Death Reapers MC: Angels to Ash

i.

Angel, present day.
"Is this the face of the devil?"
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I leaned back in the bar stool, watching the way the girls danced on stage. The dark club's loud music beat right through me. Black neon and multicolored lights spun around the large circular stage and above my head. Running my hands through my hair, my fingers itched at the low buzzed sides. Just another typical night. Drinking, smoking, scheming. My fellow brothers from the Death Reapers Motorcycle Club were all around me; some taking shots, some getting lap dances, and others just goofing around, laughing boisterously, relaxed and drunk.

We usually came to the MC owned strip club, the Death's Sirens, after a long meeting in our clubhouse conference room. The meetings were called "church" and as close to any kind of religion that we outlaws practiced. One percenters. Tonight's meeting had been about the lines our rivals had crossed. My blood was still boiling, hearing about all that this rival MC was trying to pull over on us.

"You good bro?" My club's Vice President, Luca "Wolf" Gold walked up to me, smiling his pretty boy smile at a raven haired waitress who just walked by. She winked at him, setting three longneck beers on the bar in front of us.

"Yeah. Everything's great, man." I replied, sitting up straighter and tugging on my long, blonde bushy beard. I was the Death Reaper MC's new enforcer, the Sergeant-at-Arms, and it wasn't something I would take lightly. "Just amped up. I'm ready to take down the Raging Bastards once and for all." A low growl emitted from my chest at the thought of our rival MC, intercepting our gun runs and beating up two of our prospects last night.

"Shit, I know." Wolf groaned, running his hand through his bright white blonde, shoulder length hair. He did this move a lot, and the girls swooned every damn time. I heard cat calls screamed out to him from the strippers on stage, and some patrons around the bar. I lowered my head, smirking. This guy was built like Thor, with bright, mischievous blue eyes, and standing at 6'3", just an inch shorter than me. He was known as a man slut around the MC, but was a good loyal dude and leader to his fellow brothers.

"How would your last Sergeant-at-Arms have handled this?" I asked, taking a large gulp of my whiskey neat and nodding at the hot bleached blonde bartender for a refill.

"Old school. Probably guns a'blazing. He had been a trigger happy motherfucker... But Trace has other shit on his mind right now, so we have to play it cool. Play it smart." Wolf turned his head in the direction of our club President, Trace McKenna, who was currently trying to completely ignore a small brunette giving him a lap dance. Dry fucking was more like it. Trace stared moodily ahead, his attention switching from the front entrance to the back entrance and then back to his phone screen.

"Hey, say the word and I'll bash heads.
Just give me an address." I replied lowly, turning my attention back towards the stage. It had been too long since I had fought someone. Felt the pain in my fists and the sick sounds of bone on bone. Violence was something that came naturally to me.

Wolf chuckled beside me, pulling out his iPhone and tapping on it furiously. Moments passed, a different girl coming on stage and dancing sensually.

"You heard that Trace's sister is on her way back to the clubhouse, right? We might need to chill on all our recreational activities for a bit." Wolf was muttering lowly to me and biting his lip, all of his attention still on his phone.

I squinted over at the stage, watching as the svelte blonde bartender, who just served me whiskey, started to take off her clothes. My mood began to improve immensely. Fuck yeah.