Chapter 16 : Prospect Life
[Teller-Morrow Automotive — April 26, 2008, 6:30 AM]
The alarm didn't wake me. I was already awake.
Three hours of sleep, maybe less. My body protested as I rolled out of bed, joints stiff, muscles aching from a week of physical labor that made the garage work look like a vacation.
The prospect kutte hung on the back of my door. PROSPECT across the bottom rocker, leather soft from use. Someone else's journey, now mine.
I pulled it on and headed for TM.
The morning air was cool, the streets empty. Charming slept while its criminals got to work.
Half-Sack was already at the clubhouse when I arrived, mopping floors. He looked as exhausted as I felt.
"You get any sleep?"
"Hour or two." He wrung out the mop. "Tig had me driving him around until four. Then Bobby needed the van ready by six."
"The grind."
"The fucking grind." He grinned anyway. "But we're in, man. We're actually in."
I grabbed a broom and started on the parking lot. The cigarette butts from last night's party were scattered across the concrete like confetti. Piney's mess, but my responsibility now.
Welcome to prospect life.
---
[TM Garage — 11:00 AM]
The days blurred together.
Clean, fetch, guard, drive, wait. The verbs of prospect existence. I scrubbed toilets, restocked coolers, washed bikes, ran errands. When members needed coffee, I got coffee. When they needed food, I got food. When they needed nothing, I waited until they needed something.
The mechanical work that had earned me my position became secondary. Prospects weren't valued for their skills—they were valued for their endurance. For their willingness to eat shit and ask for seconds.
I watched Cole from my old life dissolve into something new. Someone who stood when told to stand, moved when told to move, and kept his mouth shut unless directly addressed.
Not broken. Adapted.
Half-Sack handled it differently. He joked, deflected, tried to ingratiate himself through humor. Some members appreciated it. Others found it grating.
I chose a different approach: invisible competence. Do the job before it was assigned. Anticipate needs. Be there without being noticed.
Chibs caught on first. "Ye're a quiet one, aren't ye?"
"Just doing the job."
"Aye." He studied me with those scarred eyes. "But you're doing it too well. Makes a man wonder what else you're capable of."
"Whatever the club needs."
He laughed—rough, genuine. "Careful answer. Smart." He clapped my shoulder. "Keep it up, prospect. You might actually make it."
---
[TM Parking Lot — April 29, 2008, 2:30 PM]
Tig became my personal torment.
"Prospect!" His voice echoed across the lot. "Need you to run to Stockton. Pick up my dry cleaning."
Stockton was ninety minutes each way.
"Yes sir."
"And when you get back, my bike needs washing. Then you're helping Bobby move furniture at the safe house. Then—" He paused, grinning. "Actually, I'll think of something else while you're gone."
"Understood."
I rode to Stockton. The dry cleaning was ready—two shirts, nothing special. I rode back. Washed his bike until it gleamed. Helped Bobby move furniture for three hours. Came back to find Tig had thought of several additional tasks.
By midnight, I could barely stand.
"Something wrong, prospect?" Tig leaned against the bar, watching me sway. "You look tired."
"I'm fine."
"Good. Because the bathroom needs attention."
I cleaned the bathroom. For the third time that day.
This wasn't random cruelty. It was a test. Tig was watching for cracks—for the moment I'd snap, push back, reveal the pride that would make me unsuitable for club life.
I gave him nothing.
When I finally stumbled home at 2 AM, my hands were raw, my back screaming, and my eyes burning from exhaustion.
This is the price. Pay it.
I fell asleep with my kutte still on.
---
[Charming Main Street — May 5, 2008, 1:15 PM]
The errand was simple: pick up supplies from the hardware store for a repair job at the clubhouse.
I was loading bags into the van when I saw her.
Sarah Cole walked across the street, heading for Main Street Coffee. Dark hair pulled back, scrubs visible under a light jacket. Off shift, probably, grabbing caffeine before heading home.
I should have kept loading. Should have finished the job and gotten back to TM.
Instead, I found myself crossing the street.
The coffee shop was small—maybe ten tables, exposed brick, the smell of fresh grounds hanging in the air. Sarah stood at the counter, ordering.
I walked up beside her.
"Medium black," I told the barista. Then, to Sarah: "My treat."
She turned. Her eyes dropped to my kutte, and something tightened in her expression.
"You actually joined."
"Prospecting."
"Same thing." She took her drink from the counter, stepped aside. "Different than the support shirt."
"Different level of commitment."
She studied me for a long moment. The same assessing look she'd given me in the ER, the night of the croweater's accident. Evaluating, calculating.
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why join? You're not some local kid who grew up dreaming about bikes. You're—" She stopped herself.
"I'm what?"
"Different." She shook her head. "Never mind. It's not my business."
"Ask anyway."
She met my eyes. "Are you a good person, Cole? Under all that leather and whatever the club represents—are you actually good?"
The question hit harder than she knew.
"I'm trying to be."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only honest one I've got."
She considered that. The coffee shop buzzed around us—other customers, the hiss of the espresso machine, music playing quietly in the background.
"The coffee invitation," she said finally. "From the ER. Is it still open?"
The shift was so sudden I almost missed it.
"Always."
She pulled out her phone, typed something. "Give me your number. I'll text you."
I gave her the number. She saved it without comment.
"I'm not saying yes to anything," she added. "Just coffee. One conversation. We'll see."
"That's all I'm asking."
She walked out without looking back.
I stood there, coffee cooling in my hand, feeling like something had shifted.
---
[SAMCRO Clubhouse — May 5, 2008, 4:17 AM]
Guard duty was the worst.
Not because it was dangerous—Charming was quiet this time of night. But because it was boring, and boredom plus exhaustion equaled sleep.
I caught myself drifting around four. My head nodded forward, eyes closing, body giving in to days of accumulated fatigue.
Wake up.
I jerked awake, heart pounding. Scanned the lot—empty. The clubhouse was silent. No one had seen.
But someone could have. A full patch member checking on the prospect, an enemy probing defenses, anything.
I splashed water on my face from the outdoor spigot, the cold shocking me alert.
Small failures end prospects. Stay awake.
I paced the perimeter until dawn. Every muscle screaming, every step an act of will.
When Half-Sack arrived to relieve me, I was still standing.
"You look like death, man."
"Feel like it too."
"Go home. Get some sleep."
I should have. Instead, I checked my phone.
Unknown number. Text message, received at 3:47 AM.
Friday, 2pm, Main Street Coffee. Don't be late.
Sarah's number. I saved it.
The exhaustion didn't disappear. But something else settled in beneath it.
Progress.
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