“With Demi Moore,” I said.
Trouble’s face lit up. “You’ve seen it?”
“Of course, I have. She’s a total badass in that movie.”
“Right?” Trouble asked, excitedly. “Well, after seeing that movie I became kind of obsessed with Demi Moore. A lot obsessed. Which led me to my all-time favorite movie, Ghost.”
“You look like her, ya know?”
“Shut up!” she yelled, slapping my chest.
“What did I say wrong? Demi Moore is smokin’ hot.”
“Of course, she is,” Trouble said. “Demi’s the reason I cut my hair short. Because of how she wore it in Ghost. I would have done anything to look like her when I was a little girl.”
“Well, you do.”
“Stop saying that,” she said, again playfully hitting at me.
“I’m serious,” I repeated. “And you look beautiful tonight.”
“I’ve been in civilian clothes for too long,” she said. “I feel naked without my kutte.”
“You wanna wear mine?” I asked.
“Yeah, right. It’s only five times too big for me.”
“Good, cause I kinda like seeing you dressed up for a night on the town.”
“That’s because you normally see me in a dirty pair of jeans and a t-shirt.”
“Everything I see you wear becomes dirty in my mind.”
“Shut up,” she said, her cheeks now bright pink.
“How about you make me shut up,” I said, leaning down for a kiss. Trouble’s lips met mine and I pulled her close to me, my thumb going to her pulse. I deepened my kiss and Trouble moaned, loosening her grip on her helmet, causing it to fall to the ground with a loud crack. Not that we cared. My hand went to Trouble’s ass, pulling her even closer, but before I could lean down for another kiss we were interrupted.
* * *
Trouble
“Excuse me. Hey! Is this guy bothering you?” a voice called out from behind us.
I turned to see Rabbit, Tackle, Jette, Boots, and Graves approaching us en masse and grinned. “Hey guys.”
I introduced Doozer to the team, well, except Rabbit. They already knew each other, and bro hugged a little longer than most bikers typically did. As tough as my man was, he had a deep appreciation for his friends and never took them for granted. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was sweet, and I loved him for it.
“I need to drink,” Jette said. “Especially since I’m not paying for any of it.” She grinned at Boots and he sighed.
Boots was the Sergeant at Arms of the Bakersfield chapter of the Killing Jokers out of California. He knew everything there was to know about every type of firearm ever manufactured, but it seemed like his true joy in life was blowing things up. When he’d met Jette, he’d gone hard at her, making it clear that although he thought she was ‘hot as fuck,’ she couldn’t possibly be smart enough to get one over on him.
Anjenette Smith, or ‘Jette’ as everyone called her, looked like Stevie Nicks circa 1972, and was pegged at eleven on the hippie scale. She was probably the smartest person I’d ever met and could hack anything anywhere. It was why she was here training with us. It was either that, or federal prison. Her brother, Rabbit, rode with the Dogs of Fire out of Savannah, and had also been roped into Taxi’s schemes.
Boots had bet Jette that he had his personal data locked down ‘tighter than a nun’s asshole,’ via the most sophisticated firewall software money could buy. He was certain, because he’d paid a moonlighting NSA security code writer to design it specifically for him, and she’d never be able to fuck with it.
Boots had been schooled, hard, by the petite hippie.
Jette had not only broken through his firewalls and protections, she’d done it in less than four minutes, her finger hovering over the keyboard with a grin before she dropped the digit on the enter button. “Done.”
“Done, what?” Boots asked.
“I have just transferred all of your assets into an untraceable offshore account in the Caymans that may or may not be held by one of my many aliases.”
“What the fuck?” he rasped, leaning down to look at her laptop screen.
“Hold on there, big man,” she warned. “I could press this button and you could make a sizable charitable donation to the campaign to repeal the second amendment of the Constitution.”
“You fuckin’—”
“Jette,” Rabbit warned, even though he’d been trying to hold back his laughter.
Jette raised an eyebrow in Boots’ direction. “Drinks and mess duty for the rest of training and I’ll put everything back where I found it.”
“Yeah,” Boots rushed out. “Whatever the fuck you want.”
“Did you fill your wallet?” Jette asked Boots as we made our way to the entrance of the bar. “Because I’m getting shitfaced.”
Boots rolled his eyes. “Since you’ve given my finances a colonoscopy, you obviously know everything I know, so try not to bankrupt me, yeah?”
She shrugged. “No promises.”
There were two bouncers flanking the door, both as wide as they were tall, and looking every scary bit that their menacing jobs required.
We all grabbed our IDs, and Jette, Rabbit, and Boots made it through the door just as Doozer and I stepped up with Graves behind us.
Douchebag Bouncer Number One shook his head. “We sure as shit ain’t lettin’ scooter trash like you into the Windmill.”
“What the fuck did you just say to me?” Doozer demanded, taking a step closer.
“I think you heard me just fuckin’ fine, Yankee,” he replied, spitting a wad of chew at our feet.
Doozer’s right hand balled into a fist, but I grabbed it, holding it tightly in both of mine. “Doozer, no,” I said softly. “I could get kicked out of the program.”
“You should listen to your friend with the lesbo haircut,” he said, smugly.
“Look,” Doozer said, obviously trying his best to keep his shit together. “We didn’t come here to fight. Sorry for any confusion. How about we all just go on about our own business.”
The bouncer eyed me up and down. “You at Quantico?”
“Not really any of your fuckin’ business,” Doozer growled.
The bouncer pointed at me as he laughed with his counterpart. “Shit. How desperate is the FBI that they have to recruit dykes on bikes?”
I still had Doozer’s right hand held tightly by my own, yet, he still managed to deliver a stiff jab with his left directly to the bouncer’s nose, causing blood to gush instantly, all over his douchey designer shirt.
I let go and his buddy stepped toward us.
“No!” the leader yelled, waving him back. “He’s mine.”
“Apologize to the lady and I’ll let you walk away now,” Doozer said.
“You should be the one who’s worried about walking away, boy,” he said before lunging at Doozer wildly.
I stepped back as Doozer dropped as low as possible, using his shoulder to take him out at the knees. The bouncer’s own forward momentum caused him to crash, face first onto the asphalt. Doozer then took his back and positioned him in choke hold. With his arm securely around his neck, tightly under his chin, it was clear to see Doozer was cutting off both his air supply and blood flow to his head.
“I told you, I don’t want to fight,” Doozer growled. “Tap out and apologize and we can all walk away—”
But the guy didn’t have to tap out because out of nowhere, three guys rushed out of the building and then all of them were suddenly on Doozer, kicking and punching him.
“You fucking asshole,” I bellowed, jumping on the back of one of their crew and biting down on his ear, causing him to shriek in pain as blood poured from the side of his head.
“Get her off me!” he screamed but I held on like a spider monkey, biting down harder until I’d managed to take a sizable chunk out of his ear, spitting the piece of his bloody flesh onto the pavement.
The rest of the crew froze momenta
rily, and Doozer managed to get back to his feet to square off with the leader once again.
“You made a big fuckin’ mistake,” he said, landing a right to his jaw, sending him to his ass.
Graves, who’d been outside with us, was holding his own with the bouncer’s counterpart, while the rest of my crew was now outside assisting with the other assholes.
Doozer pounced on top of Douchebag Number One and grabbed him by the shirt collar before delivering two clean blows to the right side of his face, Doozer’s rings carving chunks of flesh from the Bouncer’s cheek.
I reached into my pocket and grabbed a pair of illegal brass knuckles, jumping into the fray with the rest of my crew. Fists and teeth flew until the inevitable sounds of police sirens broke up our little parking lot party.
Quantico’s finest rolled up on us with lights flashing and all the colonial charm they could muster.
“Break it up and move away from one another,” an officer’s voice assertively, yet politely, requested over the car’s loudspeaker. “Come on, Monty, Sean, Clifford. Let’s go you guys.”
Our opponents immediately complied to the officer’s command. Stopping and standing in place as if they knew the drill. I took this time to deliver some justice for the earlier ambush on Doozer by driving my elbow directly into the bridge of my opponent’s nose.
“Mother fucker,” he shouted as blood began to pour from his face like a faucet.
“Now, come on. I asked you to break it up,” the voice on the loudspeaker said, as if he was scolding a toddler. “Now, I want y’all to stand up, put your hands where I can see them, and get in a line.”
The officers exited the car, guns and flashlights drawn, just as Taxi pulled up.
“Shit,” I hissed, under my breath.
“I mean it, boys. Line up and stay real still,” the first officer commanded.
“Those two are female, Sarge,” the second officer said, pointing to me and Jette.
“What are you young ladies doing out here fighting in the Windmill parkin’ lot?”
“I was about to ask the exact same thing, myself,” Taxi said, approaching the officers with his shield and credentials in hand. “Good evening, Sergeant, my name is Agent Davis with the FBI. I work at the training facility and these young men and women are my cadets.”
“Well, sir, your cadets have some explaining to do,” the sergeant replied, before turning to the locals. “And so do you boys. Monty, Sean. All of you. I told you I didn’t want to catch you boys out here fightin’ anymore.”
“We’re bouncers. We’re paid to fight,” Monty said, through a mouthful of blood. “Besides, they started it.”
“Given your track record, I find that unlikely,” the sergeant said. “However, I don’t have the room to hold all of you until we sort this out.”
“I don’t want to step on your toes, Sheriff, but if you’d agree to release my cadets into my custody, I can assure you they will be dealt with. Severely.” Taxi glared at our motley crew.
“I think I’d be amiable to the idea, Agent Davis, but it doesn’t rightly seem fair to lock these boys up while yours go free.”
“It sounds like you know these boys pretty well,” Taxi said.
“Yup,” the Sergeant said with a heavy sigh as he pointed. “That one’s my sister’s kid.”
“From the looks of it, these idiots seem to have taken their lumps pretty well, so maybe you let your guys go home and sleep it off and I’ll get mine back where they belong. We’ll agree to steer clear of the Windmill for the next ninety days when cooler heads can prevail. What do you say?”
“Sounds fair to me,” the Sergeant replied. “How ’bout you boys?”
“I kinda need the money,” Monty argued.
“You need a swift kick up the ass is what you need,” his uncle countered. “Maybe Sonny can put you behind the bar. I’ll talk to him.”
The locals groaned in resignation.
“All right then, clear on outta here. Have Jerry call cars for y’all. Go home to your mamas and have ’em look at your bumps and bruises. Y’all don’t be afraid to go to the emergency room if you have to.”
“’Night uncle Bob,” one of the crew called back to the sheriff.
I chuckled at the quaint small-town exchange and Taxi shot me a look that advised I’d be better off stowing my shit.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Taxi said, shaking the officer’s hand. “I’ll make sure my cadets get back to the barracks safely, but you can take this one with you,” he said, pointing to Doozer.
“What the hell?” Doozer snapped.
“He’s not with you?” the sergeant asked Taxi.
“He’s not one of my cadets, and he’s definitely not my responsibility.”
“Well, we can certainly accommodate a party of one at our fine establishment,” the Sheriff said, turning Doozer around to cuff him.
“Taxi, please don’t do this,” I begged.
“One more word, and you can join him,” Taxi shot back, angrily.
“It’s okay, Trouble,” Doozer said in an assuring tone. “I’ll be okay.”
A knot formed in the pit of my stomach as I watched the officers stuff Doozer into the back of their cruiser and drive away.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Doozer
THE DOOR OF the holding cell slid open with a loud clang, waking me from my unsteady slumber.
“Mancini,” the guard called out in an unnecessarily loud voice and I attempted to sit up, which proved to be a bad idea. My head felt like an overripened tomato and my body ached from the tap dance routine those boys did on me. I struggled to get out of my bunk as sharp pains shot through my ribcage.
“Mancini!” he yelled again, even louder.
“I’m right here, man,” I responded, slowly rising to my feet, disoriented from pain and lack of sleep.
“You’re free to go,” he said, dryly.
“What?”
“Your lawyer is here. You’re free to go,” he said, waving me out of the cell.
“My lawyer?”
“You can pick up your belongings at processing. Come on, let’s move it.”
I followed the guard to the processing area, which was really the same desk I stood in front of when the officers brought me in last night. Behind the desk was a young male officer who looked to be straight out of the police academy.
“Marco Mancini for release,” the guard said, barely pausing before returning the way we’d come.
“Good morning Mr. Mancini,” the fresh-faced officer said cheerily.
“Um, good morning…I guess,” I said, massaging my temples.
“If you would just sign this form, I can return your belongings, and get you out of here.”
“Sure thing,” I replied, scribbling something that vaguely resembled my signature on the form.
He then handed me a clear plastic bag containing my wallet, sunglasses, rings, and cell phone which had been shattered during last night’s scuffle.”
“Fuck me,” I exclaimed. Trying in vain to get the phone to power on but it was no use. The thing was pulverized. “The guard said something about my lawyer?”
The desk officer pointed to a well-dressed man sitting on the bench directly behind me. He looked to be in his forties, with salt and pepper hair, carrying a briefcase, and wore expensive looking shoes.
“I don’t know that guy,” I said, loud enough for the man to hear, and he stood, extending his hand for a shake.
“Carson Bird. I’ve been hired to act as your legal counsel.”
“Hired by who?” I asked, ignoring his hand while I slid each ring onto its correct finger.
“I’ve been instructed to put you in contact with a third party before continuing,” he said, pulling out his phone, dialing, and handing it to me.
I looked at the screen, but the contact info was blank. No matter, the mystery of who was on the other end would soon be solved.
I put the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“
Doozer?” Minus asked.
A pit formed in my stomach. “Yeah. It’s me.”
“Listen very carefully and don’t say a goddamned word until I’m done. You’re gonna get in a car with Bird and you’re not gonna give him a single ounce of your shit. A private plane is waiting for both of you at Turner airfield. That plane will fly you to Savannah, where I will meet you in two days. Do you understand?”
I paused briefly before blurting out, “No. I don’t understand at all. Savannah? Why am I going to Savannah so soon? I just got here to Virginia.”
“And how long did it take for you to make a fucking mess there? You’re gonna go to Savannah now because I told you to go to Savannah now. When you get there, Bird will take you to Double H.”
“Double H?” I asked.
“It’s Duke and Pearl’s ranch. Bird is their lawyer. Duke’s gonna put you to work for a few days until I get there. I’d tell you not to give him any crap either, but to tell you the truth, it’d be fun to see you try.”
“A ranch? What am I supposed to tell Trouble? I can’t even call her.”
“Good,” Minus snapped. “You two need to stay the hell away from each other. You hear me? Trouble has more important things to focus on than your jealous, drunken ass and I have to try and un-fuck everything you fucked last night.”
“Minus, you don’t know what happened—”
“Shut the hell up,” he growled. “Trouble needs to focus on her training, and you need to follow orders by getting in that fucking car, and then on that fucking plane, right fucking now.”
Minus hung up and I handed the phone back to the lawyer.
“Bird, huh?” I asked.
“You can call me Carson,” he said, smiling.
“Doozer,” I said, offering my hand this time.
He pointed to the door. “Shall we?”
Like the errant child I felt like, I led him outside, then followed him to the awaiting car.
* * *
Doozer
Our plane ride to Savannah was bumpy and the plane was cramped. I was sure Minus had intentionally booked the shittiest charter plane possible just to punish me. Fortunately for me and my aching head, the cops hadn’t found Warthog’s gummies inside my bag, which made the trip bearable.
Doozer (Burning Saints MC Book 5) Page 13
