by Hazel Parker
Damn shame she’s right.
“Paul was using club funds to pay for her education; I don’t think that’s a secret to anyone.”
No one said a word. I looked at Sword, who nodded that I was right, and I went on.
“We need to continue to do so,” I said, feeling like I was tasting venom as I spoke my next words. “Get a club critic out of town, make her Pops happy, and ensure that a girl who can actually do something worth a shit can continue to do so. Anyone in dissent?”
I knew more than one person was thinking about arguing against it, but anyone who did had the same thoughts as I did—to argue otherwise felt like a slap in the face of her father’s wishes. There was going to be no chance.
“Good, it remains as is,” I sighed. “I don’t have anything else.”
I looked around the room, giving anyone who needed the chance to wail, speak, or bitch the opportunity to do so. It was Paul’s way of allowing everyone to feel ownership—at least, in non-emergency situations—and I hoped to continue it, even if it felt a little bit like letting the inmates run the asylum.
For at least one meeting, I could pretend to just be a fill-in, not the real thing.
“We gonna let her speak at the funeral?”
All eyes shifted to Splitter in surprise.
“She’s not gonna give us kind words. Can’t let her destroy the club’s image like that.”
I bit my lip. I knew how many people would come to that funeral—the mayor, Sheriff Wiggins, the entire police force, some of the biggest names in town. Hearing the daughter of the former MC president rip the club to shreds would be something of a bad PR move.
I had my feelings. But I had to put it to a vote.
“Six of us here, we need a majority to gag her,” I said, feeling sick even as I said the words. “BK?”
I nervously waited for BK’s word. Since he was the only one there the previous night, I felt whatever he said would set the tone for the rest of the vote.
“Nay.”
Thank God, though I tried not to show my relief.
“Yea,” Sensei said, drawing a surprised look from me.
But the vote proceeded on.
“Yea,” Splitter said to no one’s surprise.
“Nay,” Sword said.
“Yea,” Mafia said.
It was left to me. All eyes fell upon me. How appropriate, I thought, that on my first day as president, I’d already get tasked with a controversial measure that half the group would judge me for and half would love me for. And that didn’t even include all the members of the club just outside the hall, waiting to hear word on what was said. In theory, everything in these walls was sacred and silent.
In practice, only the walls of the clubhouse remained sealed with the secrets and words of what was said. The hall’s walls were a bit more permeable.
“Nothing is going to be a great look for us,” I said. “The only way we’re going to get her to be quiet is by threatening her, and there is no way that is ever going to be anything but a shit look for us if it comes back around. And, frankly, as her friend, I find the very idea of doing such a thing repulsive and disgusting. But if we let her speak, we will have our sins broadcast for the entire town to hear. Green Hills will start to turn on the Savage Saints.”
I let out a long sigh, wanting to scream obscenities to the sky in frustration.
“Fuck,” I said in something of a half mutter, the most I would give. “But that’s a process that can be reversed. We’ll let it be known we’re continuing to pay for her education, make sure she stays away. If it ever gets out that we gagged her, no one will support us. Wiggins will stop turning a blind eye, the mayor will condemn us in public, and businesses will give us the cold shoulder. We have to pay for the sins of last night.”
Even those who had said yea at least seemed to nod in understanding at my rationale. I didn’t like it, and I wanted to believe that a gag order would never get revealed.
But the truth was, I had too much respect for Jane to ever do something like that to her. We fucked up; we had to accept the consequences of it. Hopefully, in doing so, I could start to rebuild something with her—even if it was nothing more than a respectful consideration of the other.
“Nay,” I said.
With that, I pounded the gavel, signifying the end of my first meeting and the beginning of the Tracy “Trace” Cole presidency.
Chapter 1: Trace
Present Day
The bar of the Savage Saints clubhouse sat empty, except for me. The rest of the team worked our front business, Peters Automotive Repairs. PAR, as we called it, was a genuine business, and anyone who looked us up on Yelp or Google saw our positive reviews.
But we were also known to shutter on the spot for a variety of reasons, most of which, on an official basis, had to deal with “emergency bike and vehicle repairs.” In practice, well, club business didn’t leave these walls.
I took a puff of a cigarette before downing a shot of whiskey to calm my nerves as I prepared to read something that I hadn’t touched in nearly ten years.
The journals and writings of Paul Peters, the founder of the Savage Saints.
Anyone was free to access them at any time, in theory. Anyone could have read them at the clubhouse, so long as they kept the journals inside and away from the public eye. Anyone could have formed their own opinion.
But whether out of respect for Paul’s legacy or just fearing that the old man might have had some critical thoughts about the club that he had founded, no one ever took a look.
Until now.
Am I doing all that I can to live up to you, Paul? Seems like our members are growing restless. They want action. They want us to seek revenge for all the DM’s have done to us.
But I know you. You’re too smart. You would know that anything we do would lead us directly into a trap. That’s what you’d tell everyone, and that would end it there.
But put a 35-year old up there, and things become different very quickly.
Putting the self-doubts aside, I flipped to the first page, the preamble of sorts to everything that Paul’s notes contained.
“I formed the Savage Saints thirty years ago because we, as men, had lost our way.”
Well, that’s one way to start something like this, I thought as I continued.
“Men were beginning to move apart from what it meant to be a man. To take responsibility, to take ownership, and to take care of our brothers and sisters as if they really were our brothers and sisters. Men were beginning to become soft, care only for themselves, and lose sight of what most mattered.
“The purpose of the Savage Saints is to form a brotherhood with the purpose of protecting this town while also allowing the human spirit to flourish as it should. Government, society, and various other factors have combined to put man in a cage, with the bars of the cage the law and societal norms. Every man should have some bars, for having anything and everything he ever wants will make him soft. But bars too tight together will make him atrophy in weakness.”
I paused for a second, taking a puff of my cigarette. I had always known that Paul was something of an intellectual, but I had never known him to be this smart. I mean, I was pretty smart—nothing on the level of Paul or Jane, certainly—but this left me realizing I was dealing with a truly smart person.
Jane. Now there’s someone I haven’t seen in a long, long time…
“Our town, Green Hills, remains small enough that we all know each other, but large enough that some sort of force is needed. The police are like the animals in a cage so tight, they cannot even fit all their limbs inside. Something as simple as a federal statute can allow a man who everyone knows committed a heinous crime to remain on the streets. Such matters would never last long in the good days, but now, a need to base all laws around the acts of a few has made this a problem.
“This is where the Savage Saints come in.”
“We are savage because we will do whatever it takes to protect this ci
ty. We do not tolerate anything that would bring harm to another person. We will take measures up to and including death if it is so necessary. However, we are saints because we believe in the goodness of the town, if not in all of humanity. Many of the families in this town have been around since the 19th century when Americans first discovered the rolling hills and valleys of California. We know that on the whole, Green Hills has men of honor, women of grace, and children of potential.”
I took another puff of my cigarette as I heard Splitter yelling at a prospect from the garage. I almost instinctively put the journal away, as if being caught reading it might somehow violate a Saint’s honor, but I kept going.
“We encourage all of Green Hills to express themselves through love, creativity, and entertainment. We will never condemn a man or a woman for anything they do that does not harm anyone, and we will place immense pressure on those who would think it is just to place such judgment and shame among them. While Green Hills remains civilized and peaceful, there are those who believe that some ‘live in sin.’ As Saints, we must acknowledge that one man’s sin is another man’s pleasure, but we must also acknowledge that the self-righteous may only apply their standards to themselves.
“This is what the Saints are. In the pages ahead, you will see my thoughts.”
That’s enough for today, I thought as I closed the book. It was tough to read that, knowing that Paul had established an MC so well beloved and so appreciated in this town…
But one that was also feeling pressure on a variety of fronts. From within, our financial well-being was not as great as it once had been—cars needed fewer and fewer repairs, making the front shop less profitable than before. Our protection runs were not as high, as people simply feared such strikes less despite the presence of rival gangs from afar.
Such as, most notoriously, the Devil’s Mercenaries.
A rival gang just south on the border of Los Angeles, the DMs seemed to operate largely without honor. Although their leader, Marco “Diablo” Gonzalez, had spoken to Paul and me many times and had never threatened us, the rest of their gang seemed intent on destroying us. I knew Diablo for what he was—a Machiavellian figure, the type to smile to my face as one of his associates stabbed me from behind. But he was also like a fucking cockroach, indestructible no matter what methods were taken to destroy him and his club.
And then, perhaps worst of all, there were various pressures from the suits and badges. The police force still turned a blind eye to most of us, although they had become more rigorous with some of the newer members, suggesting that they were trying to phase us out over time. The mayor had taken to being more critical of us in public, suggesting that the “Wild West” days of anarchy on the streets were not to be a part of this new modern era.
To which I said, fucking bullshit.
And, most of all, rumors had come that Jane Peters had returned as a doctor at Green Hills General Hospital. Part of me felt a silent excitement that I didn’t dare express to other club members, but part of me publicly feared that she would continue to critique the Saints from afar.
“Hey, Trace!”
I closed the book slowly, a deliberate action, as Splitter walked in. Splitter, who had added a few scars to his body in the immediate aftermath of the death of Paul, approached with arms wide. We exchanged a firm hug as I patted him on the back.
“Whatcha doin?”
I decided I might as well tell him something of the truth.
“Learning from the old man,” I said. “You?”
He looked at me askance, even though I knew he got it. He just probably was surprised someone had bothered to look into it.
“Doing some digging on the damn maggots,” he said, another one of our nicknames for the Devil’s Mercenaries. “It seems that Diablo has decided to get into the cocaine business and is looking to expand out our way.”
“Fucking hell, seriously?”
“I wish I was joking,” Splitter said, an amusing statement since he was incapable of cracking a joke.
He laid out some photos of what looked like a cocaine run, with members of the DMs pulling out the white powder in bags under the cloak of night.
“How’d you get these?”
“The usual way.”
Bribing someone who desperately needed the money.
Ironically, might be us soon.
“Shit,” I said. “We gotta stop that.”
“Well, that’s the question,” Splitter said. “We could. But we’re gonna have to figure out a source of revenue really quick if we want to do that. I can get Sword in here to go over specifics, but we need guns. And we need funds to get those guns.”
“Fuck.”
I sighed.
“At least we’re not paying Jane anymore for school, right?”
“Yeah, a lot good that bribe money did in keeping her away,” Splitter said with an eye roll. “Seems our Saints have seen her walking in with a lab coat to the hospital. It’s still bizarre, though. She hated this town so much, and yet now she’s back?”
“Who the fuck knows, man; everyone’s got their reasons, and it’s our job to allow it, not to critique it,” I said.
Suddenly seems a lot easier said than done when you have to practice it instead of reading it on the page.
“In any case, got any ideas for how to raise funds?”
“At the moment? Not much of one, no.”
“Shit.”
I wouldn’t say we were in desperate situations in terms of having to keep the club alive and the store running, but we were going to have to get into some questionable ethical stuff. We could do some more runs and do some marketing to make it sound like the DMs were threatening to become more violent, but those didn’t pay as much as we needed, anyways. We could do a raid on the DMs, get some of their coke, and sell it ourselves, but that seemed to fly in the face of everything that we knew.
We’d have to find some other gray area markets. We could get some strong weed, although the legalization of that had also thrown a wrench into our business. Damnit, society, stop becoming more like us or we won’t be outlaws anymore. We’ll just be the actual law.
“Could get into porn,” Splitter said, something of a grin coming on his face. “You know the boys would never say no to porn.”
“And you think I’d say no to a bunch of tits and ass parading around here naked?” I said with a snort. “I don’t got anything against porn.”
“So… porn it is?”
“I mean, if we can make some money off it, sure, but when’s the last time you paid to see some lesbians eating each other out?”
Splitter went silent.
“Exactly,” I said. “Why don’t we convene at the hall and figure it out? Some brainstorming oughta—”
My phone rang, and I asked Splitter to wait one second. Seeing BK calling, I immediately answered—this usually wasn’t a pleasant call.
“What’s goin’ on?” I asked.
“You better get down here,” he said. “Behind Sam’s Ice Cream.”
Shit. The place where Paul died.
“On our way,” I said.
I looked at Splitter and told him to load up. We both grabbed shotguns, threw on our jackets, and hurried over to our Harleys. I threw on my sunglasses, revved the engine, and sped out of the lot, weaving in and out of traffic, ignoring the traffic signs whenever I had the chance and blazing through four-way stop signs. You better not have gotten into a gunfight, BK. It’s broad fucking daylight.
The last thing we need is another PR hit because we can’t keep the streets clean while the kids are in school.
As soon as we got to the front, both Splitter and I hurried to the back. The place was already devoid of customers, and the employees huddled behind the counter.
“Aww, fuck,” I grunted.
A new prospect of ours, a guy by the name of Brian, lay dead, the letters “DM” carved into his neck. The only thing that gave me any glimmer of hope that he had died quickly was the gaping wo
und in his chest, not exactly the nicest thing to look at in the world.
“Shootout?”
“No, this was too easy for a shootout,” BK said. “I got the call from the store owner about thirty minutes ago. Didn’t know what it was, man cryin’ too much. I ain’t know if it was just a threat or this, so I didn’t call you till now.”
I squatted down at the prospect. The wounds were not fresh—this was something that had happened last night or this morning.
“Any idea why this particular prospect?” I said allowed.
“They’re taking the goddamn sheriff’s lead and going after fresh blood,” Splitter said, the hardness in his voice rising. “Cut out the Saints from underneath so that when they go for the kill, there’s no one to take their place. Like going after pups, man…”
“All right,” I said before Splitter could go down an emotional black hole of some kind. “Listen up good. We meet back at the hall in twenty. I’m getting tired of these fucking mercs thinking that they can push us around. They’ve been slowly making ground ever since Paul died.”
“Trace,” BK said, starting to say something more before I cut him off.
I really had had enough, though. Maybe it was reading Paul’s words just a few minutes before, or maybe it was just frustration and confusion with Jane being back in town, but I was in some mood, and I was not going to fucking take another goddamn slap in the face from Diablo and the rest of the mercs.
“If I have to deal with another one of these fucking assholes bringing murder to my streets, I’m going to Los Angeles myself and hunting them all down one by one,” I said.
I sighed.
“Come on. Let’s get whoever needs to see this out here and get this taken care of.”
It wasn’t going to be pretty, I knew, having to explain to the sheriff that a murder had taken place and that we would handle it in-house. It wasn’t going to be fun telling the mayor to keep it hush, especially since someone would inevitably leak it to the local media.
