by J. P. Oliver
“You’re Max’s kid,” I said, no question about it.
“Yeah.” She looked me up and down. “Who the hell are you?”
Definitely Max’s daughter.
“Tell him Adrian’s here. Adrian Cole.” For posterity, I turned my shoulder towards her and flashed the Falcon Grim patch ironed onto my jacket. “We’re old friends—”
“I know what the Falcon Grims are,” she said, snappy. “Duh. I’ll get him for you. Just wait here. Dad says I’m not supposed to let anyone in unless I know their face.”
“Right,” I agreed, stepping back to show I wasn’t about to bust my way in. “Stranger danger. I get it.”
With a roll of her eyes, she shut the door in my face.
I waited another five minutes, listening to the sound of old motors passing by and kids arguing over trading cards. Just as their game was turning heated—I heard a few fuck yous tossed around—the door opened again to reveal Max Cartwright, an old friend and the leader of the Falcon Grims.
He was exactly how you’d expect him to look: forties, shaved head, tatted to all hell. He had piercing blue eyes, small and tough and always squinting. His eyebrow and lip were both pierced. He had the air of a leader, the kind of man who naturally led and commanded respect. The type of alpha dog you didn’t fuck with.
“Jesus Christ,” he huffed, grinning. He nudged the glass door back for me. “What the hell are you doing around here? Thought I told you to lay low.”
“What can I say?” I shrugged, hands in my pockets. “I just couldn’t stay away.”
He snorted and pulled me in for a short hug, slapping my back.
“You could’ve called.”
“And ruined the surprise? C’mon. You know me.”
“Damn straight.” He nodded for me to head inside. “Let’s get you the fuck out of the cold. We’re letting the heat out, and that shit ain’t free.”
For someone who was a rough-and-tumble biker, Max’s house wasn’t too shabby. It wasn’t Versailles or anything, but it was nice: a couple bedrooms, a living room with a flat screen, a kitchen he kept clean. I took note of the few baby bottles that were drying on a rack beside the sink.
“Fuck,” I laughed. “Tonya had her baby already?”
“Sure did,” Max said, grinning at them. “A month early. Ain’t that fucking terrifying?”
“She all right?”
“Both of them are. She and the little fucker are at a doctor’s appointment.” Max waved for me to sit at the small kitchen table as he went for the fridge. “Want a beer?”
“Sure.”
He cracked open two bottles and sat across from me. “And you just met my other one.”
“She’s got your attitude,” I chuckled. “No offense.”
“Hell, yeah, she does.” Max laughed. “Tell you the truth, she’s almost too much like me. Keeps telling me she wants to learn to ride and wants to get her motorcycle license as soon as she can. She’s following in my footsteps which is—”
“Also terrifying?”
Max nodded and took a long sip, but grinned. “I’m guessing that ain’t why you’re here, though? To catch up on how my kids are doing?”
“No.” I sighed. “No, it’s not. I’m just here to check in. See how things are with… everything. Falcons. Raptors.”
“It’s been quiet,” Max said, a touch more serious. “There haven’t been any more run-ins, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I nodded.
“Truth is, I think you scared them a bit. Most folks… well, most folks would be pissed, but you didn’t hold back when that Sanders prick came after you and the boys. You did what you had to, so the Raptors know: you don’t fuck with us without consequence.” Max grimaced, nudging the curtain back to survey the courtyard when one of the kids outside started hollering. “We Falcons won’t lie down without a fight. Troy Sanders is a cautionary tale.”
“Right, well, tell that to his folks,” I muttered, taking a swig.
“What?”
“I was leaving my lawyer’s. They served me.”
Max’s lips twitched into a deep frown. “For fucking what?”
“Emotional damages.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Serious as a fucking heart attack,” I said, rubbing my temple. “I’m settling. I’m just not in the fucking mood to draw this out with them, so it’s just… what’s easiest. Painless.”
I expected Max might laugh it off or say something about how stupid they were, but he took a measured breath and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he processed this information.
“Bunch of pricks, the whole family.”
I hummed. “The asshole doesn’t fall far from the tree, am I right?”
Max cracked a grin, reluctant. “When you’re right, you’re right, brother.”
We had to clink bottles; cheers to that.
“I don’t like that, though,” Max said after taking a sip. With a grunt, he pulled out of his seat and paced around the kitchen, socks thumping softly against the linoleum. “Not one fucking bit, man. They’re only going after you specifically because you’re the one with money stashed away.”
I hadn’t thought of that, but it seemed just stupid enough to be the truth. After all, I hadn’t been the only one at the bar that night. I had friends, other Falcon Grims, who had been a part of the scrap, too. I was just the only one of them with money to go after, what with the tattoo parlors. Not only that, but I had investments, stocks. I learned early on how to grow my money. Laughably, it had been set aside for an idyllic, early retirement. Now it was about to be chowed down by a couple of exploitative pricks.
“Word must have gotten to them,” I huffed. “That shit isn’t fair, but… at least I can afford it. No offense to the other guys.”
“No, it’s the truth.” Max shook his head. “That’s fucked up.”
“I’ll settle it,” I promised.
With a trusting glance, Max said, “I know you will.”
I raised my bottle once more, a small gesture. Tipped it back and took a drink.
“Where’ve you been hiding out, by the way?” Max asked, leaning against the counter. “I’ve been meaning to give you a call and see what’s up, but with the baby, everything’s been crazy in East Nashville.”
I grinned. “North Creek. Ever heard of it?”
“No,” he chuckled. “Sounds podunk as fuck.”
“Ah. A little,” I laughed, shrugging. “It’s not bad. Just a place up in the mountains. It’s home, y’know. I grew up there and everything. I’ve just been crashing with my folks.”
“Oh, yeah?” Max laughed, pierced brow raising. “What excuse did you give them?”
“Taking an extended, much needed vacation.”
Max laughed, the sound echoing through the apartment. On the other side of the living room, in response to our noise, his daughter’s head poked out of her bedroom, accusing, before she slammed the door shut pointedly.
We both looked at the door and then at each other.
Max cracked first, chuckling, “She slams doors like her mother, though.”
“Oh, I bet,” I laughed. “I know how Tonya is.”
“Well, what’s good with North Creek?” Max asked. “Must not be half bad, if this is the first you’ve been back in Nashville.”
It was a question wrapped in a statement. I thought about North Creek—about the downtown strip and the historical plaques, about my parents’ place and its dusty pink everything, about the acrid smell of trees and dirt and old wood, about Victor and his bed and his whiskey kiss.
“It’s home,” I repeated, almost embarrassed to know it was the complete truth. “I don’t know. I miss Nashville, sure, but… I don’t think I’d mind staying there for a bit longer, either.”
Max grinned and slapped me on the shoulder, reassuring, brotherly.
“Good on you, man. Good fucking on you.”
I raised a brow. “What?”
“Clearly,”
he laughed, shaking his head, “you’ve found yourself a good piece of ass.”
I didn’t stay much longer in East Nashville.
I only hung around long enough to catch up a bit on how some of the boys were doing, how things around the city were holding up. Everything seemed pretty status quo: half the boys were still dumbasses, the other half were tearing ass across the city each night; old pieces of the city were being gentrified, updated, reassessed; life was going on just fine without me.
The sun was getting low—lower and sooner each night. I knew I was ready to head on out once Tonya came back with her and Max’s baby, a two-month-old named Blake but aptly nicknamed Bruiser.
I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. Max had a family to look after. Dinner to make. I teased him about being so domestic as I left. He shot me the finger as I crossed the now empty courtyard and climbed into my truck.
The ride back was mostly leisurely. I was occupied with thoughts of crawling into bed again with Victor, ready for it after such a long day. The drive wasn’t hell, but it was a long one to take alone. A lot of talking. The idea of passing out on the sofa with him and maybe fooling around some was too good.
Halfway to North Creek, though, I realized I wasn’t alone.
I would have noticed sooner, if I hadn’t been so occupied. My rearview caught the sharp glint of four headlights, clean and bright and looming. The drone of several motorcycles accompanied them.
They weren’t Falcon Grims. I knew that from the get-go. We flashed our lights at one another, and these fuckers were following me. I tried to think back to when I first noticed them: as I was leaving Nashville’s city limits.
Were they there before that? I wondered.
I couldn’t recall.
With a twist in my stomach, I knew something was off. My gut was never wrong, especially when it came to things like this. I didn’t need to get a good look at the boys on their bikes to know for sure who they were, and why they were trailing me this far into the rural spits outside of Nashville.
These men were Raptors, no doubt about it.
I counted the headlights as I watched the signs roll past on the highway: still four of them. I was obviously outnumbered, but there was nothing for me to do. I couldn’t call for backup—we were too far out of the city, and anyway, they hadn’t done shit to me yet.
I wanted to believe it was just a fluke, a cheap scare tactic.
And I needed to believe that; my tank was just about empty.
They trailed me for five more miles. As I pulled off onto a roadside gas station, its neon sign emitting a faint and spacey fluorescent light, my suspicions were confirmed. The bikes pulled off with me.
I parked at the first pump.
They parked in a slow row, up along the empty gas station building.
There were no other cars around. The station looked virtually empty, except for a very disinterested-looking teen running the register. He looked young; he would be easy to scare into silence, if he even noticed us at all.
I huffed, anxiety and nervous adrenaline coursing through me.
I had no choice.
In my mirror, the men dismounted from their bikes. Collected in a small group and eyed my truck blatantly. I thought twice about ditching my jacket in the truck, before deciding, Fuck that. If they were going to come at me, let them.
I stepped out of my truck and popped the tank.
Ignore them, I thought. Maybe they’ll move on.
The sound of boots scraping against the asphalt and rock was like an alarm. Eight pairs of feet. I slipped my card into the pump and moved quickly, pretending to be occupied by the faint glow of the screen as I heard them come up behind me, waiting for me to acknowledge them.
Four against one, I thought. Not exactly a fair fight, is it?
“Hey, fucker.”
My hand brushed the nozzle. The machine beeped.
“I’m assuming you mean me,” I answered, filling up the tank.
When I glanced over my shoulder, sure enough, four of them. Two were burly men, total alphas like Max, who looked similar: crew cuts and the same jagged jaws; twins, probably. The third was the youngest of the crew, probably a new inductee, and the fourth was the oldest, a seasoned-looking rider with a salt and pepper beard and a fistful of rings.
The younger one spat in an attempt to look tough and beat a fist against his Raptor’s patch.
“That’s right,” the oldest said, taking a step forward. “Don’t think we don’t know who you are, Mr. Cole. We look after our own in the Raptors.”
I beat back against the urge to reply, consequences be damned. There were four of them and there was one of me. I wasn’t stupid; I was good with numbers. Four to one wasn’t a fight I was likely to win, so I had to play it smart; play it safe.
“What?” one of the twins asked, voice deep and intimidating. “Nothing to say when it’s just you?”
“Come on, tough guy,” said the other. “We keep hearing how good you are.”
“I’m not trying to get into anything tonight,” I said, keeping my tone even. I drew the nozzle from the tank, slid it back into the pump. “I’m just trying to get home to—”
I felt the hands on the back of my neck, sudden and quick. An honest gasp was drawn from me, fingers curling into my collar; I hadn’t even heard whoever was grabbing me come up from behind.
With a force I couldn’t withstand, they slammed my face against the pump, the metal vibrating as my nose smashed against it.
Before I could crumple to the ground, the hand that held me yanked me back—away from my truck as I grabbed for its handle. I stumbled back as they threw me, almost losing my footing. They laughed as I staggered.
The one who had grabbed me was the youngest.
“What?” I huffed, wiping below my nose; bloody. “This some kind of induction?”
“I’m already a Raptor, you dick,” the youngest spat.
I grinned, self-destructive. “What? Think coming after me will get you cred?”
“You think you can just ignore us?”
He stepped up, angry; too angry. I could see his body spring-load itself long before he swung at me. He was easy to anticipate, even after taking a blow. I stepped out of the way, grabbed his wrist and punched him in the face with my other hand.
I heard the impact, felt it shake through me, a ripple effect. I hadn’t fought like this since Troy. My knuckles almost forgot what it felt like to burn, to feel the hard and jilted impact of skin and bone.
On his own, the younger kid wouldn’t have been hard to handle—he was smaller than me, less muscular—but he wasn’t on his own. The second my fist connected with his nose, the crack of it sharp in the chilled parking lot, all hell broke loose.
Two of them came at me, a messy assault. A hand yanked at my shirt, pulled me in while the other hit me hard on the side of my head. I swung at the closest, hard enough to clock him in the jaw. He released my shirt and staggered back.
The thumping in my head was undeniable, a blooming kind of pain, a drumbeat. I shook through it, going for the guy who’d just hit me.
We both swung. I juked back hard enough for him to miss, knuckles skimming my shoulder. With a practiced hand, I grabbed his arm, pulled him in, and stomped at his shin.
A cry of pain.
His body stumbled away from me, down toward the pavement.
For a moment, I had it, a way out; a victory. I took in a deep, ragged breath and felt the clarity of the night’s air inside me, my veins full of fire and fear. I didn’t want to chance it with the other three. I needed to get to my truck.
But they were between me and my only method of getting away.
The younger one, with a bloodied nose, had staggered up to his feet. When he came at me again, teeth and lips slicked with blood, he wasn’t alone. The older man and the remaining twin followed close behind.
I swung, but they were quicker and more.
I felt my fists connect here and there, blindly as they conv
erged on me—as they pushed me, grabbed at me, yanked me this way and that, threw punches that landed all over. Six fists, but it felt like so much more, a constant barrage, always coming from someone, somewhere. It was inevitable: two grabbed each of my arms and held me tight.
I struggled, kicked at them to get away, the adrenaline morphing into fear.
My arms were locked tight against their panting chests.
“Go on, Bud,” said the oldest man, encouraging. “You get first honors.”
Bud—the youngest—grinned and made a show of stepping up and swinging hard. I could only brace so much, but it fucking hurt. A fist to the unguarded stomach. I grunted as pain exploded behind the first hit, and then the second, and the third.
Doubling over, aching for a decent breath—
“You stupid fuck,” Bud laughed, grabbing my hair hard and pulling my face up to meet his. “This is what you fucking deserve. You think you and the rest of your garbage Falcon buddies are untouchable?”
He spat hard in my face, slick with a mixture of blood and saliva. It dripped down my chin as he wound up his fist; as he punched hard across the side of my face, the throb of pain erupting like fireworks, the dizzying light of it flashing across my skull.
The men threw me down.
Or, at least, I think they threw me. It was hard to tell with how hard the world was spinning around me, but maybe I’d just fallen completely on my own. My body felt limp, bursts of pain everywhere as my body smacked the pavement and they went in together, three pairs of steel-toed boots kicking.
Curling in on myself, it was the best I could do—protect my face, protect the abdomen, protect the head; I can handle the damage everywhere else, but if they clip one of those too hard then I’m dead—to keep safe, to keep alive.
I thought they might never stop, an eye for an eye.
I ached everywhere. I needed to breathe. I needed a reprieve.
I thought, maybe, this was how I’d die.
I thought of Victor.
If I died now, he wouldn’t hear about it for some time; until someone found my body, called the police, and word made it back to him. Maybe they would never find my body; maybe the Raptors would take me out to the woods, dispose of the evidence of their revenge. Somehow that was even worse: no one would ever know where I went.
