Lane

by Trent Jordan

  We loved the bartenders for the strong drinks, pointing out which women weren’t in cahoots with the Saints, and for just generally being cool and chill as fuck. I’d instituted a “no transactions” rule at the place because of how many girls and dealers worked for the Saints, but I knew the bartenders would never fall for the attempted charms of some of our dumber members.

  They were there to make strong drinks, get tips, and go about their day. They didn’t give two fucks if we were Knights, Saints, Reapers, Falcons, Saviors, Wolves, or some other distant club that I hadn’t run in circles with.

  We opened the door to see the place completely empty, save for our favorite bartender, Jess. Wearing what looked like a mid-riff leather jacket that just barely covered up her chest, spiked green hair running from her forehead all the way down, and torn up jeans, she strummed the bar as we approached. It was a favorite game of mine to guess what kind of look Jess would have—she was like a chameleon, able to pull off the down-to-Earth, homebody look just as easily as she could a punk rock look or whatever she had now.

  She was very attractive when she just had her normal look, but I’d made it clear to the officers and club members none of them were to hit on her. She was too valuable to us as an ally of sorts.

  “Gents,” she said. “Long day?”

  “It’s never a long day with the Reapers,” Patriot said.

  I opened my mouth to object, but decided better of it, mostly because we weren’t there for bartender therapy but for discussion amongst ourselves.

  “Well, it’s a good thing your fan club isn’t here,” she said with sarcasm as she pointed to our go-to drinks, two Yuenglings. “Last thing I need is for you assholes to be staring at each other across the bar and scaring away business.”

  “Please, we’re your number one customers,” I said as I pulled out twenty bucks in cash. “We scare away the fools who stumble in, order some drinks, and then leave without tipping you more than the round-up.”

  Jess rolled her eyes, drawing a good-natured laugh from both of us.

  “I come in here every day wondering whose ass I’m going to have to chew out,” she said, putting the bottles on the table. “Luckily, Lane, I like you. Unluckily for you, I also like Lucius when he’s in a good mood. So, nothing’s ever permanent. But that also means I get to watch the same people land on the curb ass-first. It’s so predictable which one of you guys I have to kick out.”

  “Did you bet on us?” Patriot asked.

  “Nah. Pretty boy over here won’t let himself get too drunk.”

  Pretty boy. Jesus, does even the bartending staff think I’m too cool for the club?

  “And since you’re with him, you’re not going to do anything stupid,” she said. “But, my bet was on whichever Reaper walked in here without you.”

  “And why is that?”

  Jess just stood with her hands on her hip, gave the world’s most casual shrug, and took my twenty bucks. Only when she handed me the change did she answer with a “business” flirtatious smile.

  “Ask around,” she said. “It’ll do you some good. You might learn some things.”

  I groaned, giving her back three bucks on a ten-dollar bill. I nodded to Patriot to join me in the back, and we found our seats in a booth where we both had the eyesight of the only door in the entire bar.

  “Let me guess,” I said before we began. “That shit was in reference to me being aloof in the club.”

  Patriot took a sip of his beer, giving nothing away with his body language.

  “Actually, man, I have no idea, but let’s be real, wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “Shit.”

  If even the bartenders knew, then I really did have to change.

  “You really gotta get yourself more involved, Lane,” Patriot said. “There are no ifs, ands, or buts about that. If you think Axle finally mentioned what he did because he had a momentary outburst, you’re wrong. Someone like Axle does not say something like that without contemplating his words for a long, long time.”

  “I know, I—”

  “If you do, why did you let it happen?”

  I sat back into the booth, letting my body sink into it. I both wanted to collapse into it, becoming one with it, and to spring forward as a different kind of Lane, a badass motherfucking Lane who wasn’t afraid of shit. Unfortunately, as seemed to be the case for me in the last year or so, I wasn’t getting what I wanted.

  “The thing you have to realize, Lane, is how serious this is,” Patriot said. “It’s not just that they think you’re being aloof. They don’t trust you.”

  “The fuck?”

  Of all the things to question, my loyalty to the club was the last thing I felt was fair. It didn’t just bother me, it genuinely offended me. I could feel the tension rising in my stomach as my teeth gnawed shut. What did I have the last name Carter for if not that?!?

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “They don’t trust that if shit went down, you’d be coming into the fight to help.”

  Oh.

  Well...

  They may not be as wrong as I would like them to be. At least they’re not questioning my loyalty to the club—that would be unforgivable.

  “Tell me the truth, Lane,” Patriot said. “Man, you know I’m not going to tell anyone. You know I’ve got your back. But would you?”

  “Would I what?”

  Patriot looked like he was struggling to control his frustration at my confusion. It was one thing if Axle got mad at me, but if my best friend did...

  “I mean, would you go into battle if shit went down? If guns started firing, would you join Butch, me, Axle, all the other brothers in combat?”

  The fact that I was even hesitating gave Patriot the answer he needed. I didn’t want to lie to Patriot. But confessing the truth to Patriot, someone who had seen actual comrades die in combat in far more gruesome ways than we ever would on the streets—in ways he wouldn’t even describe to me—felt even worse than telling the truth to Butch and Axle.

  Telling the truth to Butch and Axle was admitting weakness to veterans in the club whom I more or less only had a professional relationship with. Telling the truth to Patriot was admitting weakness to my best friend and to someone who knew what true courage looked like.

  “Look, you don’t have to tell me the answer, man,” Patriot said, which felt like his way of covering face on my behalf. “But when the time comes, when the next risky run comes up, you have to put yourself in the line of fire. You heard what I said about them not trusting you. But what I’ve also heard is that if you don’t start doing that, they may vote you out as President.”

  “That’s beyond insane,” I immediately snapped.

  Whatever sense of image I was trying to project was forgotten immediately by perhaps the gravest insult the club could have given to me.

  “My father founded this club and ran it for decades. He raised me—”

  “And Cole,” Patriot interjected.

  “—to run this club when he passed away. To vote a Carter out is to vote the founding family out. They would never do it.”

  But as I leaned forward, trying to convey how serious I was, I realized Patriot would never have brought an unfounded rumor to me. Much as I found the thought disgusting and inappropriate...

  “And that arrogance, that hubris, is exactly why they would vote you out.”

  “It’s not arrogance,” I said, but my own tone was defeating my words. “It’s just… reality...”

  My voice trailed off. Patriot didn’t need to call me out twice for the same thing. He could see what I was recognizing.

  I was a goddamn wreck. I could look cocky and confident before the club, but that seemed to make them dislike me even more. I began to look at all my interactions through the lens of the rest of the Reapers a bit more carefully and realized how, outside of Patriot, there just weren’t many friends I had. Or any.

  But to go out and risk my life...

  “Fuck,” I mumb
led as I took a swig of my Yuengling.

  “Drinking that beer isn’t gonna help you, man, but at least you’re recognizing it,” Patriot said. “What are you scared of, anyway?”

  Well, shit, if he’s asking so directly... if he’s asking me the truth...

  “You know, I went to the graveyard today to visit my father and Shannon,” I said. I bit my lip, trying to find the right words. “It’s so hard having to know the woman I was going to marry and my father are two people I will never fucking see again. You know? Like if you get estranged or dumped, you can always tell yourself you might see them again. Even if you know the odds are slim to none, or that they moved to a completely different state, possibility is a real word. But death? It’s final. I will never see them again. Never, ever. Only in my dreams and maybe, if God is real, after death. But in the real world, for another five, six, seven long decades? Never again.”

  I was surprised to hear my voice waver. At least Patriot had the good sense to just watch and not interject.

  “When we go into battle... ”

  Confess.

  “I’m scared... I’m scared that more of my friends, like you, will fall, and I don’t want to have to bear witness to that. I don’t want to have to live with that. Living with two deaths like this… it fucking sucks enough.”

  I slumped in my seat.

  What I had said was “true.”

  But it wasn’t the complete truth.

  Once again, I had been afraid to confess what was really going on, and it was only going to make matters worse until I either told the whole truth or just said fuck it and put myself on a mission.

  “You know, when we signed up for the military, we all knew part of the deal was we had to be willing to sacrifice ourselves for our country if necessary,” he said. “And part of the reason we are willing to make that sacrifice is because of how close we are to each other.”

  I could see where this was going, but coming from Patriot, it seemed like it might be good advice. If I can follow it, that is.

  “When we went out into battle, guns blazing and mortars falling, I certainly had in mind my country and my parents and brothers. But most of all, I was fighting for my brothers to my left, to my right, and in front and behind me, man. And, brother, I’ll tell you, absolutely, it sucked to see them die. I still get emotional thinking about the men who died with me. Our bond, though? Our love for each other? We know that lives on.”

  He held out his beer as if asking me to clink bottles. I did, but when the bottles connected, he did not pull his back.

  “The very thing you aren’t doing is making you resistant to the idea of us dying,” he said. “Become part of the team, brother. Really become part of the team. You’re not a CEO. You’re not the president of some Wall Street company. You’re the president of the fucking Black Reapers motorcycle club. A brotherhood. Fuck any other meaning of that word. All that matters is you being present and there with us.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  I didn’t think better words could have been said. I also was not sure how well they would influence me, but at least they would be pushing me in the right direction.

  “How did the visit to the graveyard go, anyway?” Patriot asked.

  Thank heavens, he changed the subject, albeit not really to a pleasant topic.

  But, fucking hell, I have a lot to think about.

  “Visiting my father’s grave was as normal as you can get,” I said. “But when I was at Shannon’s grave, some woman there was watching me, waiting for me to finish so she could go visit.”

  “Family member?”

  “Didn’t look like her,” I said. “Didn’t recognize her. Even if I had, though, I don’t think she would have given me two seconds of conversation.”

  Patriot smirked at me but didn’t give a full-on laugh.

  “Are you worried about her?” he asked.

  Was I?

  I hadn’t thought about the question much. I’d been too consumed by Reaper personal business today. And truthfully, even if I hadn’t, it didn’t seem like the kind of question worth pondering.

  But no one had stared at me like that since Cole a year ago. The hatred, the passion, the disgust…

  “We should find out more about her,” I said. “She had no fear looking at me. In fact, she seemed to be making a point staring at me.”

  “Hmm,” Patriot said. “Our reputation isn’t the greatest with Shannon’s family. Could just be a pissed off cousin.”

  “Could be,” I said, finishing my beer. But I don’t think it’s “just” that.

  “Look, I gotta get back to the shop. But you wanna do us a favor?”

  “Yeah?”

  Patriot chugged the rest of his beer and put it down. At the entrance, two Fallen Saints walked in. They gave us scowls, but Jess grabbed their attention immediately, preventing any sort of blood from spilling onto the bar floor— not that it ever had. Or hopefully ever would.

  “Come swing by the clubhouse,” Patriot said. “Most of the socializing at the club takes place in the evening. I know it’s when you go home, but the club would see it as a start. Not gonna heal all wounds, man, but it might just start something, you know what I’m saying?”

  “Yeah,” I said, although it didn’t fully register with me. They were concerned about my commitment and courage for battle, not for playing games of poker or having a shot of whiskey. But, fuck it, it wasn’t like anything bad would happen. Probably. “Let’s do it.”

  Patriot smiled, gave me a fist bump, and encouraged me by saying it was about time I spent a weekday night with the boys. I tried to deflect the understated harshness of that statement and followed him out to my bike, which, despite the presence of the Saints, had not been touched. They knew better, and they knew we had heat if shit got wild.

  Heat I needed some prodding to use if the time came.

  I kickstarted my bike, revved it, and gunned it back toward my father’s shop. Patriot gave me a thumbs up on the ride home before falling to my rear right, letting me take the lead.

  All seemed normal on the ride home as I left the sunset behind me in favor of an evening of some drinks, some gambling, and who knows what else.

  And then I got to the shop.

  The same woman from the graveyard was waiting out front for me.

  Angela

  This is stupid.

  You don’t have a warrant. You don’t have anything that will legally let you examine them. You could get your ass kicked.

  You really want to be the woman that got in a fight with the Black Reapers her first week back in Springsville? You really want that distinction?

  I do. If it’s for Shannon.

  When I first parked my Civic about a block away from the shop that housed the Black Reapers, Carter’s Auto Repairs, I had parked it far away in case any of them got the smartass idea of slashing my tires or causing any other sort of property damage. I walked up to the shop, where a big, beefy man who looked like a cross between Hulk Hogan and Shaq stopped me with one arm forward.

  “Shop’s closed,” he said. “Come back tomorrow.”

  “I’m here to see Lane Carter,” I said.

  The man had tried to stare me down for several seconds, but I was close enough to public view that he wasn’t going to do anything.

  I thought.

  “Lane will come back later.”

  “Then I’ll wait for him to come back,” I said with a shrug. “What’s your name?”

  The man did not answer for several seconds. I’d had plenty of practice with difficult people in law school. I folded my arms, arched an eyebrow, and waited.

  “Butch,” he said, not betraying any emotion.

  Not that he had to. To most people, to the general population, his sheer size and girth would have deterred more than a few questionable behaviors or really anything that went against his will.

  “Butch,” I said. “Angela Sanders, Springsville deputy district attorney. I’m happy to wait until Lane comes
back.”

  “You may wait some time,” he said.

  The sound of motorcycles then filled the air and got louder and louder with each passing second. I turned, waiting for the arrival of some new club members. Maybe they would have better intel or be more willing to speak about Lane’s whereabouts—or even Cole’s. I’d take whatever I could get.

  The two bikers rolled in, and though I could not tell by any means if one of them was Lane, I was more than willing to wait to find out.

  The one closest to the shop, the one who had come in first, took off his helmet and his sunglasses, and I knew it was him.

  Lane Cole.

  The man responsible for the death of my best friend.

  Rage and anger boiled inside me. I had so many fantasies right now of kicking him in the groin, of stabbing him, of knocking over his bike... anything I could have done to piss him off and ruin him.

  And it still would have paled in comparison to losing Shannon.

  But I had to remain calm. I was a public official now, and there was no faster way to lose my job and my future than to try and act like an idiot when I didn’t have a warrant or anything of that nature.

  “Well, hello there,” Lane said, although I knew he recognized me by the way he looked at me. “How can I help you today, madam?”

  “Save the bullshit, Lane, I know it’s fake, and you do too,” I snarled. “My name is Angela Sanders, I’m here to clean up the town as the new deputy district attorney. And part of that includes your little club, given how much of a threat you are, and finding a way to get you arrested.”

  Lane’s false demeanor and bravado immediately vanished in favor of the scowl I had so hoped to see. The arrogant prick didn’t deserve to smile, not with Shannon six feet under and him being the one who helped put her there. He didn’t deserve anything other than a life of prison.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, putting his sunglasses back on. “We’re car mechanics who happen to love motorcycles and riding them.”

  “And does that explain why all of you have rap sheets longer than an actual rap?” I said, consciously fighting to keep my voice even-keeled.