by Hazel Parker
For the next few seconds, someone would occasionally let out a short laugh, but Trace had all of our respect and silence quickly. We weren’t going to interrupt him nor mock him by laughing.
“Namely, the Devil’s Mercs.”
“Shit, really?”
I couldn’t help myself.
“We killed Diablo. Wouldn’t that have put the kibosh on them for good?”
“We did, yes,” Trace said.
“You mean you did,” I corrected, drawing some “hell yeahs!” from the group, although it was much more subdued than the laughter before.
“I landed the punch, but we all played a part,” Trace reminded us. “In any case, while yes, we did kill Diablo, we did not kill the DMs and their ideology of ‘at whatever costs for personal gain.’ They have begun sending us threats that there will be retaliation for the loss of Diablo and for what happened at their warehouse. Normally, in a spot like this, I would say let’s be proactive and attack them to drive them into the ground. However…”
No one dared to speak up as Trace cleared his throat.
“Recent events mean that the cops and other agencies are watching us with especially keen interest. To be clear—this is not Splitter’s fault. Splitter is the scapegoat in this, but we all take collective responsibility. I want to nip any feelings of annoyance or anger right now.”
“We ain’t got any, Trace,” Sensei said as he lit up a cigarette.
As if on cue, the rest of the table also started to light their cigarettes. Krispy, sitting to my left, offered me one. I found myself staring at it for far longer than I ever would have before.
“What, did they put you in smoker’s anonymous while you were in prison?” Krispy asked. “It’s alright, man. It’s on me.”
“I know,” I said, confused as much at myself as anything else.
I eventually took the cigarette, although I told myself now since my jacket would smell like cigarette smoke, I wouldn’t wear it around Amber; or at least, not until I oiled it, which God knows how long it had been since that.
“In any case,” Trace said, interrupting our little side conversation. “This means we have to hunker down and play defense at the shop. I fully expect the DMs to make a run at us, most especially since Diablo is dead. Diablo was violent and cruel, of course, but he was calculated. I don’t know who is in charge over there now, but I can assure you they are not as in control as Diablo was. So we have to anticipate attacks and little things… but we can’t strike back.”
“Shit,” BK said.
“As much as I hate it, makes sense,” Sensei said. “So long as the cops want to see Splitter brought to ‘justice,’ we shouldn’t be doing anything.”
I briefly considered mentioning Amber’s third rule to me, but decided against it, if only because I felt asking all of the Savage Saints to lay low was an ask too big for the entire club. As it was, Trace was more or less doing the same thing.
“Exactly,” Trace said. “So starting tonight, no runs of any kind. No retaliations. We lay low, we protect ourselves if we get attacked, and we make sure we all remain in Green Hills except unless absolutely needed. Clear?”
“Clear,” everyone said in unison.
“Now, I know this is frustrating,” Trace said, but he seemed to gain a smile. “So I’ve decided to reward you guys.”
Everyone smirked.
“It’s, what, eight o’clock now?” Trace said, looking at the clock in the room. “In two hours, guess what happens?”
Ah, shit. It’s about to get crazy, isn’t it?
“I have a special delivery of brand new liquor,” Trace said, drawing immediate cheers and shouts from the club members. “All of the mamas and ladies of the club will be coming, as will some of the old ladies. So, gentlemen! Hunker down and let’s celebrate Splitter’s return!”
The club members roared, Trace struck the gavel to signal the end of the meeting, and I was left laughing and shaking my head. Krispy got me up and out of the chair, and the rest of the club members led me to the bar.
“We got that delivery coming in two hours, but we still got some stock we have to clean out!” Krispy shouted.
“Mama would never want alcohol to go to waste!” Mafia said. “I think you should drink it all, Splitter!”
“Yeah!” the crowd roared. I had my first drink placed in front of me, and unlike before, when I hesitated on the smoke, there was no hesitation about the drink. There were no rules from Amber about drinking, and so long as I could function in the morning—the crack of dawn, let’s be fair—I could drink as much as I wanted.
“Fucking police can’t keep me down!” I roared after I chugged my first beer in less than ten seconds.
The crowd roared, drinks were poured, and soon, two hours felt like two minutes as the entire club turned into a blur. The usual party developed—girls barely wearing anything; the single members of the club flirting with someone they had not yet hooked up with; shots, body shots, other types of shots; all of it coming.
Trace, for his part, watched with something of detachment. Oh, he still got drunk, he still had about a half-dozen drinks by midnight, but since he had an old lady who was not there right now, he mostly kept himself to the side. It was nice; not everyone in the club had always been faithful to their partners, and frankly, I didn’t even judge them for it. Sex was sex, and for some of the women that we got here… shit, it would take a fucking clergyman to avoid fucking them.
But there was just something honorable about Trace that did not allow him. Of course, he chatted with the women, but he never put a hand on them, never winked at them, never did anything that could be construed as going down dangerous territory.
As for me?
Shit, by the time midnight hit, I couldn’t say what was happening. I wasn’t being a prude and preventing myself from doing anything… but I also didn’t feel the rush to. I don’t know, call me fucking nutty, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Amber. It wasn’t just that she was a great lawyer; it was that the way we interacted was far better than anything that would happen here tonight. Even if the most beautiful woman in the room came up to me and had great conversation…
It would not match the beauty and conversational skills of one Amber Reynolds.
But by the time about one o’clock hit, I was too drunk to note any of that. The last thing I remember was being on a couch, having some brunette near me, seemingly interested, but then making a comment about how I couldn’t keep myself upright.
Chapter 4: Amber
I don’t think I had ever prayed so hard in the morning to not walk into a scene that would have resembled a wild fraternity party at UCLA.
When I left Mr. Reddings, er, Splitter—I would probably never get used to that distinction—I had agreed to meet him at his shop this morning. But as I walked to my car and began the drive home, however, I could not help but wonder just how insane of a proposition that was.
I didn’t fear for my life as some journalists or photographers might have. I knew I was on the “good” side of the Savage Saints since I was representing one of them and another one had come to me—the vice president and the president of the club, no less. But I still feared for my mental recovery of what I saw.
In the days since Mr. Cole had first come to me, I had done my research not just on the Savage Saints but on all motorcycle clubs, and the recurring theme seemed to be “no darns given” although they certainly used much more colorful language than I. They partied for nights on end, they flouted the law… and they seemed to mostly have a good time doing it, while respecting property.
Granted, it was sometimes difficult to separate fact from fiction. I’m sure more than a few of them got the occasional public disturbance or public intoxication ticket. Overall, though, they seemed to be pretty peaceful and self-contained.
But one could party like mad and remain within the bounds of the law and still come from a very different world than me. When I woke up at six and I realized that many at that
clubhouse might still be partying or might have just drunk all night.
I laid in my bed that morning hoping that whatever happened at the shop, Splitter and his peers would respect my space, respect my rules—well, at least Splitter—and not harass me in any fashion.
I also prayed for strength in the face of what was likely to be many things that would have shocked and appalled me. But I had a feeling no amount of strength could prepare me for that.
The first thing I noticed when I got to the shop, Peters Automotive Repairs, about five minutes before our scheduled meeting, was that despite it supposedly having opened an hour ago, no one was at the front. It looked completely deserted, and though I saw several motorcycles nearby, suggesting I had come to the right place, there wasn’t anyone in any of the open garages either.
“OK,” I said to myself. “Maybe they’re just busy inside. Or maybe they know there’s no reason to open early.”
Green Hills, after all, was not a bustling metropolis like Los Angeles. It was like the suburb of suburbs, although its proximity to Los Angeles meant the influence of the city was never far away.
I checked my watch multiple times. Ten o’clock came and went. I saw no sign of Splitter. I realized I had not mentioned the importance of punctuality yesterday, as I had gotten so hung up on his swearing and potential smoking that I failed to mention that. Many of these boys had probably gotten used to operating on their own time, but when facing crimes like this…
At five past the hour and no sign of life, I lost my patience. I knocked on the door. I heard footsteps on the other side, breathed a sigh of relief, and then looked in confusion when I saw the woman that had accompanied Mr. Cole on his bike.
“Hi, I’m Amber Reynolds,” I said. “Here to meet, uh, Splitter?”
Somehow, it registered with me that the name Splitter would mean more to a stranger here than Shaun Reddings.
“Oh, hey! Yeah, I’m Jane Peters, Trace’s girlfriend; nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I said with a smile. “Is Splitter around?”
“Yeah, he’s here,” Ms. Peters said, although her tone suggested a clause attached to it. “But he’s a bit… hungover.”
“Ah, well, won’t be my first time dealing with clients in that state.”
“Let her in!”
I recognized the voice of Mr. Cole from beyond. Ms. Peters looked a tad worried, but she eventually gave in and let me in.
I could see why her trepidation was so strong.
There were so many beer and liquor bottles on the ground. Cigarette butts lay all over the place. The walls were cracked. It was appalling.
And that was the part that wasn’t overwhelming to me.
The number of topless women, naked women, and half-naked men was what shocked me. It looked very much like… well, to be as frank as I could be, it looked like a giant orgy. It was certainly far beyond what I had ever seen, and I was in something of a state of shock.
Admittedly, it offended my sensibilities of what was right and wrong, but I tried my best not to judge.
Ms. Peters went back over to Mr. Cole, who was sitting at a table, his head in his hand, moaning.
“It looks like you all had a good night last night,” I said, trying to make casual conversation.
“Yeah,” Mr. Cole said weakly. “Thankfully, my old lady takes care of me.”
“Old?” I said, confused. “You don’t look a day over twenty-five!”
“You’re sweet,” Ms. Peters said. “I’m actually thirty-two. But old lady is just a term they use for someone’s girlfriend, fiancée, or wife. An old lady could be twenty-two or sixty-two.”
“Ah,” I said. “I, uh, have a lot to learn, it seems.”
“Don’t even bother,” Mr. Cole said with a chuckle. “No one here is going to judge you for not knowing these things. We just appreciate that you are willing to help.”
As if to drive home the point, at that moment, a man awoke with a topless brunette passed out between his legs, said something about “Mama would not be proud” in an Italian accent, and then proceeded to vomit to the side, just barely missing the girl between his legs.
It was a pretty far cry from church, that much was for sure.
“Hey.”
I looked to my left to see Splitter coming out of the bathroom. He looked more composed than anyone else in the clubhouse—and, though it felt strange to admit it, I was glad to see that he was not one of the men with a woman passed out on him—but he was visibly hungover. He had clothes on, which were actually buttoned and well put-together, so that’s start.
“Sorry for the mess,” he said. “If I had known this is what you would be walking into… I’m so fucking stupid. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry for that.”
“Don’t worry, I would be celebrating too in your shoes,” I said.
I decided not to clarify that my celebrating getting out of jail would likely involve pizza, a low-key evening with the girls, and no more than two glasses of wine. That night was probably their Tuesday… which was funny, since last night was Monday, so maybe they really would have a Tuesday night like that in response to how much they drank.
“Well, I’ll do my best not to swear, although I am mighty hungover,” he said. “You’ll still get the full me, just… maybe we should not discuss here?”
“I’m happy to talk anywhere,” I said, which may have been something of an exaggeration. “Although, if you are feeling like this, maybe we should get you some water and some greasy food? Bagels with cheese and eggs would do wonders.”
“Man, that sounds amazing,” Splitter said. “And after a night like last night… da… ng, Amber. You are a saint of a different kind.”
“What, cat got your tongue, Split?” Mr. Cole said teasingly. “Can’t fucking swear?”
I tried not to showcase my disgust with what Mr. Cole had said.
“It hurts her ears, so as long as I am around the beautiful lady, I will keep my mouth clean.”
It probably said something that hearing Splitter call me a “beautiful lady” stirred butterflies in me, and that something probably was not good for the sake of my job and my duties.
“Hey, you’re a better man than I,” Mr. Cole said. “Amber, I apologize for what you’re seeing. If it makes you feel better, this is pretty much the club at its worst.”
“Don’t; you have your lifestyle, and I have mine,” I said, which I realized after the fact probably sounded a little more condescending than I’d meant it to. “Splitter? Breakfast?”
“Yeah, let me just… get my wallet.”
I wanted to tell him it was on me, a favor to a client from a lawyer, but I did not want to raise the suspicion of Mr. Cole or Ms. Peters. Given that Mr. Cole had hired me and could just as easily fire me, I had to act in the utmost professional manner around him and the rest of the Saints. To do so would…
Well, the last thing I needed right now on top of losing my husband to divorce was to lose my newest client to unethical behavior.
Granted, I’m not sure the Saints would have cared one bit given the type of scene that I had walked into, but one could never really know what one party considered kosher and what one party considered taboo. It was best to just be cautious until told otherwise.
Splitter came out a few seconds later, putting his wallet in his pocket and massaging his forehead with the other hand.
“Are you going to be OK?” I asked, fears of him throwing up in my car coming to mind.
“I will be fine, not gonna vomit,” he said. “Just… well, the boys wanted to party, and I tried not to go too crazy, but who am I to say no?”
I just smiled at that, figuring it was the best response for that moment. Anything else might have risked me coming across as judgmental again.
“Trace, I’ll be back in like… an hour or so,” Splitter said, a reasonably accurate time.
“Do so, she ain’t cheap,” he said.
I just smiled, again feeling a tad uncomfortable and unsure how to
respond in an environment like this. The rules of how the Savage Saints operated were definitely different than the rules of how the rest of the world operated, and it was on me to figure them out, not on Splitter to explain them.
I led Splitter out the door, trying to tune out some of the groans that emerged from the clubhouse. I led him to my car in relative silence when Splitter gasped.
“That’s your car?” he said, looking at my 2019 BMW i8.
“Sure is,” I said. “Some clients only are interested in you if you can look the part, unfortunately. So I decided that this was the best thing I could get to impress clients without spending so much money that I would not be able to go to church unashamed with my greed.”
“Wow,” he said. “Wow. This is amazing.”
Then he laughed.
“I hope it’s not weird for you to be taking some hungover car mechanic to breakfast in something like this.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “You are not some ‘hungover car mechanic.’”
I couldn’t help myself.
“Even if you are.”
For me, it felt like a bit of an extreme joke. What if Splitter took offense? What if what I said triggered some undesired feelings—
He just laughed. He coughed after he laughed, but the laugh was genuine.
“I did not think you had that kind of trash talk in you, Amber,” he said, mustering a grin despite his current state. “Well done. OK. I see you.”
I again just smiled, unsure of what more to say.
“In any case,” I eventually said, reverting to being professional. “You are my client. However you show up is up to you, although I will tell you when you have court… you may not want to look like that.”
“So are you saying that if you were to judge me, I would need to look nice?”
“Eh, I like what I see.”
I could scarcely believe the words came out of my mouth. I nearly gasped when I did. Splitter, for his part, showed no reaction, but I knew there was no way he didn’t have anything other than a strong reaction to that.
“I just think you should come as you are during our meetings, Splitter, and be aware that when facing the courts, you need to look more professional.”
