Scarred Asphalt

by Blue Remy

  They followed the sounds of voices in the back, toward the den where everyone was waiting for the two to arrive. The den was decked out in all wood. Wooden floors, wooden bar, wooden stools, dark cherry wood entertainment center that held a sixty inch flat screen and a Yamaha stereo system. The couches were dark-brown leather to match the décor, and comfortable to boot.

  The guys all had beers in their hands, Saber already up and grabbing one for Romeo and Wolf, knowing they needed it just as bad as they did.

  Thanking Saber for the hand-off, Romeo flopped down on a stool at the bar kitty-corner to the couches, giving pause to look over everyone as they argued about what ought to be done.

  “I say we go over to their fucking ghetto ass chicken pen and show them who fucking rules the roost in this town,” Talon growled out as he took a long drag off of the bottle.

  “Fuck that. We need to just declare war and get the shit over and done with,” Hawkeye piped up, usually the quiet one of the group.

  Saber shook his head, dropped his emptied bottle into the trash, and cracked open another. “Hell nah. I say we put out an SOS on those fucking cocksuckers and show them who the bitches are in this relationship.”

  An SOS was a bit more than Romeo was expecting to come out of Saber, but considering what had happened to Maggie and Thorne at the TG’s hands, he understood the desire for a shoot on sight order.

  Axe scratched at his faux-hawk then his goatee, thinking out loud. “I think it’s too soon for an SOS, but I do agree on war. Those damn Spic’s sent a message that we’re the bitches, a bunch of fucking pussies. If we don’t retaliate, they just owned our asses.”

  “Heard.” Mace nodded and cleared his throat. “Shit just got fucking real. They broke a treaty. Granted, Demon broke it when he defected and attacked Maggie and Thorne. But this?” Mace shook his head. “This was beyond uncalled for. They’re stepping off in it and just don’t realize it.”

  Romeo listened to each idea with an open mind, each one fueling his anger more as pictures of the chapel room flashed away like a slide show in his head. He took a swig of the beer, winced, and set it aside. It tasted flat and like…well…piss. He knew his stomach, already in complete turmoil, would heave if he tried anything else.

  He wanted to march his ass up into TG territory, hold a gun to Muerte’s head, and pull the fucking trigger. It was pure instinct to do so, but it would also be a dumb move and he probably wouldn’t make it out alive. Not that he cared at the moment. All he wanted was revenge and the devil sitting on his shoulder was being a dick, urging him to take matters and handle it.

  It felt like there was a huge weight on his shoulders, and he did not want to lead the club down the wrong road. Romeo pushed his stool out and laid his head on his arms, letting his eyes fall closed. Why did Stone have to be in WitSec? Why did he put his life on the line to save his family? Stone would know what to do, and yet here he was with his tail dangling between his legs, unsure of where to lead the club and his brothers.

  A loud jangle on the bar top rang in his ears, forcing him to lift his head and see what the culprit was.

  “Really?” Romeo glanced to the coin that lay before him, then looked up to Wolf, single brow quirked.

  “Did I fucking stutter?”

  “You didn’t say jack shit.”

  Wolf had just challenged Romeo with a SixGun challenge coin. Wolf held a National Club coin, along with Romeo, who reached into his jeans pocket and brought his out, tossing it to the table. Each brother got up and pulled their own out, laying them on the bar top with the others, though the rest had chapter coins.

  The challenge coin was an old military tradition that Stone and Road-Dawg passed onto the SixGuns. During World War I, American volunteers from all parts of the country filled the newly formed flying squadrons in Europe. Some were wealthy scions attending colleges such as Yale and Harvard who quit mid-term to join the war. In one squadron, a wealthy lieutenant ordered medallions struck in solid bronze and presented them to his unit. One young pilot placed the medallion in a small leather pouch that he wore about his neck. Right after he got his coin, the pilot was shot down behind enemy lines and captured by the Germans. They took everything but his leather pouch. He was able to escape one night during a raid, but had no personal identification.

  He stole civilian clothing to maneuver through the area, finally making it to a French station that had been taken over by the enemy. The French found him, thought he was one of the Germans, and demanded that he be executed. The American pilot had no way to prove his allegiance, other than the coin in his pouch. He showed them the medallion, on which the French immediately recognized the insignia.

  Back at his squadron, it became tradition to ensure that all members carried their medallion or coin at all times. This was accomplished through challenge in the following manner: a challenger would ask to see the medallion. If the challenged could not produce a medallion, they were required to buy a drink of choice for the member who challenged them. If the challenged member produced a medallion, then the challenging member was required to pay for the drink. This tradition continued on throughout the war and for many years after the war while surviving members of the squadron were still alive.

  “Have you all forgotten what these coins mean?” Wolf glanced to each of them. “Unity. Brotherhood. Loyalty. The promise to stand by one another no fucking matter the cost. These fucking pussies?” Wolf hiked his thumb over his shoulder, his eyes growing hard, the lids narrowed with malice. “They are just fucking speed-bumps in the life of the SixGun Outlaws. They’re worse than the dumbass MC reality TV shows. What we need is to show a united front. To be the club that Stone and Road-Dawg wanted it to be. What we saw back there was a bunch of teenage boys trying to steal our mascot. Nothing more. We rebuild and we move the fuck on and have our party like we’ve planned. Fuck them and the tricycles they rode in on.”

  “Wolf is right,” Romeo nodded as he picked up his founder coin and rolled it between his fingers as he stared at it in thought. “Dad would have ignored their asses, the first time. Maybe not the second. He would have sent a message then. We’re all angry, we’re hurt, and we all feel as if Lorena Bobbit just had her fun with us, but we can’t show them they hurt us.”

  Romeo stood up, tossed his coin in the air, caught it, then slid it back into his pocket. “Talon, call Red, Sin, Bishop, and Injun. Then call Gambit. I want them here by Wednesday to help get the clubhouse cleaned up before Saturday for the block party.”

  “On it.” Talon nodded as he got up off the couch, burner already in hand to start calling the officers of the other chapters. Red and Sinjin, otherwise known as Sin, ran the Reno chapter, Bishop ran New Orleans, Injun ran Mississippi, and Gambit ran the Nomads.

  “And someone find out where the fuck Jan is.”

  Chapter Eleven

  His leg was itching.

  The plastic band of the ankle bracelet was eating away at his skin to the point that he had all but scratched a hole in his damn leg. The only relief he got was when he wore his boot socks under the ball and chain, but when he wore his boots, the plastic box pressed harshly into his skin and rubbed against the bone. It was almost excruciating. Apollo couldn’t win for losing.

  He couldn’t wear his cut because of the conditions of his arrest. Can’t ride my bike without my cut. It was a vicious circle that he wished he could get out of. That wasn’t going to happen for a while.

  So, the truck it was. He loved the beach almost as much as he loved his bike, so he drove a 1972 Chevy Blazer that was lifted and ready for the sand drags and dune hopping. It was a gas guzzler at eleven miles per gallon on a good day, but he had no choice about what he could drive at the moment. Sure, Romeo might waive the cut ordeal, but knowing his ass, Murphy’s Law would bite him in the butt and he’d get arrested anyway on the bike since it seemed like coppers had it out for him right now.

  Once at the strip-club-slash-bar that the SixGuns owned, aptly named Throttle Boss, Apollo
threw himself into the job. He was currently the manager of the bar when he was not shooting photos of one thing or another. All of the girls liked to flirt with Apollo, but they all knew that he was off limits. He didn’t shit where he ate. Plus, strippers weren’t his cup of tea. Yes, he hired the crème de la crème, but there was something about a stripper that made him look the other way.

  “Wooooo, look at the stud tonight, Cinnamon.” One of the girls, Star, cat-called out to Apollo as he came out of the stock room carrying a case of beer.

  Apollo rolled his eyes, but blew a kiss to the twins all the same. “No stud here, Star. Thinkin’ you need your eyes checked darlin’.”

  “Those jeans get any tighter, stud-muffin, and we’ll be able to tell if that is a sock you stuffed your pants with or the real thing.” Cinnamon bounced her brows as she leaned on the bar to catch a better look.

  Apollo laughed, shaking his rump to the girls. “You two need to get laid.”

  “Yeah, but your dance card is always full.” Star chimed in while sticking out her bottom lip in a fake pout.

  “And you two can’t afford me.” Apollo bounced his brows at the two as he ripped open the box to place the bottles of beer in the cooler.

  “But I can.”

  Apollo froze mid-movement at the familiar voice, then continued to put the beer away. He avoided looking up at his ex-girlfriend lest she get the wrong idea.

  “Oh, new girl’s got spunk.”

  That got his attention.

  His head jerked up, the cobalt’s narrowed at Gabby before they flicked over to the twins. “New girl?”

  Apollo hadn’t hired Gabby, so who the fuck did?

  “Yes, new girl.” Gabby sashayed closer to the bar, pushing down on the top to place her barely clad ass on the edge of a stool. She leaned precariously forward, her biceps pushing her tits together as she gazed longingly at Apollo. “Max hired me.”

  Max, also known as Styx, was the assistant manager, and obviously hired Gabby when Apollo was MIA in jail and his court dates.

  He made a mental note to nut check Styx later.

  “Consider yourself unhired.”

  “Tsk tsk, Dalton. You know you want me here. I can bring in a crowd better than these bitches.”

  “Excuse me?” Star pushed away from the bar, fury written all over her face when she turned to face Gabby.

  “I didn’t stutter.” Gabby stepped off of the stool to face off with the twins, since Cinnamon backed her sister up and was standing right behind her.

  And this was also why he left Gabrielle. Her shit never stank. She was always better than everyone else, and stuck her nose up in the air at others. Plus, having a bitch from the TG working in a SixGun business? Yeah, so not a good idea. Especially after the events of the other night.

  “You better get your bitch in check, Apollo, before we do.” Star looked at Apollo then slowly turned her attention back to Gabby.

  “My bitch? What the fuck?” Apollo stood straighter, knowing he looked as confused as all get out.

  “That’s why Max hired her, because she’s gone around telling people she belongs to you.” Cinnamon piped in, tossing her chestnut locks tossed over her bare shoulder in agitation.

  Gabby smirked, her chocolate eyes lit with silent laughter. “Someone sounds jealous.” She stepped forward and leaned toward the girls, taunting them as she spoke. “Everyone wants a piece of his dick, ladies. No shame in it.”

  Star had lifted her hand to bitch slap Gabby, but Apollo caught her wrist just in time. “Go the fuck home, Gabby, and don’t come back.”

  A throat cleared behind him, masculine and full of bass. “I don’t think so, Apollo. She stays. Your set, Gabrielle, get on stage.”

  Apollo released his hold on Star before he slowly turned to glare at the large male behind him. Styx was massive. Just as big as Saber on many levels. Jet black hair that hung loosely around his head, the soft waves, almost curly hair, reached just below his shoulders, eyes so dark brown they were almost black framed by thick lashes. High cheekbones showed his Chumash heritage as did the naturally tanned and hairless body.

  “What the fuck, bro?” Apollo threw his hand out, motioning to the hip swinging Gabby as she made her way to the stage. “I’m the manager here. I say she goes.”

  “Since your little excursion with the law, bruh, that little lady has about doubled out intake. She packs out the house every fucking weekend. So, no. She stays.”

  “Go make rounds, Star, Cinnamon.” Once the girls walked off, Apollo faced Styx once more. “She’s part of the TG, man. If they fucking catch wind that Muerte’s daughter is working here, let alone stripping, shit is gonna get bad. I don’t want that on my head.”

  “I doubt it will cause problems. You’re just worried that daddy will find out you’re fucking his daughter again.”

  “I’m not—” Apollo stopped and shook his head, turning away from Styx to finish stocking the bar. He knew Gabby, and knew that she would start fights over him. He wasn’t sure why she was so interested in him again when she wouldn’t give him the time of day at one point, too busy fucking other TG members.

  He also knew that if the TG found out she was there, they would retaliate in a way worse than what he heard just happened to the clubhouse.

  Apollo scratched at his scruff and glanced toward the stage, a bit surprised at the number of men that flocked the stage where Gabby was dancing and working the pole like a hooker on Fifth Street. He crossed his arms over his chest with an over-exaggerated eye roll and leaned his hip against the counter top.

  Apollo was seething and he knew it was written all over his face. He reached for his back pocket, pulled out the burner, and dialed Romeo’s number.

  “Speak.”

  Got to love the way he answers the phone. He knew Romeo hated the things, but it’s not like he could hop on his bike and go see him face to face. “Have you heard about the newest addition to Throttle?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “My ex.” Apollo wasn’t going to give too much info over the phone, not knowing who could be listening in.

  “You’re the dumbass who hired her, why are you calling me?”

  “Styx hired her. Not me.”

  “Okay? And?”

  Apollo sighed as he raised his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed in frustration. “Styx says she brings in bank, but if her family finds out she works here?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. I’ve told everyone to chill and sit tight. No need to get balls deep right now.”

  Are you fucking kidding me? Apollo laughed to cover his annoyance at Romeo’s aloofness at the situation at hand. “Alright. You’re the boss.”

  He glanced back to Gabby and the stage, meeting her gaze when he hung up the phone. There was no denying the lust that reflected in the pale brown hues, but he did not reciprocate it, even with the suggestive dancing she was doing. The bitch could ride a pole like a Nun saying prayers in church, but he was thoroughly disgusted with her antics.

  Through most of the night, she kept trying to catch his eye, making sure that she had men fawning over her, trying to make Apollo jealous.

  Didn’t work.

  The girls on the other hand? They were getting angrier by the song. It was apparent that he wouldn’t have to fire Gabby; the girls would make her life a living hell instead. He could live with that. Piss off a stripper by taking her johns and money? Yeah, that was a cat fight waiting to happen.

  It didn’t matter though. She was still working her way under his skin, pissing him off every minute she wasn’t dancing. The girls cocktailed when not dancing, though a special few bartended if his two girls, Raine and Sunshine, were off. When it was Gabby’s turn to cocktail, she made sure she irritated the two girls by making googley eyes at Apollo, which angered the girls even more. One thing he could say, the girls may flirt and tease him, but they were protective over him and they weren’t having it.

  He trie
d to talk the girls down, but what was that saying? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned? Times that by twenty and you had the women of Throttle Boss.

  By the end of Apollo’s shift, around nine, he was mentally and physically exhausted. All he wanted to do was go home, take a hot shower, and climb into his bed.

  Chapter Twelve

  Thorne had a rough day at work and was finding solace in a cerveza while she kicked back in her recliner. She was still wearing her blue jumpsuit and medic badge, but didn’t care. She had lost two vics and was getting ready to suspend one of her medics.

  She had been made an FTO, Field Training Officer, right before the wreck, and these past months, she had been working with an FNG with Saber. They had a woman who called 911 at least once a month, a cutter who they sent repeatedly to the psyche ward for a seventy-two hour observation. Thorne and Saber talked to her, always telling her to stay on her meds, that just because she felt better didn’t mean she was better. It was the same song and dance every call.

  Today, Saber was working with a new girl, so Thorne got stuck with the rookie and got the frequent flyer call. The guy had been on three of the previous calls, and today he had had enough. He actually told her vic how to slit her wrists: Up the road, not across the street in a warm tub.

  Thorne had almost knocked the fucker out. Thorne never screamed, but she screamed today. Then she went to the captain and complained to him about it, but all he did was write up the little prick. That wasn’t good enough. She would go higher tomorrow, over her captain’s head. Hell, even Saber was pissed at the rookie. They cared about their patients and when someone infringed on that by telling a schizophrenic how to kill herself properly, well, they got pissed and wanted to stomp a mud hole in that ass.

  When Thorne emptied her bottle, she rose from the chair and headed for the kitchen to grab another. With a groan, she tossed the bottle into the trash and opened the fridge. She bent over to reach in for another bottle when she heard Dalton’s truck door slam, quickly followed by the front door.