace collar buttoned over her official black robe.

Jules, who prided himself as having a way with the ladies, stood a little taller at her entrance. Then he reached up with his shackled hand and put an errant lock of long blonde hair back behind his ears, taking the opportunity to flex his heavily muscled bicep as he did it. When his attempt to catch the judge’s eye failed to appeal to her feminine side, Jules turned away with a frown. But when he caught the court stenographer’s heated gaze as she shifted in her chair and parted her long legs just slightly, Jules winked at her.

“Let the record show,” the judge began, “that this is an arraignment for Jules Bonny. Mr. Bonny, you have been charged with—”

Jules steeled himself to listen to what he knew could be a long damn list depending on the testimony of the witnesses on the scene and whether or not the arresting officers were on the Saints payroll. The bar had been outside of the Saints circle of influence, though, and Jules hadn’t recognized any of the uniformed men.

Shit could go bad for him.

Jules cocked an ear and looked around the courtroom hoping to catch a glimpse of a Hells Saints brother, but no one had shown up yet.

He held his breath waiting for Judge Judy’s chubby look-a-like to begin the typical charges-levied speech, but she just continued to leaf through the papers on her desk again—and again.

And while the look on the magistrate’s face never lost its composure, Jules lifted a brow at the delay.

Finally the judge took off her glasses, pinched her nose and sighed. Then she looked to her court clerk. “I don’t suppose the arresting officer is present today?”

The ancient clerk seated to her left stated clearly, “No ma’am.”

At the exchange, Jules let out a long slow breath of optimism—the arresting officer’s absence in this matter was a good thing.

“Mr. Bonny.” The judge looked at him with a sigh of resignation and a small shake of her head. “You are being charged with Penal Code 594.”

Jules searched his mind trying to remember what the fuck 594 was
.

“Willful destruction of property.” The judge’s voice rang out.

Oh yeah.

“And—” She looked at him pointedly.

Jules stood a little straighter and ran through the list of possible additional charges in his mind: The best case scenario would probably include a couple of assault and battery charges, a carrying concealed charge and resisting arrest. The worst case could be— a hell of a lot worse.

Damn.

He was not looking forward to spending the next twenty years in prison.

“Penal Code 647.” The judge's voice broke into his thoughts.

Now that was a number he knew.

“Public drunkenness,” she confirmed.

Jules tried to stop himself from cringing. Things were about to get real. His mind had already started sorting out what shit he wanted to give to what brother, and working out a storage unit for his bike.

Then the judge peered over the top of the half-moon glasses at him and said solemnly, “Do you understand the charges?”

Did he understand what charges?
He looked at her puzzled.

As she glared back at him with disgust written all over her face, he waited for her to continue citing penal code after penal code.

But when the judge remained silent, the truth of the matter dawned on Jules and a wide smile suddenly split his face.

Fucking A he understood the charges.

Jules did a quick sweep of the courtroom when he heard the door creak open and the sound of about a dozen or so pairs of heavy leather boots hit the scarred wooden floors.

Prosper now stood in the back of the courtroom. His big arms were crossed in front of his chest. Diego Montesalto, club VP, stood to his left. Reno McCabe, Road Captain and Prosper’s nephew, stood on Prosper’s right. And filling the back two rows of the otherwise fairly empty courtroom came a couple dozen Saints club members.

Brothers had his back.

Jules couldn’t stop the full on grin that suddenly lit up his face.

“Mr. Bonny?” The judge called out to him.

“Yes, Judge?” He swiveled his eyes back to her.

“Do you find these proceedings amusing?” She glared at him, the veins in her neck standing out.

“No, ma’am.” Jules instantly wiped the smile off his face.

“Do you understand the charges?” she asked, continuing to glare.

“Yes, ma’am, I do.” Jules did his best to look contrite.

“The penalty for these charges is imprisonment in the state prison or county jail for a period not exceeding one year or by a fine of not more than ten thousand dollars,” she read from the paper in her hands.

Now this was a drill Jules knew.

“I plead guilty, your honor.” The words shot out of his mouth.

The judge sighed as her eyes darted up.

“Mr. Bonny, Are you telling this court that you plead guilty to willful destruction of property?”

“Yes, I am, your honor,” Jules called out with enthusiasm.

“Public drunkenness?” she asked.

“That too, ma’am,” Jules almost shouted with barely controlled glee.

“Let me guess.” She sighed wearily. “You would like to make restitution today?”

“Yup.” The cuffs on Jules’s hands stopped him from fist pumping the air.

The judge looked at him long and hard then turned to the bailiff.

“Please have Mr. Bonny approach the bench.”

Jules did his best to appear repentant as he approached.

“Do you take me for a fool, Mr. Bonny?” She narrowed her eyes at him.

“No, ma’am.” He shook his head at her. “Absolutely not.”

She nodded slowly and leaned forward. The sleeves of her robe slipped back and she clasped her hands tightly in front of her.

“I am not sure what exactly happened here today. And honestly, I don’t really give enough of a damn to find out. And the reason I don’t give a damn, Mr. Bonny, is because I have never had the pleasure of having you or any of your club members in my courtroom before.” She paused and looked meaningfully at the bikers in the room. “But now that I have had that pleasure, you and I have what I consider a history. And I have a very long memory. I am warning you now that if you ever appear in my courtroom again for so much as pissing on a tree, I am going to make sure you go away for a very, very long time. Am I making myself clear, Mr. Bonny?”

“Crystal clear, ma’am.” Jules nodded.

The judge sat up straight and nodded to the bailiff then.

And just like that, Jules was free to go.

Jules sat back on his heels and took a long sip of hot coffee as he watched his Hells Saints brothers file into the kitchen house at the club compound. The boys stood around with their eyes glued expectantly on Jules as they waited for the boss to arrive.

At their amused insistence, Jules began to recount, for what felt like the millionth time, the story of the barroom brawl that landed his wily ass in a five by nine cell. Granted, Jules’s incredibly large physical stature was usually enough to stop even the drunkest guy from throwing a punch. So it was a rare occurrence for Jules to find himself locked up for something as lowly as a fist fight.

But still.

If he had a dime for every time a brother came up to him and asked him about that night? He’d be sitting on a lounge chair somewhere in the Hawaiian Islands ‘stead of stitching up pain in the ass outlaws.

Go figure some shit out.

Jules had lost count long ago of how many lives he had saved. First as a Marine field medic and now as a Sergeant at Arms for the Hells Saints Brotherhood and no one ever asked a word about that. But going a couple of rounds with a few drunken idiots who managed to land a lucky punch or two? That story the guys couldn’t get enough of.

“So what happened next?” Riker took a big bite of one of the fancy French pastries that Diego’s wife, Raine, liked to treat the guys to.

“Where was I?” Jules rumbled and drew his eyebrows together in thought.

“Guy was just about to take a swing at ya,” Gunner volunteered with eager interest.

“Oh yeah. So all of a sudden—” Jules smirked in spite of himself, because this part of the story he didn’t mind recounting. He didn’t get a chance to pound his knuckles much anymore and talking about a fight was almost as good as being in one. But before Jules could continue on, the door swung open wide on its hinges and Prosper stormed in with a half dozen brothers trailing behind him.

“Church!” He bellowed out to the room.

Jules shot a puzzled look at Gunner, who returned the look with a confused shrug of his own. Apparently Jules wasn’t the only one who was mystified at the sudden call to meeting that Prosper had sent out to the boys.  Then they both followed behind the men who were already finding their places at the table.

*****

“I’m calling this meeting to order.” Prosper raised his hand and quieted the room with three raps of the gavel.

Gunner, the newly elected club secretary, looked at Prosper. “I got the all-call same as the rest of the guys. Did we have this meeting scheduled for later today or something? ‘Cause I ain’t got it written down.” Gunner glanced down at the notebook he had laid out on the table.

“No, you dumb shit,” Prosper snarled with impatience. “If we had a meeting called for later on today, why would I put out an all-call and bring you in now?”

Gunner looked up from the notebook, confusion written all over his face.

“Don’t mean to piss you off, boss, but with Crank away visiting that sick kid of his, I’ve been trying to manage the treasurer job and take care of the secretarial shit too. Now can someone please just tell me—do I take down minutes at all-calls or is this gonna be like secret club shit?”

Prosper leaned forward and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Please, somebody tell me that Boy Wonder here did not just say secret club shit?”

When Gunner looked around the room and saw the sloppy grins directed at him, he opened his mouth to retort but the slight warning shake of Diego’s head stopped him.

Prosper roared, “Has anyone remembered to put the ‘No Girls Allowed’ sign on the damn door of this here tree house?”

Rumbles of amusement shot through the room. Gunner clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes, but didn’t say a word.

“Do whatever the fuck you want, Gunner,” Reno took pity on him and muttered. “Just don’t ever say secret club shit again, brother.”

Gunner shot Reno a thankful look, but flipped off the rest of the brothers sitting around the table.

Prosper shook his head and continued on. “Somebody here volunteered last meeting to look into getting some new equipment for the weight room. Who the hell was that?”

The Hells Saints brothers looked at each other in confusion, because all-calls meant you dropped whatever you were doing wherever you were doing it and you got your ass to that meeting room. All-calls meant serious shit. Problems with the feds, brothers gone astray, territory issues.

No one had ever been called to the table to talk about a couple thousand bucks worth of purchases.

Riker raised his hand. “That was me. And I gave Gunner the list with prices on it two weeks ago.” Then he pointed his finger. “There it is! That yellow piece of paper all crumpled up sticking out the side of his notebook. Really man, you have got to get a damn briefcase or something.”

Gunner shot up out of his seat, leaned across the table and spat, “You wanna fucking do this?” When Riker shook his head and raised his hands in silent surrender, Gunner sat back down. Then he flattened out the paper and took a minute to look at the numbers.

“Yeah, everything’s here, boss. Actually the totals came in lower than I expected. We got this no problem and plenty in the miscellaneous fund for some other stuff if you want.”

Prosper nodded. “Tallies?”

Gunner looked back down at the worn leather ledger. “Like I said—we are looking good. Green from that property we sold down in Kingston finally got cleared and deposited. With the area colleges back in session, the club’s investments are doing well. The renovations we did to include new kitchens in all three bars has started to pay off. Ruby Reds has picked up again now that we have more grill items on the menu. Cuffs has been drawing in a big fight night crowd, and Chains has pretty much doubled its revenue since the college added those new student townhouses right up the street. Between the checking, savings and cash we keep in the safe, it’s close to three-hundred grand. We still need to cut a check for the taxes and some other municipal shit. Oh, and I still haven’t figured in the fallout from the payoffs that it took to get our brother Jules here outta the mess he got himself into” Gunner smirked. “But even after all that, we’re still in the best spot we’ve been in for a while.”

Jules felt a flash of guilt as he looked around the table. “I appreciate the back-up, boys. I know what the charges could’ve been and I have an idea what it probably cost the club to get me outta that kind of trouble. I’m happy to take care of whatever those pay-offs cost us.”

“We take care of our own and you know it, brother,” Prosper told him. “I just need to know where we stand on the green, that’s all.”

“What’s going on, boss?” Riker called out from mutters around the table.

Prosper leaned back in his chair and hung an unlit cigarette from his mouth. “So here’s the deal, boys. You guys all remember Capt. Hallelujah Thomas? Glory’s brother?”

Jules tensed beside Prosper. He knew what was coming, and even though Prosper had warned him that he had offered up the lake house to Glory, just hearing her name again made something in his chest tighten. And knowing that that move was coming real soon cut Jules with a whole lot of emotion that he was not ready to deal with.

Not now.

Not yet.

Maybe not fucking ever.

And certainly not in front of the club.

Jules stretched his long legs out in front of him and adopted a casual swag while a muscle leapt in his jaw and his hand balled into a fist under the table.

“You talking about the Marine fucker who almost snapped a brother’s neck out at the lake house?” Riker scratched his head and sent a sideways glance at Jules.

Here it fucking comes.

Jules glared back at Riker while an uneasy ripple went through the room. No one else dared to look directly at the Sergeant at Arms.

“One and the same,” Prosper confirmed loudly as if to cast out the tension in the room.

“Thought he bought it? Bombed over in Iraq or some shit,” another member called out.

Prosper shook his head. “Nah, he made it through that. But he sure as hell
almost
bought it. Poor bastard caught it good. I intended to bring this matter up with you boys earlier, but that goddamn heart attack of mine put everything on the back burner. I reached out to Glory on my way back from that meet in Miami that Derringer here called.” Prosper gestured toward the president of the HS Miami chapter. Back in the day, Derringer Gage and Prosper had started the Hells Saints club together after serving a few tours in Vietnam. Derringer was a small man, with hard eyes and a series of Vietnamese prayers inked onto his skull. Rumor had it that he had been an interrogation specialist in the army.

No one doubted that.

After acknowledging the Miami Chapter president, Prosper continued, “As some of you may or may not know, Hal came to see me and our brother, Jules after that standoff went down. And he made that shit right.” Here Prosper paused and looked to Jules. Jules nodded in confirmation and Prosper continued,

“As the brother here mentioned, poor bastard caught the better part of a blast over in Kandahar and he’s spent the last year or so recovering from that. Our girl Glory is currently awaiting her brother’s release in a tiny shithole of an apartment with no heat to speak of. She lives on the fifth floor of a building I wouldn’t put a damn dog in and the fucking elevator is broken. To top it all off, that big, ugly-ass complex sits right in the shadow of the goddamn military hospital. Damn depressing and not what a combat brother deserves to come back to.” Prosper’s voice was rife with disgust.

Glory has been living in a shithole of an apartment with no heat.
With effort Jules forced the image out of his mind and gave Prosper his full attention.

“Now I own the lake house outright, so what I choose to do with it is my own goddamn business.” Prosper leaned forward and flexed his forearms on the table. “But I’m gonna need a vote on spending some of that club money to set up a gym for Captain Thomas. And I’m gonna need some craftsmen to volunteer to build an addition to put that equipment in. I'll put up the money for the materials. But I thought the workout equipment could be something that the club could throw down for, because I want this club to make a statement.” Prosper paused and looked around the table. “More than half of you boys around this table are sporting the ink of one branch of service or the other. And that makes the Marine family. And we take care of family. Anybody got a problem with what I’m saying so far?” 

Lots of mutterings of
fuck no
and shaking of heads before Prosper continued.

“Glad you see it my way, boys. Hal’s had a setback, so that is gonna buy us some time, but this shit is going to be happening soon. Glory came out to pay respects when I was laid up. She also used that trip to get herself organized with a list of what her brother is gonna need to aid in his rehabilitation and where to get that shit. My woman got me a copy.” He handed the list over to Gunner. “You and Riker take care of the order. And it should go without saying I want top of the line. Any of you cheap bastards get the idea that we should dick around for anything less than the best, you wanna think again before voicing those fucking concerns.”

“Shit, boss, since you put it like that—” somebody muttered. A couple of small laughs cropped up. Derringer grumbled from his seat.

Prosper lifted his chin at him. “You got something to say, my brother?”

“Ain’t my place.” Derringer shifted in his chair, his voice low in response. “Your chapter, your table.”

“You always have a voice here.” Prosper’s tone was relaxed, but his shoulders tensed.

Jules’s gaze left Prosper for Derringer.
Now fucking what?

Derringer nodded with respect to the man sitting at the head of the table. “I appreciate that.”

Then he reached into his cut, pulled out a pack of smokes and lit one up. Derringer drew deep and, as always, seemed to be carefully choosing his words before he continued, “Vietnam was a whole different kind of fighting from what you boys experience today. That jungle warfare shit is enough to drive a man crazy, and for some of us, it did. We came back to a country divided, in damn turmoil and harboring a lot of real bad animosity for the uniform. The closest thing I ever got to a welcome home was when we landed stateside in a hospital aircraft. As soon as the damn thing touched down, a public affairs officer came on board with a package of civilian clothes and a standard issue shaving kit for each of us. Guy next to me had lost a leg, guy next to him his ball sac. I had to turn my left ear to hear because my right drum had been shattered. So this PA comes on board, looks at us coming back home after all those years, after all that sacrifice and his exact words were—” Derringer took a long pull of the nicotine and his eyes darkened. “—there’s a group of war protestors out there holding up signs and waiting for you all to disembark. The government’s position at this point is no response is the best response. So I have been ordered to slip you all out the back door. We don’t want any trouble.” Derringer paused and his voice shook in anger. “Then the fucker saluted us and said, ‘Welcome home, boys.”

It was the longest speech that anyone had ever heard Derringer make.