Turning Wheels (Satan's Devils MC #1): A Blood Brothers Spin off

by Manda Mellett

  He gives me a few moments to process what he’s told me, then his tone lightens, “I don’t know about you, but we didn’t get much to eat yesterday, airline food sucks. Now, shall we go and see what passes for breakfast here? With luck one of the old ladies will be cooking.”

  Actually, I’d much rather stay here hidden in my room, but if I’m going to be stuck here for months, maybe I ought to make an effort and at least get out to take note of my surroundings. It was dark when we came to the suite. Then the strangeness of his words sink in. “Old ladies? Do they do the work around here?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. I’m surprised; it doesn’t seem the kind of place where old women would want to be employed. All at once I have a vision in my head of elderly grandmothers all standing around a stove with leather-clad bikers urging them on.

  He barks a hearty laugh, and my eyes crease as I can’t see the joke. “No love. An old lady is akin to a wife in the biker world. When a biker commits to a girl, they become known as his old lady, whatever their age.”

  Now I scrunch up my face in disgust, “What a horrible term.” I’d hate to be called anyone’s old lady.

  “Babe, you’ve got a lot to learn,” he shakes his head, still chortling, “To have one of these men give a girl that title, well, it’s a real honour, and in the biker world, at least equivalent to, if not more of a commitment than marriage.”

  For a moment I wonder whether the scantily dressed girls I saw last night are old ladies, and whether their biker men are happy with them having it all out on show. Then I shrug, that’s none of my business.

  “Are you a member of the club, Horse?” I realise I haven’t seen him wearing a cut.

  “Not really, they made me an honorary member out of respect for what I do for them, but I’ve not got the patch,” he explains, patiently. Though the way he’s fidgeting on his feet suggests he probably wants to head out for some breakfast.

  But while he’s in a talkative mood I take advantage, “Have you got an old lady?”

  His face tightens, and I realise I’ve touched a nerve, “No. Not anymore.” And I know I won’t be getting anything else out of him when he adds, “Breakfast. Now.” Without waiting for my agreement, he moves behind me and starts pushing my chair. Now this is what I absolutely hate, people thinking they can literally push me around without me having any say in the matter.

  “I’ve got this,” I tell him firmly, while putting my hands on the wheels and starting to propel myself.

  It doesn’t take long to get back to the clubhouse and, as there’s a slight downhill to it, wheeling myself gives me no problem at all. The surface is good, so I’m able to glance around, interested to see the remains of the old resort the man called Wraith had described. The majority of the blocks have been repaired or rebuilt while others remain burnt out shells. As the wheels turn smoothly over the ground, I’m glad to note I shouldn’t have too much problem getting around by myself. One plus, I won’t have to rely on other people.

  Once I’ve taken in the view, I have another question for Horse, “I don’t know what I’ll be doing here, Horse, but I usually spend my time reading. Is there Wi-Fi here, do you think? I’d like to download some books and stuff.” My life is so boring nowadays I live vicariously through that of the characters in my books.

  “You’ll have to talk to Mouse; he’s the computer guru here. He’ll tell you what you can and can’t do to avoid leaving a digital trail.”

  And now we’re at the clubhouse and even before we enter I catch the welcoming waft of bacon cooking in the air, and immediately my mouth starts to water, Horse was right, I hadn’t eaten much the day before. Food always seems to taste better when someone else cooks it, so to my surprise and for lately quite unusually, I start feeling hungry. Horse points the way to the kitchen, and I turn my wheelchair in that direction. Inside we find a pretty-looking girl, about my age, and a small child running around getting under her feet. She looks up tiredly as we enter then her face widens into a broad smile.

  “Hey,” she greets us, “You must be Wheels, I’ve heard about you.” She’s tall, about five foot nine I’d guess. She’s wearing a flowing cream blouse over leggings which have a seascape printed on them. Her auburn hair is tied up in a messy bun with strands escaping to frame a face reddened from the heat of the stove.

  “Sophie,” I correct her while wondering whether I should just give up and accept my acquired moniker.

  After using a towel, she comes over to me, and stretches a hand out to me, I reciprocate and raise mine to shake, “I’m Crystal,” she introduces herself, “My man’s Heart and this is our daughter, Amy.” She glances around, and spots her child under the large table that is in the centre of the room. “Amy, come here and say hi to our guests.”

  A sweet-looking little girl who must be around two to three years old runs over and hugs her mother’s legs then peers out from behind. “Hi,” comes out in a shy little voice.

  I’m not particularly good with children, but I summon a smile and respond, “Hi, Amy.”

  A little hand comes out and a finger points at me, “Why you in a stroller? Mommy, isn’t the lady too big for a stroller?”

  “Hush, child, don’t be rude.” Crystal admonishes her.

  The unexpected innocent question makes me laugh, “My legs don’t work, Amy,” I begin, making the explanation simple for her. “I’m in a buggy as I can’t walk.”

  “Oh.” She stares at me for a second as if she’s having difficulty understanding that and then quickly becoming bored, runs to the other side of the kitchen where she’s got some kind of toy oven set up. Incongruously there’s a toy motorcycle poking out of a small saucepan.

  Crystal looks at me and laughs, “Trust kids to be upfront about things. Now, would you like some eggs and bacon? I’ve got waffles as well, and coffee.”

  “Coffee!” I giggle at the desperation in my voice, and taking pity on me, Crystal makes sure I soon have a mug of the life-giving nectar in my hand before going back to her tasks our entrance had interrupted.

  Breakfast turns out to be delicious, and there’s plenty of it. Necessary as while I start munching away various men wander in, some just filling plates and taking them off with them; others joining us and eating at the table. The banter around is light-hearted, and I sit, soaking it all up, wanting to know as much about this strange band of men as I can.

  I recognise Dart as being one of the men who picked us up from the airport, and his friendly wink and easy grin encourage me to ask something I’m curious about. “What’s with the strange names?”

  The corners of his mouth turn up even more, “They’re road names. When members get patched in the club gives them a name.”

  “So Dart’s not your real name?”

  He laughs and shakes his head.

  I think for a moment, but I can’t work out what it means. As my brow creases in confusion, my distinct lack of comprehension causes a ripple of laughter from those seated around the table. Then Dart stands, pulls out the tie holding his hair back, and dark wavy locks surround him reaching well below his shoulders making him look like an actor playing Charles the second or similar. Then he waves his hand and makes a flourishing deep bow. “D’Artagnan at your service, Ma’am.”

  It takes a second for the penny to drop, and then I realise he does look exactly his namesake in the old films I’ve seen. The old Sophie can’t resist, “And how are your sword skills, then?”

  “My sword is yours to command, and I assure you I’m excellent at usin’ it.” He adds a suggestive wink and clutches his crotch to leave me in absolutely no doubt as to his meaning.

  Loud guffaws greet his display, and I’m bemused at such a blatant flirtation at the breakfast table. I’ve never met men so open about their sexuality before.

  “I’m Tongue,” another man introduces himself with a face-splitting grin, “Want to take a guess?”

  “I’m afraid to ask.” I’m already blushing.

  Just as I suspected, he sticks out
his tongue and waggles it. The metal stud piercing is clear to see. Hmm, I don’t need him to draw a picture of what he uses that for!

  I feel my cheeks growing red as I’m not too sure I want any further explanations. Crystal walks over and rests her hand on the shoulder of another man, who’s made from the same mould as the others, tall, muscular, with a good looking face, “Heart.” She pats his shoulder as she introduces him, the love and affection apparent in both her expression and voice, “He’s my husband, and he’s got a huge great fuckin’ heart.”

  In a romance novel it would be an ‘Awww’ moment, but in real life, this admittedly handsome but fierce looking man doesn’t look like he’d be giving his spare change to charity, but rather protecting his own with everything he’s got. But I can see how aptly he’s named when little Amy decides to come over at that moment, leaps on his lap, and tugs on his beard to get his attention. His face softens, and when one arm holds onto the child tight, and the other goes round his wife’s waist, the love he has for them both comes shining through. Yup, Heart suits him.

  “What about you, Horse?” Crystal throws out the question.

  I cover my mouth with my hand wondering how Horse will phrase his response.

  He doesn’t crack the smile I expected, just glances up and says matter of factly, “No mystery there, my surname’s Horseman.”

  Oh! Shit! Now my head drops down into my hands, and as I feel my cheeks start to glow I peer at him over the top of my fingers. He barks a laugh towards me then pulls the plate of bacon towards him. I make a mental note never to make assumptions about names ever again.

  Conversation falters as we get down to the business of eating all the sumptuous food Crystal had prepared, but when I’ve finished all I can stuff down without feeling uncomfortable, I look round the table again remembering the name of their president, “How did Drummer get his name?”

  There are grins all around then almost as one, they all shout together, “Because he bangs everythin’ in sight!” Then they simultaneously start slamming their meaty fists down on the table making a thunderous sound. I look anxiously at Amy, still cuddled on her father’s lap, but she’s grinning and laughing and joining in, her little hand slapping the table as hard as she can. I’m hoping she doesn’t get the joke.

  It seems I’m not the only one to have completed their meal. As though it was a sign the men stand, collect their plates and take them over to the sink area where Crystal starts rinsing and stacking the dishwasher. Breakfast is over. There’s a kernel of disappointment inside that I haven’t seen Wraith this morning. A small frown takes over from my smile as wonder whether he’s still tucked up in bed with one of the women I saw here last night.

  “Earth to Sophie.” As Horse looks at me with an expression of amusement on his face, I give a wry shrug and again smile, I’d been lost in my thoughts for a moment, thinking things I had no business thinking. Once he’s got my attention, he carries on, “You mentioned the president. He’s asked to see you this morning. Ready for it now?”

  I didn’t expect to get an invite to see the president. Was it just good manners to welcome me? I suck in my cheeks as Horse’s words come back to me, no, it’s probably a warning to keep my mouth shut about the club. To give Horse a response, I nod, though admit to feeling a touch of anxiety. The man in charge of these unruly men has to be a force to be reckoned with.

  Having learned his lesson, Horse leads the way to the office used by Drummer, President of the Satan’s Devils, leaving me to get there under my own steam. He knocks on the door, and a gruff voice invites us in. Horse steps back, letting me enter first.

  Drummer is sitting behind an impressive looking desk. On the wall at his back is a big flag with the logo of the club, three little devils all holding pitchforks. A dark figure hovering behind them is carrying a scythe. It’s a gruesome image, bad enough on their cuts, but almost chilling in large scale and full technicolour.

  Although I’d met him briefly the night before, power just oozes off this man now I’m seeing him in his domain, and I sense an attack of nerves coming on like a naughty schoolgirl brought in front of the headteacher. My mouth goes dry, and I’m glad I’ve already eaten, my appetite would have faded if I’d met him first.

  It seems like hours that Drummer levels an assessing stare at me, and I start shrinking under the intense gaze of his steely grey eyes which seem to see right through into my soul. I bite my tongue to stop myself shouting out, ‘it wasn’t me!’ but then his features relax, laughter lines, which on him are more likely to be called scowl lines appear as his thin lips widen into a smile. “Mornin’ Wheels. Your room alright for ya?” He adds a wink to the question.

  Yup, the name’s stuck, and this is the last person I’d have the guts to contradict, so I shrug off my annoyance, and just reply, “Fine, thank you. I’ve got everything I need.” Then, as my innate politeness rises to the fore I remember to add, “And thank you for having me here.”

  “Why, ain’t you got pretty English manners there? And it’s a pleasure, darlin’.”

  As he replies, I study him. He appears to be in his late thirties or early forties, his dark hair is already greying at the temples, and he has a salt-and-pepper short but tidy beard. His nose is slightly crooked as though it was broken at some point, and his skin is brown and weathered. probably due to riding in the hot Arizona sun. There’s a rugged beauty about him, when he smiles he’s an attractive man. Though the way he holds himself, as though he’s poised to jump into action suggests he’s not a man anyone would want to cross.

  He continues to subject me to an examination of his own, but instead of asking anything personal, talks about the accommodation, “Yer room’s probably not as fancy as you’d like, but hopefully clean. Otherwise, the fuckin’ prospects are in deep shit.”

  I don’t want anyone getting into trouble on my behalf, even though in all truth the sink could have been a bit cleaner, “It’s fine, honestly.” I note my vocabulary seems sadly lacking today.

  “Good.” He gives a slow nod, then turns and indicates a man who I hadn’t even noticed is in the room, such is the president’s presence. “Let me introduce you; this is Mouse.”

  The computer guru. I’d wanted to meet him. But his name clearly comes from what he does. I’d been imaging a small, quiet man, and in the flesh, Mouse in no way resembles my mental image. His slightly darker skin and black hair suggests he’s of some sort of mixed heritage. Like most of the other men here, he’s big, almost as tall as Horse, but a bit slimmer. But like every other man I’ve seen so far, his build is all muscle not fat. God these people must work out! Swallowing down saliva that’s unexpectedly come into my mouth, I nod at the man I’ve just been introduced to.

  “Mouse is our computer man,” Becoming conscious Drummer’s speaking again; I pull my attention back to him. “He’s found out some stuff about this St John-Davies dude that I think you’d do well to hear.”

  Forgetting my nerves in the light of this revelation, I pull myself up straighter and lean forwards, my eyes flicking between Mouse and Drummer, “What do you know?”

  Mouse indicates the two chairs in front of the desk, as Drummer nods, both Horse and computer man sit down. I suddenly find the air less difficult to breathe when I no longer have two enormous men hovering over me.

  Looking first at his president, and then at me, he throws a question out into the air, “Do you know what the dark web is?”

  I shake my head; Drummer is looking smug; Horse is looking as mystified as I.

  “Okay, well, so there’s the dark web, and the deep web,” Mouse starts his explanation, “Now, IP addresses. The IP address is a string of numbers by which anythin’ connected to the internet can be found. Your computer would have its own IP. If I had a website, and you visited it, normally I’d be able to see which IP addresses, and thereby computers, had accessed my site, and likewise, you’d enter my website via its IP. Most IPs you’d come across are easy to find, you can search for them on Google
or Bing, or any of the other search engines.” He pauses to check we’re with him so far. “Now there’s a huge fuckin’ number of IPs you’d never come across. People using the dark or deep web hide their IP addresses so you can’t look them up and it’s virtually impossible to find them. Unless you know what you’re doin’, that is.” He pauses to smirk, which suggests he does. “Normally on the deep web this isn’t for any nefarious purpose, banks use it to store your account details or companies for their intranets. But the dark web, well, that’s where all the black deeds are done. Drugs, arms… and any types of services can be bought on the dark web, with only a few people bein’ any the wiser.”

  “Mouse knows his way around the dark web.” Drummer tosses in, sounding full of pride.

  Useful, I would think, considering some of what I suspect the club is involved in.

  Mouse throws a grateful nod at his president, before resuming, “Yes, I do, and I check it regularly. What for, is club business. But yesterday I picked up somethin’ interestin’.”

  Club business? My suspicions about their illegal activities seem to be confirmed. Drugs and arms? I suppress a shudder realising I don’t want to know. It becomes clear these are the type of things Horse is warning me to keep my mouth shut about. I’m certainly not going to ask them to clarify. Deciding to stay away from dangerous topics and wanting to get things back on track, I prompt, “You’ve found something about Ethan?” I can think of no other reason why this discussion would involve me.

  “About you, actually.”

  “Me?” My voice comes out as a squeak. What would anything on the dark web have to do with me?

  The slow bobbing of his head accompanies his words, “Yes, I’m afraid so.” He pauses to glance at Drummer as if querying whether he should be the one to tell me what is looking like it’s going to be bad news. The president dips his chin towards Mouse, so it’s the computer man who enlightens me, “There’s a fuckin’ contract out on you, Wheels.”