Amy. My daughter. The spitting image of her mother. The anger inside so intense when I’d recovered from the coma, I’d thought only of myself and refused to see her. And even later, when I’d returned to the club, I wouldn’t give her the time of day, trying to pretend she wasn’t there. My rage at my loss flaring so brightly, I was in part protecting her from being caught up in the flames. How could I comfort my daughter when I could see no way forward for myself? It wasn’t fair to the kid now she was already settled with the prez and his old lady. It was better for her to forget both her parents.
The hand on my shoulder reappears to give me a shake. Christ. I haven’t been fair to the child who’s lost her mom. She should have been able to rely on her dad. Placing my hand on the empty space on my cut, I tap it to show that now I understand. When I get back to Tucson, presuming I’m allowed back in the club, I’ll be the best father any kid could ever know. Fuck knows how I’ll do it, but I’ll do what I can to be both mom and dad for her.
She’ll probably have grown out of her clothes. But Drum will probably have that covered, he won’t let her go short of anything. Best get what’s at the house boxed up and given away. What about all Crystal’s shit? She’ll never need anything again. Maybe that’s something Marc can do while she’s there. Then I can end the rental and move on.
Move on? I almost stagger as I realise at last I’m coming to accept Crystal’s not waiting for me at home.
Almost without knowing how, my phone reappears in my hand. With shaking fingers, I call up a number I haven’t used for nearly five months, unable to predict what reception I’ll get.
It rings, and rings again, and then, “Yeah.”
“It’s Heart.”
“I can fuckin’ see that, Brother. Says it on the display. You don’t think I’d check who was calling?”
He's his usual abrupt self, but I feel a wave of relief. “Thought you might have deleted my number.”
The voice growls. “Almost five months with no fuckin’ word? Thought about it, Brother. Thought about it. What can I do for you?”
I swallow a couple of times, then ask, “Amy. How is she, Drummer?”
“Missing her dad,” he replies without missing a beat.
Shit. Way to make me feel better.
But he hasn’t finished. “She’s doing great.” He pauses. “Kid’s done nothing wrong. Sam made sure she had presents from Santa, and one from you. You ought to know you bought her a bike. Little one is tearing around the compound on it getting under everyone’s feet. Still got training wheels on, but they’ll come off soon enough. She was oohin’ and ahhin’ over the babies earlier. Getting like a damn nursery here now.”
Fuck! I’d forgotten to ask. “Sophie and Sam?”
“Sophie had a girl, Wraith’s face went fuckin’ white. First words out of his mouth were that she’s never dating.” He barks a laugh. “But Sam’s given me a bouncing baby boy. Already got a mouth on him, that’s for sure.”
The thought of the new lives there on the compound shows me life still goes on. Thinking it’s a polite question, I ask, “What are their names?”
“Wraith’s girl is Olivia, but we’re already calling her Ollie, just as it gets a rise out of Sophie. And my boy’s Elijah. Eli.”
“Congratulations, Prez. That’s a good, strong name.”
“That it is. Now, any reason you’re calling apart to check up, belatedly, on your girl?”
I take a breath. “I’ve been in a bad place, Drummer. But I’m getting there. Just want to confirm I can come back to Tucson in a month’s time.”
“You pulled yourself together? We’ll all be glad to see you home.”
It’s more than I deserve, and more than I dared hope for. I breathe out a heartfelt thank you, and after a couple of pleasantries, sending Amy my love and the conscious omission not to say anything about my conversations with Marc—that shit’s best done in person—I end the call.
Did you hear that, Crystal? They bought the little tyke a bike.
A smile comes to my face. I can’t wait to see her pedalling around.
A week later and I’m riding into Los Angeles after a brief stop at Santa Barbara, not certain I’m going to be able to complete quite everything on Crystal’s bucket list. It will be best to come back and bring Amy to Disneyland rather than going by myself. I’m not sure what they’d think of a lone biker meeting up with Mickey Mouse. But I do Universal Studios and the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
I take a ride out to Venice Beach and sit on my bike people watching for a while. Fuck, Crystal would have loved all this! Then I start to ride back to the motel on the outskirts of the city, already making plans to go to San Diego the next day.
I’m looking forward to seeing Dart, who’s now the VP of the San Diego Satan’s Devils—he’s done well for himself. It will be good to catch up and see how he’s getting on, though first I’ll need to make him and Alex, his old lady, a grovelling apology. Last time I saw them both I didn’t show myself in a good light. They got the worst of the dark side of my soul. I’ll need to first rescue my friendship with my brother, but he’ll cut me some slack. We go back a ways, to the long days we prospected together. Out of everyone in the club, he was the closest to me, more like an actual blood brother.
Deep in my heart, I know he’ll forgive me. I grin, though knowing him, he might make me work for it.
My turn’s coming up. I ease back on the throttle and flick on the indicator noticing in my rear view there are bikes zooming up fast and overtaking me in the outside lane, getting in front of me and taking the same turn off. There are bikes behind too, doing the same thing. I get a tingling sensation at the back of my neck. Now I’m surrounded and boxed in, and can do nothing but slow and pull up at their signal.
Their cuts show they’re the Los Angeles chapter of the Demon Sons MC. I’ve never heard of them.
Slightly concerned at the way they’ve stopped me, I take a deep breath. Without any info on their background or reputation, I’ve fuck all idea what they want. But balancing that out, I know we’ve never crossed them either, and the dom club in LA is definitely another chapter of the Wretched Soulz. I should still be covered by the promise of protection they gave me. I calm my breathing and decide to be friendly. Take it easy. I slide out my smokes and light one up, drawing smoke into my lungs, partly to show I’m not worried but relaxed.
The man who was the lead rider dismounts, a couple of others with him. He walks up close and stares me in the face. As I return his gaze impassively, I note the flash on his cut denotes he’s the VP, and the one underneath that says he’s named Painter. I take another draw on my cigarette.
He looks at my bike, at my cut with the Ronin patch, and then at the sweatshirt I’m wearing. Lifting his chin toward his brothers, he turns back to me.
“Bit out of your territory.” He points to the sweatshirt I’m wearing. It’s a cool day in LA, so I’d put it on to keep me warm. Did they spot our discreet SDMC logo from a distance? Whatever, I’ve done nothing to upset them.
“No disrespect, man. I’m not flying any colours.”
“Well, whether you meant it and whether we take it are two different things. I suggest you come with us back to our club and explain yourself to our prez. It’s up to him how he’ll want to play this. You’re a member of a rival MC travelling through our town.”
It’s puzzling how they’ve jumped to that conclusion so quickly. My brow creases in confusion, but I can’t deny or pretend I’m nothing but a weekend warrior. As far as I know, the Satan’s Devils and Demon Sons have never crossed paths. I’m sure I can explain things, apologise for any imagined infraction, and then be off on my way. It’s not as though I’m planning on sticking around, and the fact I’m not wearing any patches shows I’m not here on official business and won’t be stepping on their toes.
I shrug. “Sure, lead the way.” Once I’m at my destination, I’ll tell their prez to check with the dom.
I’m escorted the rest of the jo
urney, no chance to escape even if I was so inclined. My only concern is if I have to partake of their hospitality, I might not make it back in time to do the two-hour journey to San Diego tonight. I haven’t told Dart that I’m coming. I wanted it to be a, hopefully, pleasant surprise. I’m eager to see him, have built our reunion up in my mind. I’m not thrilled at a possible delay.
We ride up to their clubhouse, an old factory building of some sort in a deserted industrial area, and wait for a prospect to roll the gate open and let us inside. I back into a space at the end of the row of Harleys, noticing the asphalt is old and pitted, its surface breaking away and turning into grit. Not the best place to park bikes. Carefully I put down the stand and make sure of my footing before I throw my leg over the seat and get off.
“Cut.” Painter’s in front of me now, holding out his hand.
“Nope.” I shake my head. My cut might be bare of its patches, but it’s not leaving my back.
He sneers. “We can get it if Prez wants it.”
I feel a momentary doubt. They could. They could easily overpower me. I begin to get a bad feeling about this. Carefully I take my keys out of the ignition, palm them, then slide them into the pocket of my jeans.
“This way, then.” He waves at me to proceed him. Behind me I can hear the gates sliding shut with a loud ominous clang.
Now that seed of doubt becomes to grow. What exactly am I walking into here? And more to the point, how am I going to get out?
The inside of the clubhouse is dark and dreary, a bar along one side, mismatched tables and chairs sprawling over the rest of the area. It looks like something hastily thrown together. I cast a glance at the other members milling around.
Now I’m only just the wrong side of thirty, but few of the men here look even close to my age. They’re not kids, but none wear the worn look of seasoned bikers. Even tattoos seem sparse, and I swear one doesn’t look old enough to shave.
“Prez!” Painter yells, taking hold of my arm. “Prez!” The second time he’s louder, almost shattering my eardrum.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m here. Whatcha want, Paint?” A man wearing the president patch saunters across.
“Brought you a fuckin’ present. A living, breathing Tucson Devil.” He spins me around, roughly pulls up my sweatshirt and t-shirt, exposing the tattoo on my back. He’d moved fast, before I had a clue what he was doing. Just as quickly, I pull it down, but the damage has obviously been done.
The prez’s eyes grow wide as he stares at me, and proving he’s no stranger to multi-tasking, rubs at his balls at the same time. I read the name on his cut under the president tag and something pricks at the back of my mind. Scratch. Now why does that name ring a bell?
I wait for him to speak first. The expression on his face isn’t welcoming, and I’m fast thinking how I’m supposed to play this when suddenly he smirks.
“A Devil to play with. Can this day get any fuckin’ better?”
Oh fuck. Maybe I won’t be getting out of here so quickly after all. Or in one piece.
Chapter Ten
Marc…
I have no problems getting the key from the agents, but I think I’m in the wrong place as I ride up on my bike. I pause in the road and check the address. Yes, I’m here alright, but the clean and tidy suburban dwelling was not what I expected as home to a biker. It’s a decent-sized single-storey adobe house, the front yard and exterior kept well maintained. I expected to find a neglected building, shrubs out of control having not been tended over the winter. If this is really Heart’s house, the only answer is that someone from the club must have been looking after it for him. In his state of mind, making arrangements to keep his property tidy would have been the last thing on his mind. He’d already warned me I’d be walking into a mess.
I hadn’t objected. After all he was doing for me, getting his house cleaned and his wife’s stuff boxed up was the least I could do.
I ride up the short driveway and park my bike. There’s a garage to the side, but I don’t have the key for that. I do, however, have one for the front door. Still doubting this is going to be my residence until I get an alternative arranged, I ring the doorbell just in case someone is inside. When no one answers, I try the key in the lock. It turns, and I push the door open. A loud beep sounds.
Oh shit, there’s an alarm. Quickly I look around to locate it and find a piece of paper with a code written on it as well as my name. I’m expected. I quickly key in the number combination and the system goes back to sleep. Also printed on the paper are instructions and a description of the security system, explaining the front and back doors and all the windows are fitted with alarms. Beside the note sits a remote for the garage. Heart told me this place was secure.
My heart, which had sped up as I dealt with the security, starts to slow down, and it’s only now I take stock of my surroundings. I’ve entered into a comfortable living room where I see two big couches, one facing a massive television on the wall. The floor’s polished wood with a couple of rugs, one in front of what looks like a working fireplace, and there are comfortable cushions scattered around. The strong odour of polish assails my nostrils.
It’s been cleaned. Despite Heart cautioning me, it looks like all the work’s already been done.
Continuing to examine what will be my residence for a while, I spy an empty toy box off to one side, reminding me that this was a child’s home too. Quickly, I pull my eyes away from that evidence and cross the room, entering a kitchen fully equipped and with modern appliances. It smells fresh and clean, and my horrific imaginings that there’d be over eight months’ worth of food rotting in the fridge start to dissipate. But just to make sure, I open the door and find no rotting items, but a fresh bottle of milk and some basic commodities, and a whole shelf taken up with beer.
A smile comes to my face. Heart’s brothers must have arranged to have it prepared for me. Now far more optimistic and eager, I check out the rest of the house. The first door I open is to a den. It’s got a second television and is decorated with motorcycle paraphernalia. On one of the walls is a framed picture of Heart when he was in the Marines. He’s kneeling, grinning, at the front of the photo, his comrades around him. I stare at it for a moment. I’d almost forgotten what he looked like. Obviously his hair’s grown out from the crew cut he’d worn at that time, but his eyes are sparkling, his full mouth curved up. I’d hardly have recognised him as the same man I’d only seen in a hospital bed.
Another photo is of him, Crystal, and Amy, and my heart breaks for the motherless child and the woman who’s gone. I put out my hand and steady myself on the sofa. They looked so happy, so good together, and so much in love. It reminds me I’m in another woman’s home. She might be gone, but I mentally make a promise to take good care of it, just as if she was going to come home.
A short walk down a hall and I come to the bedrooms. The first door I open has to belong to a child. There’s pink everywhere, and a toy castle, and the bed cover is that of a Disney princess—Ariel I believe—but I could be wrong, not being up on such things.
The room opposite is the master, a large airy room which seems too feminine for a biker, and dominated by a huge bed. Off to the side can be seen an en suite. I close the door quickly, feeling like an intruder.
Going to the last room, I find the guestroom. There are crisp clean sheets on the bed, and a plain grey comforter. This room’s more masculine and will suit me fine. I sit on the mattress, quickly assessing it’s going to be comfortable. The closet is open, showing it’s empty of clothes and has plenty of room for the few new things I’ve been able to purchase when I stopped off at Target on my way here—basic underwear, a few t-shirts, and a couple of pairs of cheap jeans. After the fire, I need to replace everything, a mammoth task as I think of all I’ve lost. I slip off my jacket and lie back on the bed, cataloguing, not for the first time, my burned possessions.
Every fucking thing. Oh, except that the neighbour who pulled me out had helpfully grabbed things nearest
to the front door which was luckily my Kawasaki helmet and jacket that matches my bike. At least I had my bikes as modes of transportation, the quick response of the fire service had prevented the flames spreading to the garage. While I’ve got my main ride here, soon I’ll have to get a taxi and go pick up my Suzuki.
When I’d considered the fire when I’d been in the hospital, it was almost as if it had happened to somebody else. Now I’ve got to cope with the practicalities. I’m overwhelmed that everything I owned is gone. I’ve got no hairdryer, straighteners, just a hairbrush a helpful nurse had brought in for me. Basic toiletries that had come from the hospital shop. I’ve lost my laptop—although it was a work one—but my own tablet and kindle went up in flames.
I can see a lot of online shopping at Amazon is in my future and hope that one of the televisions is smart.
Tears roll from my eyes, though I’m not normally so emotional. I feel lost and alone, cast adrift, almost like the time I had to recover from losing my family.
I sit up sharply, making my head protest. I’ve lost possessions, nothing like people. I’ve got to pull myself together and move on.
My bladder is signalling me I have to find the bathroom, so after my silent admonishment I get up and once again go to the hall. There it is, next door to my bedroom. Stepping inside, I do the necessary, and then look around. Suddenly overcome with amusement, chuckling, then bending over with laughter.
I should have suspected when I found all the beer, it just hadn’t occurred to me at the time. But the range of men’s toiletries which had been supplied, razor and shaving cream, as well as the black and grey towels, shows me I’m not who was expected.
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