Brigands M. C. Read Free Page B

crept up the stairs. ‘Two nights a week is all I ask and you can’t even bring him home at a decent hour.’
    Dante was one of four kids, and their dirty clothes and damp towels were spread thick across the scruffy little bathroom. Along with puddles on the floor were his big brother’s mud-crusted rugby kit and sixteen-year-old Lizzie’s stash of deodorants and beauty products.
    After a leak and a twenty-second excursion for his toothbrush, Dante headed down a narrow hallway and quietly opened the door of the room he shared with his brother Jordan. The thirteen-year-old snored, with a foot hanging over the side of his bed and his duvet mounded over his head.
    Jordan was moody and Dante was likely to get a punch if he disturbed him, so he crept towards his bed. He took off tracksuit bottoms, undies and trainers with a single sweep and slipped on a pair of pyjama bottoms before straightening his pillow and rolling under the sheets.
    *
     
    Dante woke on his back with Jordan leaning over his bed. The older boy held the curtains open and peered through the window.
    ‘What are you doing?’ Dante moaned sleepily as his brother’s briefs hovered above him. ‘Get your damned nuts out of my face.’
    ‘Do you know that car?’ Jordan asked seriously.
    Dante pressed the button on his projector clock making 02:07 flicker in red on the ceiling. As he slid out from under Jordan he heard men speaking downstairs and his heart quickened when he realised they were angry.
    ‘Maybe it’s the police,’ Dante said edgily, as he shuffled up to the window next to Jordan and looked down on to the driveway.
    There were no streetlights out here in the country, so it was usually pitch black at night, but the living-room and kitchen lights were on downstairs and enough light escaped through the blinds to illuminate the outline of a Ford Mondeo and a customised Harley Sportster.
    ‘That’s the Führer’s bike,’ Dante said.
    Jordan shook his head. ‘He drives a Sportster but that’s not his.’
    Dante took pride in knowing something his older brother didn’t. ‘It is so. Remember the Barcelona run last summer? That’s the one he took when he couldn’t get his orange one running.’
    ‘You’re right,’ Jordan admitted. ‘And I’ve seen that Mondeo at the clubhouse before as well.’
    As the two boys peered out, blurred words from the three men downstairs came up through the floorboards.
    ‘I’m gonna sneak down and listen,’ Dante said as he hopped off the bed.
    Jordan grabbed his arm. ‘I wouldn’t. Dad’ll go ape shit if he catches you.’
    ‘I’ll be casual,’ Dante said confidently, as he pointed to the shelf beside his bed with his clock and a box of tissues on it. ‘Mum never brought my water up so I’ll just say I’m thirsty.’
    Jordan let go. He was fond of his little brother, but he was also curious to know what was going on and it was no big deal to him if Dante got yelled at.
    ‘Just be careful,’ Jordan said. ‘Don’t hang around.’
    The lights were on in the hallway and bathroom. Dante crept down in socks and pyjama bottoms. By the time he reached the hallway he’d worked out that the three voices belonged to his dad, the Führer and a big hairy Brigand who everyone called Felicity because he looked like some actress in an old TV show called The Good Life .
    They were arguing about the redevelopment of the clubhouse. Dante was only eight and didn’t know the ins and outs, but understood that the land on which the Brigands clubhouse was built was worth a lot of money. Some members of the chapter, led by the Führer, wanted to knock down the barns and build shops, restaurants and a block of apartments. A smaller group led by his dad said they liked the clubhouse the way it was and didn’t want to sell it.
    It was risky standing at the bottom of the stairs where he’d be spotted through the archway into the living-room, so Dante moved into the kitchen. He quietly slid the toaster out of the way