Chapter 15 : Wearing the Cut
[SAMCRO Clubhouse — April 18, 2008, 11:00 PM]
Bobby poured whiskey like water.
The clubhouse was alive—music loud, voices louder, the electric energy of men who'd done violence and survived. Chibs was recounting the raid to croweaters who hung on every word. Tig demonstrated his "controlled burn" technique with increasingly graphic hand gestures. Even Opie had emerged from his shell, nursing a beer at the bar, almost smiling.
I stood near the wall, drink in hand, processing.
First club action. Property destroyed, drugs seized, Nords humiliated. No casualties, no arrests.
The system had awarded experience, bumped my level. Another three points waiting to be distributed. But the real progress wasn't measured in numbers.
Clay raised a glass. The room quieted.
"Tonight, SAMCRO reminded Charming who runs this town. The Nords wanted to test us. They got their answer."
Cheers. Raised glasses. Brotherhood in its purest form.
Clay's gaze found me, then Half-Sack.
"And we had some new blood step up. Cole. Kip." He lifted his glass toward us. "To the prospects-to-be."
The room echoed the toast. Half-Sack beamed. I kept my expression controlled, but something warm spread through my chest.
Prospects-to-be. It's coming.
Jax appeared at my elbow. "You handled yourself tonight. Didn't freeze, didn't go cowboy. That's rarer than you'd think."
"Just followed orders."
"That's the job." He clinked his glass against mine. "Clay's impressed. Don't get used to it—he's harder to please from here on out."
"I'll manage."
"You better." He drifted away toward Opie.
I watched them talk—old friends, blood brothers. Jax's hand on Opie's shoulder, genuine concern in his eyes.
He doesn't know what's coming. None of them do.
The warmth in my chest curdled slightly.
---
[SAMCRO Chapel — April 25, 2008, 6:15 PM]
The summons came a week later.
I was cleaning the garage when Bobby appeared. "Chapel. Now."
The word carried weight. Chapel was sacred ground—the room where votes happened, where decisions were made, where the club's fate was determined.
I'd stood outside those doors a dozen times. Never inside.
Until now.
The room was smaller than I expected. Redwood table, oval, surrounded by leather chairs. The carved reaper dominated one wall—skull and scythe, eyes that seemed to follow you.
Every officer was present. Clay at the head. Jax to his right, Bobby to his left. Chibs, Tig, Piney, Opie. Even Happy Lowman, the Tacoma killer who'd been visiting for the Nord action.
They watched me walk in. Eight pairs of eyes, measuring, judging.
"Close the door."
I closed it.
Clay gestured at the empty space before the table. I stood there, hands at my sides.
"You've been with us two months," Clay said. "In that time, you've proven useful. Handled Nords, ran errands, stepped up when we needed bodies." He paused. "You've shown loyalty."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." He stood, walked around the table until he was facing me directly. "Prospecting isn't a reward. It's a test. One year minimum, usually longer. You'll do every shit job we give you. You'll take every insult. You'll bleed for us, and you won't get a vote until we say so."
"I understand."
"Do you?" His eyes bored into mine. "This isn't a game, Cole. This life has consequences. Men die wearing these cuts. Men go to prison. Men lose everything—wives, children, freedom. If you're not willing to give all that up, walk out now."
I held his gaze.
"I'm not walking."
Something shifted in Clay's expression. Not approval exactly—more like acknowledgment.
He reached behind him. Brought out a leather kutte.
No patches except one: PROSPECT, stitched across the bottom rocker.
"Then welcome to SAMCRO." He held it out. "Don't make us regret it."
I took the kutte. The leather was worn, soft. Someone had worn this before me—someone who'd either patched in or washed out.
I shrugged it on.
It weighed almost nothing. It weighed everything.
[RANK ACHIEVED: PROSPECT] [+150 XP | +100 REPUTATION]
"Now." Clay returned to his seat. "Chibs has something for you."
Chibs stood, tossed me a set of keys. "The van needs cleaning. Inside and out. Should've been done after the raid, but someone forgot." He grinned. "Welcome to prospect life, brother."
"Bathroom's filthy," Tig added. "Spotless by morning."
"The beer cooler needs restocking," Bobby said.
"And someone left cigarette butts all over the lot," Piney growled. "That would be me. Clean them up."
The orders piled on. I took them all without complaint.
Half-Sack caught my eye from the corner. He was grinning—no longer the lowest man on the totem pole.
"Meeting adjourned," Clay said. "Get to work, prospect."
I got to work.
---
[SAMCRO Clubhouse Bathroom — 1:45 AM]
The toilet bowl had seen better decades.
I scrubbed until my arms ached and the porcelain approached something resembling white. The floor took three passes with the mop. The mirror required industrial-strength cleaner and twenty minutes of elbow grease.
Prospect work. The grunt labor nobody else wanted to do.
I'd known this was coming. The outline had warned me. But knowing and experiencing were different things.
This is the test. Not the violence, not the loyalty—the humility. Can you take orders without ego? Can you serve without resentment?
I could.
The bathroom was nearly done when I caught my reflection in the mirror.
PROSPECT across my back. The leather dark against my shoulders. Cole Ashford's face, but something different in the eyes.
Three months from arrival to this. Faster than most. Maybe too fast—I'd need to be careful, not let ambition make me careless.
But you're inside now. Inside the family. Inside the room where decisions are made.
I allowed myself one moment of satisfaction. One breath of acknowledgment.
Then I picked up the mop and finished the job.
---
[TM Parking Lot — 2:30 AM]
The clubhouse was quiet when I emerged.
Most of the members had gone home or passed out in the dorm rooms. A few bikes remained in the lot—overnight stays, too drunk to ride.
I breathed in the cool night air. My knees ached from kneeling on tile. My hands were raw from bleach.
This is what you wanted. The price of admission.
Footsteps behind me.
Piney Winston stood in the clubhouse doorway, whiskey glass in hand. The old man—founder, cancer survivor, keeper of secrets—watched me with rheumy eyes.
"Long night."
"Yes sir."
He snorted. "'Sir.' Nobody calls me sir, prospect. Piney'll do."
"Piney."
He took a sip of his whiskey, still watching. "You're different from most of the kids who come through here. Most of them want glory. Want to be Jax, or Clay, or whoever they saw in some movie. You don't want that."
"What do I want?"
"That's the question." He limped forward, old injury making him favor his left leg. "I've been watching you. The way you watch everyone else. You're calculating something. Playing a long game."
My stomach tightened. Piney was smarter than he let on.
"Just trying to fit in."
"Bullshit." He stopped three feet away. "But I've seen a lot of bullshit in my time, and yours doesn't smell like trouble. Not yet." He raised his glass slightly. "Welcome to the family, prospect. Try not to get anyone killed."
He walked back inside.
I stood alone in the parking lot, kutte on my back, processing the warning I'd just received.
He knows something's off. Doesn't know what. Doesn't know enough to act.
But he's watching.
They're all watching.
I walked home in the dark, leather creaking with every step. The stars were bright above Charming, indifferent to the games being played below.
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