Gypsy's Lady

by MariaLisa deMora

  Whispered and not-so-quiet conversations rose around him as he made his way across the room and through the door behind the bar. He’d learned the first day in Chicago that prospects came and went via the back of whatever building they were at, and today it worked to his benefit when the bartender handed him a bottle of water to take with him. High summer in Chicago was hot as hades, and with clear instructions from a patch holder to stay outside until relieved of the prospect-duty of securing any Rebel vehicles, he likely wouldn’t be back inside for hours.

  “You’re doing good, Tatum,” Merry said as she held the door for him. She’d worked for Mason for a long time, and along with her husband, had even owned the bar at one time. If anyone knew the ins-and-outs of the place, it was her. “Chin up, son.”

  He’d known there’d be a probationary period, and Mason had warned it would likely be a challenge. Doug hadn’t expected anything less and thought he’d been prepared for it. Not by a long shot, he thought, snorting as he took up the prospects’ customary position leaning against a pole near the corner of the parking lot to the south of the building. From this location, he had a clear range of vision which encompassed the entire lot and the back alley of the bar, and panes of glass across the street granted a reflected view of the front door. Mostly the idea seemed to be for whoever was on duty to be serving his time, because nothing ever happened at the club-owned bar. Other clubs came and went by invitation or design, but always respectfully. No one in the neighborhood would be stupid enough to trash a member’s bike, and cops in the district stayed clear of the property.

  So far being a prospect was even more boring than the classrooms at the academy had been. Not that I’m looking for excitement. He shook his head as he bent and placed the water at his feet. But he hadn’t expected how distant non-members like prospects were kept from everything. Back in Fort Wayne, it felt like Winger had pulled him into far more club business than he’d even caught scent of here in Chicago. Tugboat had tried to explain a couple of weeks ago, after asking how it was going and getting a carefully couched complaint in response.

  “Winger likely overstepped, son. It’s good you knew you didn’t belong in the clubhouse without an invitation, but you being a cop? That invitation shouldn’t have ever been issued. Pulling you into club runs? That’s shit, too. So instead of looking at those experiences as your norm, just accept you got a decent glimpse into the inner workings most hangarounds and prospects never get. Let the desire for a position in the insider circle burn in your gut and keep you on the straight and narrow, because there’ll be times, and lots of ‘em, where you’ll be thinking this ain’t worth it.” Tug grinned. “At least you know what you’re working for.”

  These days when he rode his bike with the club, it was at the back of the pack, and then only on casual runs. Mostly he ran errands and did mind-numbing shit like this. He hadn’t even seen Mason since the first day in town, when they’d dropped him at the clubhouse and told a thin brunette to assign him a room. She’d introduced herself as Tawny and directed him upstairs where he’d been offered a surprisingly large, furnished room. Tugboat had knocked a few minutes later and upon entering had thrown him a well-worn, too-large vest with the prospect rocker across the top of the back panel. “Re-lace the sides so it fits,” was all Tug had said before closing the door. He’d immediately reopened it and leaned in to offer advice, “If you don’t want whores in your bed, lock the door.”

  The truth of his statement had been apparent the same night, when Doug had woken to a feminine form creeping into his bed. Once he’d carefully explained to Tawny he wasn’t interested in sampling her wares, she’d curled into his side and fallen asleep. The same place she’d slept for the past two months, sometimes coming in later than others, and more than once reeking of sex, it seemed she’d determined his bed was a safe place to land.

  They didn’t talk outside offhand conversations in the kitchen or the main room, and if the members assumed he was fucking her, he didn’t care. She wasn’t a nuisance and took up so little room he wasn’t bothered by her sharing the bed. The couple of times he had brought a woman back to the clubhouse, Tawny had made herself scarce. Once he was alone again, she’d sidled in to reclaim her spot without a word spoken. I’m sure she’s got a story, he thought, scoffing again. Don’t we all.

  There’d been no fallout from Vogel going missing. No fallout about anything. Doug had waited a month before putting in his resignation, following Mason’s recommendation. It was smart to create a separation from what happened in his apartment and making such a major change in his life. The break had also given him time to sort out the apartment with new flooring and paint, also weeks after the event.

  When he announced to the squad room he was leaving, it had stung how few people seemed to give a shit. But, on the flip side, after talking to his friends in the MC at Winger’s funeral, it had also been gratifying how accepting and excited they were to hear he’d be jumping ship and coming over to their side. More than one had warned him he’d be fighting an uphill battle to convince members who didn’t know him that a one-time cop could be a real member of an outlaw club. I just didn’t think it’d be this tough.

  He watched in the reflection as the front door swung open. Doug counted five men walking out of Jackson’s, all wearing black vests, but from this distance, he couldn’t make out faces or patches. While inside, he’d marked the presence of four clubs not RWMC, which meant these men could be anyone. Still, a worrisome thread of certainty spooled in his belly because something was familiar about how the man in the lead moved, his stride more a strut. As the group drew closer, the sigh that escaped him was heavy and resigned.

  It was Pike, the same man who’d run him out of the bar to watch the lot, and president of the St. Louis chapter.

  Doug’s spine straightened, pushing his shoulders back in anticipation of what was coming. Pike didn’t look left or right, heading directly across the parking lot to where Doug had positioned himself. He got close, well inside any window of polite personal space, so close Doug could feel the heat radiating from him. The other men fanned out around them, and he gave up trying to keep everyone in view. Instead, he focused on Pike, letting his gaze drift across the man’s face, watching with some surprise when a droplet of sweat rolled from Pike’s hairline and down his temple. The man’s nostrils flared as he sucked in a breath, and that was all the warning given before it began.

  Doug staggered sideways from a blow against his ribs, dancing out of range only to be shoved from behind and into the fist of another man. In moments, he found himself on his hands and knees, blood drooling out of one corner of his mouth as he struggled to regain his breath. It seemed Pike had a problem with a direct stare, and his officers were on Doug in an instant with only one word from the man, “Respect.”

  As Doug was a prospect, Pike knew he couldn’t hit back, physically or verbally, no matter the provocation. Knew all Doug was allowed to say was a form of “yes,” or “no,” with the required honorific only being left off at the prospect’s ill-advised read of any given situation. It was better to accept every response needed to be followed by “patch holder” just like every answer to his instructors at the academy had needed to be preceded or followed by “sir.”

  Pike didn’t give a shit.

  “Hold him, dammit.” Words huffed against the side of Doug’s face when he surged back to his feet, trying to ignore the bitter blood pooling in his mouth as he towered over Pike. Hands gripped his wrists, and he reminded himself not to struggle, not to give away how uneasy he was about every one of these encounters. Part of it was a test of confidence, because the RWMC members had to know he trusted them with his life, would put his body in their hands willingly, believing they’d have his back. Harder to do than say, especially when his traitorous brain flashed back to the brutal struggle with Vogel, a man he had trusted, and who had come to his apartment intent on killing him.

  “God damn it.” A pained grunt told him he hadn’t kept h
is elbows to himself, and he took the hit to the side of his head and braced, knowing more consequences would follow. “Hold his fucking ass.” Before long, he was back on his hands and knees, back bowed as he arched away from the pain in his stomach, throbbing from repeated blows. Fuck.

  The world shifted, pavement swapping spots with the wires crossing pole-to-pole overhead, then shifted again giving him a sideways, close-up view of black tar used to fill cracks in the lot. He blinked, his brain trying to make sense of what he saw. For a brief moment, he imagined there were boots, a dozen of them at least, running towards him and dodging around motorcycles parked here and there. Then he was on his back as a hand twisted in the shirt at his neck and he tried to bring his arms up—too slow, he screamed at himself to move faster—attempting to block the blow he saw coming, Pike’s fist large as a ham at the end of a blurry arm, rings glinting in the blinding light from overhead.

  Doug came back to himself slowly, the ache in his chest the first thing to make itself known. The pinch and stab of pain with every breath telling him he had at least one broken rib. Ears ringing, he was having a hard time sorting out noises nearby. The pounding in his head made every pump of his heart a pain-filled thing to endure. Tentatively shifting his jaw side to side, Doug was relieved when it didn’t seem broken, every tooth traced by the tip of his tongue still intact. He swiped at his lips, tongue gathering and spreading warm liquid and Doug grimaced at the taste, wincing when the movement shot more pain through his face.

  A sudden shout made him open his eyes and he squinted up into the security lights, at least two voices he recognized coming into quick focus. Red, a long-time RWMC member he’d come to respect, and Tugboat. He would have been hard-pressed to hide the relief he felt when his gaze landed on Tug’s back and realized the man was standing between him and whoever was on the receiving end of the loud tirade the old man had going on. Red stood at Doug’s side, hands loose and easy at his sides, his gaze sweeping the little group standing at the back of the man who had to be Pike.

  Biting back a curse, Doug groaned and rolled to his knees, head feeling like a thousand pounds of packed sand balanced at the top of his neck. Ass resting on his heels, he waited until he was sure he wouldn’t fall over before trying and failing to get his feet under him. He blinked and his lashes stuck together, pulling apart with effort. Fingers to his brow, it was the work of only a moment to find and explore the deep gash over one eye. He struggled to get a knee under him and pushed to his feet, weaving for a moment before going back down to the pavement with a groan.

  While he’d been trying to get himself upright, Tugboat had continued to argue with Pike, his words washing over Doug in scattered pieces. “Took it too far this time, Pike. Man’s working to earn his place and we respect what we know, what we see, and what we learn about him from his actions. Not his words, but I doubt we’ll see anything there when Myron rewinds the tapes. You’ve been gunning for him since you heard the news, and here you are, not even in your own territory and you’re pulling some kind of shit. Do you want to get your ass handed to you? Because this seems to be how that’s gonna be happening, once Mason gets here.”

  As if his mention of the man had conjured him, Doug heard Mason’s voice come from the dark, his tone rough and angry. “Pike, you’ll come to me, motherfucker.” Doug cautiously looked around the group, seeing Mason standing alone at the edge of the light shining down from a nearby pole. “I ain’t hauling my ass over there to stand in blood spilled by a traitor.” Doug’s gut clenched, rolling in a nauseating way, and his throat tightened hard as he swallowed around a ball of disappointment stuck there. I’m no traitor, he wanted to shout, but couldn’t get even a word out in his defense.

  “Glad you at least see sense, Mason,” Pike said as he turned, making even that small movement look like a swagger. “Not sure why you pulled this POS into the prospect path, but it’s not too late to make it like this shit never happened.”

  “I see once again you misunderstand me.” Mason’s head tipped to one side, arms coming up to fold across his broad chest. “Makes me wonder how this bullshit always seems to happen with you. I ain’t talkin’ about Tatum, you stupid, stupid motherfucker.”

  Doug swayed on his knees in relief when a hand came to rest on his shoulder, steadying him. Looking up, he found Red on one side of him, Tugboat on the other, their attention focused across the lot to where Mason stood.

  “What the hell you sayin’, Mason?” Pike had drawn himself up to his full height, hands propped on either hip, elbows out as he took up as much space as he could. Posturing, Doug thought, analyzing the movements. He’s been in this position at some point in the past, and Mason’s just reminded him of whatever happened before. “What’s this bullshit you’re sayin’ to me?” He’s repeating himself because he doesn’t have a leg to stand on and knows it.

  Even through the empty distance separating them, Doug heard Mason’s sigh. “What I’m saying is you need to walk your ass to me so we can have a conversation. I’m done yelling at you. Done talking to you. You need to fucking get in goddamned line, Pike. You like where you are and what you’ve got, and I know it. Fuckin’ suck it up, figure out how to protect what you got and come the fuck to me.”

  Pike stood for a moment, then dropped his head and shook it, playing up the attitude of a longsuffering man sorely mistreated by a friend. Then he took the first step. Mason didn’t move, waiting as Pike slowly sauntered towards him. The instant he was in reach, everything changed. Doug had never seen a man move as quickly as Mason did, arm pulled from its position across his chest and cocked back, then driven forwards, directly into Pike’s face—all within a single breath, lost if you blinked. One blow, a single hit and Pike’s body went loose and limp, toppling backwards like a felled tree. His skull bounced against the hard parking lot surface, and for a moment, Doug wasn’t certain if the man was still breathing. No one moved, no feet shuffled, no throats were cleared in unease, a stifling silence fell on the group all standing and staring at either Mason or Pike. Then one of Pike’s hands twitched, and he made a choking sound as his head jerked to the side.

  That seemed to release them all from the suspended awe woven by the power and fury behind Mason’s single punch, something Doug hadn’t ever seen, and knew in some part of his brain, he’d never see again. He looked up at Mason, the man’s gaze focused on him, grey eyes drilling deep. Mason’s face changed in response to whatever he saw, and he knew Mason understood this was one encounter of dozens. Just another confrontation Doug would have let lie, as he had the other dozen so far. None of the other beatings had been as bad—Doug reached up and touched the still-bleeding gash with the tip of one finger—but just like any of the other times, he would simply have gotten stitched or taped up by someone and let it roll off him. Worth it, every drop of blood is worth the chance to be part of what Mason’s built.

  Doug tried to stall whatever Mason might say, but his voice betrayed him, coming out chopped into pieces with feelings he didn’t want to admit. “You…” He cleared his throat, leaned forwards to spit blood on the pavement in front of him, careful to keep it away from the boots of the men beside him. Doug’s throat had protested even that single word and he panted short breaths, pain from the movement telling him some of Pike’s blows had landed on his neck, a target with only one goal—death. “I knew what I was getting into. You warned me my prospect period would be extreme. I can handle it, Mason.” He lifted his chin. His voice was stronger when he said, “I’m good, National President.”

  “Not even a fucking ounce of give in you, is there, Tatum?” Mason walked towards him, stepping over Pike’s legs where the man now lay on his side, retching and coughing blood out of his throat and mouth. “Told you there’d be challenges, and you’d have to work at it, but fuck me. There ain’t a man under my patch who should have to stare down death from a brother.”

  Doug stared up at the outstretched hand and met it with his palm, clasping tight and holding in a groan as he
let Mason’s strength pull him to his feet. “I’m good, Mason.” Mason’s eyes were stormy as he stared at the throbbing places on Doug’s face that called him a liar, individual aching wounds and bruises from the beating. Stressing the words, Doug told him again, “Boss, I’m good.”

  Mason’s grip tightened and released, his hand dropped as his gaze darted to the side. “Tugboat, make a note. Pike owes this motherfucker flesh, but we’ll take it in trade. Bike Tatum rides is his first love, no doubt, but damn, she’s ugly. Mark one in the shop for him and bill to Pike’s personal account.”

  “You got it, boss.” Tugboat moved so he stood at Mason’s back, facing the rest of Pike’s men. They were still in the same position, not having gone to help their chapter president up, but also not having shifted to back Mason up either, and Doug knew Tugboat had noted it same as him. “Y’all got any business in Chicago still, I’d postpone it, brothers. Get that shit heel out of here so Prez doesn’t have to look at him anymore. Man’s done, at least for tonight.” The implication was there might be larger repercussions for Pike, but Doug didn’t focus on that. He was more interested in a band of men he saw approaching from the side of the lot.

  “Boss, we got company.” Damn, he thought when his voice cracked. Doug swallowed another mouthful of blood and shifted to face the group. Not Rebels, but he recognized the leader as Bones, who was president of Skeptics, another Chicago MC who was friendly with the RWMC.

  “They’re expected. You can stand down, Tatum.” Mason was still studying Doug’s face. “I called Bones earlier to meet me here. Didn’t think I’d have to deal with this before I even got a fuckin’ beer.”

  “Dinner and a show, Mason?” Bones called as he bent an elbow to lift one closed fist, drawing his troop to a halt. “I am sorry indeed I missed the opening act. It must have been something to see.” He angled his head towards where an unsteady Pike was being steered towards a group of bikes on the edge of the lot. “Not that I expect anything less of you.” Doug felt the weight of Bones’ gaze, and even though it went against everything inside him, he dropped his shoulders, trying to visibly relax, not willing to risk offending a man who was a good ally to the Rebels. “This is the LEO of which I have heard so much.” It wasn’t a question, and Doug wondered for a moment how Bones had known him out of the other five prospects the Rebels had in Chicago. “He looks different from how he has been described.”