“You’re a fucking asshole,” he says, shaking his head. “And it’s getting late. Shall we get things rolling then?” I place my hand on top of the black bag sitting in between Cade and me. My best friend smirks, tipping his glass in my direction.

“I’ll leave this one up to you,” he says.

“Why, thank you.” I may sound sarcastic, but it’s been a while since I’ve had the pleasure of making a call like this. The Widowers need this, and so do I. The bar’s full, club members drinking at tables and leaning against walls. There are over twenty members to the club, and they’re permitted to bring people into the bar once they’ve been vetted by Danny to make sure they’re not cops. The place can get pretty rowdy. The arrangement isn’t perfect. Fights break out. Members, both male and female, end up sleeping with the wrong person. Shit gets broken. But for the most part we make it work.

I draw some curious looks from the guys closest to me when I get up, Cade’s bag of tricks in my hand. Fatty, the Widowers’ resident bartender and sometimes chef sees me approaching the bar, sees what I have in my hand, and has an unopened bottle of Texas Trader’s Bourbon out on the counter before I can even ask for it. Trader’s is the cheapest, nastiest, shittiest bourbon ever made. I can still remember the bottle I had to finish when I first started this thing. My gut twists, also remembering the vast majority of that cheap, nasty, shitty bourbon coming back up again. Violently.

“I thought this might be coming soon,” Fatty says, breaking into a grin. “You sure he’s ready?”

I knock my fist against the counter, grinning back at him. “Fuck yeah. If the guy can make it through an encounter with Maria Rosa unscathed, he’s earned his ink.”

Fatty laughs, reaching for a pack of smokes and lighting one. “He’s gonna be unbearable after this.”

“Oh, I know. If his head gets too big, you can just kick his ass. Cool?”

“Cool.”

I turn around, finding that the oldest Widow Makers—Keeler, Brassic, Danny, Foxer and Josephine—have already stood up and are waiting with knowing smiles on their faces. Foxer, the guy responsible for managing the grow we have underway beneath the worn floorboards of the barn, is also in charge of new recruits. I’ve already spoken to him about what’s about to take place and he’s green lit the guy. He gives me a sharp nod when our eyes make contact, reaffirming his approval. I may be the head honcho around here, but I don’t have time to personally assess every new recruit we get. I value Foxer’s opinion as much as I do Cade’s, though. He knows what it takes to be a Widower. If he’d said not now, not ready, this wouldn’t be happening.

“Carnie, you ugly motherfucker!” I shout over the top of the chatter in the bar. Carnie, sitting across the other side of the room, immediately looks up, surprise on his face. He pushes his glasses up onto his head and stands. Everyone else is silent. “What’s up, Boss?” he asks.

I collect the bottle of Trader’s off the counter and I crack it open in front of him. I wince as I take the tiniest of sips. Everyone in the clubhouse roars, the sounds of their hollering and cheering set to raise the rafters on the place. Carnie, god bless him, looks around, completely confused. I hand off the bottle to Cade, who also takes a really fucking small sip.

“It’s time,” I tell him. “You’re in.”

More shouting and hollering breaks out, coupled with the thunder of people drumming their hands and feet against the tables, the floor, the bar. Carnie lifts both eyebrows, smiling cautiously. “For real? You’re serious?”

Cade holds up the bottle of bourbon, toasting it at Carnie. “We don’t break out this stuff unless we’re for real, man.”

Nearly everyone in the clubhouse aside from Carnie knows the pain that bottle is going to bring him. There are countless groans as Cade holds it out for Keeler to take. I don’t even need to watch to know he won’t be taking a big mouthful; every single member of the Widowers will drink out of that bottle before it gets passed to Carnie, and no one will want more than a taste of the vile liquid on their tongues.

“What is that?” Carnie asks.

“That, my friend, is a rite of passage. Once everyone’s taken a sip, the rest is for you. And you gotta finish every last drop before I’ll ink you.” I unzip the black bag in my hand and bring out the ink gun that Cade brought home with him from the Dead Man’s ink Bar. It’s been about two years since I’ve tattooed anyone, but that doesn’t matter. This particular tattoo is something I can draw without a stencil. I could probably do it with my eyes closed if I wanted to. Carnie whoops, ripping his Widow Makers MC Prospect T-shirt over his head.

“Bring it on!”

The bar fills with more laughter and shouting as the other club members all gather around Carnie to slap him on the back and welcome him into the fold. Cade leans against the bar beside me, laughing an evil laugh. “Poor bastard’s not gonna be so happy in about an hour,” he says.

And he’s right. Barely an eighth of the Trader’s is gone when it’s handed to Carnie. The guy finally understands what he’s let himself in for when he takes his first big slug from the bottle. His eyes water, his face reddening to a dark crimson. “Holy fuck! This stuff’s worse than lighter fluid.”

By halfway down the bottle, he’s looking more than a little worse for wear. By the time he’s draining the last few drops of bourbon into his mouth, he’s already thrown up twice in the spillage bucket Fatty keeps behind the bar.