Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC)

by MariaLisa deMora

  “Yeah,” Tug agreed with a laugh, “he’s a keeper.” He took a deep breath. “I’m surprised to see you in here, Bones. This is a Rebel business; it’s citizens and Rebels here.”

  “Oh, ho, not anymore, Tugboat. This place was declared neutral.” He made a grimace of surprise, asking, “You didn’t know?”

  Tug shook his head. “First I’ve heard of it, man. Care to educate me as to who made that claim?” He was pissed; Andy could hear it in his voice.

  “Fuck,” Bones hissed, “goddammit, it was Monster. He called me up about a month ago and said there were new girls, new rules, and that it was newly neutral.” Bones voice had turned serious. “You telling me that’s not the case, Tug?”

  “I am telling you that’s not the case, Bones. This is Rebel; it stays Rebel. Jackson’s and Tupelo’s are both neutral, but those are the only two, on my patch, brother,” Tug said.

  “Fucking shit,” hissed Bones in a low voice again. “There’s a dozen different patches in here tonight, Tug, and half the fuckers are at war. This shit will get strange and fucking bad in a heartbeat. Goddammit to shit! You know I would not have trespassed, brother. Monster is an officer; he’s fucking VP. Why would I question him?”

  Tug pulled on his ear again. “You wouldn’t—I know that. No reason to, when a patch officer says something like that. The expectation is that they are speaking for the club. I know that.” He rubbed his face with his hand, scrubbing hard. “Pros—you both stick here. Bones, come in; let’s give Prez a call and let you two work this out at your level.” He and Bones stepped into the office, and the door shut firmly behind them.

  Andy saw that the exchange had not gone unnoticed; it seemed half the customers had turned to face the office, while the other half were facing the door. Only the citizens—the non-bikers—were still watching little April.

  Dirty Dan was watching the stripper too, and Andy shook his head, keeping his eyes roving between the dressing room door, the one to the back alley, the front door, and the entire fucking biker population of the room.

  Outside, there was the roar of bikes approaching, loud pipes announcing their impending arrival. That sounded like a fuckuva lot of bikes coming into the lot. The tension in the room ratcheted up another couple of notches, and Andy was tempted to pound on the office door, summoning Tug and Red. He held his hand out, but stayed still, waiting and watching to see what would walk into the room.

  He scanned his close surroundings, looking to find anything that would give cover. There were tables he could overturn and crouch behind, but they wouldn’t give any protection, they’d simply blind any attackers to his movements. There was a stack of kegs near the wall, but they were probably too closely stacked to let him get behind them.

  “Fuck me,” Andy murmured as the outside door opened and he got his first glimpse of the thirty newcomers and their patches. He did reach now, and pound the door three times, cursing softly, “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me running.”

  He watched as a full dozen of the sitting bikers abruptly stood, taking an aggressive stance and facing the group that had come in. For some, hands positioned at their backs revealed the presence of a piece in their waistband, but for many, their gun was already in their hand, hanging loose and ready at their side.

  “Dan, this is fixing to go sideways bad, man. Get ready to cover,” he said quietly as the office door opened. Tug stepped into the doorway, looking at Andy. “Tug, we got fucking Machos. I count thirty green patches,” Andy quietly alerted him, not taking his eyes off the men near the entrance.

  Tug let out an inventive string of curses and stepped out of the office towards the group. “Not today, Machos,” he called out, letting his arms relax at his sides. Andy stepped up behind him and to the side, seeing Red do the same at Tug’s other shoulder.

  Bones came out and stood off to the side, his voice calling his brothers like the crack of a whip. “Skeptics, to me.” Over a dozen men stood quickly and moved to stand behind their president. Andy saw Shades and Six-Pack among them. Dirty Dan pulled the office door closed, shutting Delilah inside, and stepped to Red’s side.

  “What do you mean, ‘not today’,” asked the man in front.

  “I mean not fucking today. You are not welcome—actually, not just today, but not ever,” Tug responded, taking another step. He pulled all the men behind him forward a step with his movement as if he were magnetic and they couldn’t let him advance without a corresponding stride.

  Andy saw another group of bikers stand and move as a unit to the other side of the room, not wanting to be caught in middle. One of the girls came running from the back and scooped Little April up, rushing her offstage.

  “That is too bad,” the man drawled. “I was told this was a place where all were welcome.”

  “That rumor is not true,” said Tug, “and the lie has been put to bed.”

  There was a loud murmur of discussion from the bikers in the place as they realized they’d been duped, and had unknowingly trespassed on the property of one of the most powerful MCs in Chicago.

  Bones spoke up, his voice carrying through the room, “This is true; I spoke with Mason. One of his brothers made a mistake, but the Rebels will not seek reprisal for any club represented here today, unless there is blood.” Whirling his finger above his head, he told his crew, “Skeptics, ride.”

  They walked carefully towards the front entrance, which was still filled with Machos. It would probably have worked, except one of the Skeptics was shoulder-checked by a Machos member, and they both landed on the floor in seconds with flying fists and feet.

  The first shot rang out, coming from the front of the room, and Andy heard a deep grunt beside him. He turned to see Dan’s body slowly falling to his knees as his legs unhinged and fell backwards. His body sagged in an arch across his boots, arms and hands sprawled carelessly to his sides, head tipped back against the floor. There was a small, tidy hole next to his left eye, slowly bleeding a single red tear down the side of his slack face.

  “Fuck me.” Andy drew his handgun and turned over several tables near him, crouching behind one with Tug as bullets began to fly in the room. He listened to the ebb and flow of the fight; there were cycles to everything, and gunfire was no different. After a second, he chanced a look around the edge of the table and saw men scattered around the room. “Tug, we firing?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Yeah, Pros, Machos only, if you can,” came the response, and Andy saw Red nod in agreement.

  Drawing a slow breath in, Andy propped his arms on top of the table. Taking careful aim, he began pulling the trigger slowly and methodically, moving from target to target. He watched as man after man fell. He was trying to keep the shots non-lethal, but sometimes that was not possible, and he took the shots he was given.

  Running out of ammunition, he quickly sat down behind the table again. Pulling a spare magazine from his back pocket, he ejected the spent one and slapped the loaded one into place. Getting back into firing position, he saw there were only six green patches still standing in the room, and he took them down quickly. That left him six shots in the gun, and no spare magazines.

  He realized there was no more gunfire, and cautiously climbed to his feet, seeing Tug move quickly across the room. Andy walked over to Dan and looked down into his already cloudy eyes. “Fuck me,” he breathed out.

  Red was looking at him with wide eyes, and Andy shook his head at him while walking away. He needed to have Tug’s back, and he’d already let him get too far. Stretching his long legs into fast strides, he pulled up beside and barely behind Tug as he stooped down to turn over one of the dead.

  Andy spun and stood there with his back to Tug, watching the rest of the room, his gun held loosely in his hand by his side.

  “Goddammit to hell,” Tug muttered, then shouted without looking up, “Bones!”

  “Yeah,” came the call from across the room, “you had blood, Tug. You had blood first, brother.”

  “I know,” yelled
Tug. “Goddammit, this is fucked up. How are your guys, any hurt?”

  “Nah, we’re all good, barely a scrape from the fisticuffs. I got no blood, no death,” Bones intoned solemnly.

  “Thank fuck,” Tug muttered, “Andy, get started pulling the wounded over to the wall beside the stage.” He stood, turning slowly and surveying the room, calling, “Red, civilians to the back, brother.”

  Andy got to work, dragging the wounded men by their feet or collars, depending on where they had been shot. He positioned them carefully along the wall, pairing ones that were hurt more seriously next to someone who looked okay enough to help, if they were so inclined.

  He grabbed the first aid kit from behind the bar, and tossed it to an uninjured Machos member, then pointed him towards the wall of injured. Fucker must have been on the floor; Andy hadn’t seen him until now. Fuck, another uninjured came waltzing out from behind the bar, so Andy herded him over too.

  Bones and his men helped Andy sort out the dead. They first went to Dirty Dan and straightened his limbs where he lay, folding his hands across his stomach and covering him with a tablecloth.

  Bones then had his men start stacking the Machos’ dead along a different wall. They handled each of them with respect, tidying their clothes and straightening their cuts as they laid them out. Red was handling the citizen non-combatants, and had moved them into one of the dressing rooms in the back, putting all the girls in a different one.

  It seemed like bare minutes later when Mason stalked into the room with a handful of Rebels, fists balled on his hips as he shouted, “What the fuck happened here?”

  Bones stepped up. “My men were leaving, and Franks,” he pointed at his man with a bleeding nose, “was insulted by a Mexican cartel biker, Machos, a green patch. During their exchange, one of the Mexicans fired off a shot.”

  Tug took a deep breath, interrupting Bones, “Killed Dirty Dan, Mason. Fucking shot him in the face.”

  Bones spoke again, “Sixteen green patches dead, ten more injured, four yet live unbloodied.”

  Andy saw Mason’s face morph as his teeth bared in a snarl of pure, feral rage, his jaw tightly clenched, and his hands balled into shaking fists. “Who the fuck killed sixteen Mexican bikers in my fucking strip club?” he roared. “Who the fuck turned this into a warzone?”

  Andy blew out the breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding, stepping into Mason’s line of sight. “Six injured and thirteen dead are on me, Mason,” he said, standing straight and upright, not daring to call Mason by his club title. After this, he expected them to rip his cut off at any moment, and he wouldn’t have the right.

  “Machos turned this into a war, Prez,” Tug said. “Three dead are mine, three injured.”

  A low voice came from Red, “One injured is mine, Prez.”

  “This is a fucking goddamn pile of shit topped off with drug cartel dead, brothers.” Mason was calming down a little. “First, the call about Monster, and then this shit? Is this officially Fuck Mason in the Ass Day or some shit? Fuck me with a whole bo—no…a case of fuck, not a box, a fucking case…a case of fuck. Fuck me with a case of fuck.” He continued his rant as he surveyed all the chaos that had gone down in his absence until Tug stepped over to Mason’s side.

  “No other club was involved, thank God. The call to return fire came from me; Andy asked permission, and I fucking gave it, because they were firing on us. Machos brought the war, Mason. There are no local club injuries other than our own, and Bones has stated in plain English, in full hearing of all present that first blood was drawn by Machos firing a weapon. There are four uninjured, two of which are officers. The ten injured will all live, and they all know this shit is on them. Prez, there should be no blowback from this. It’s as clean as a fucked up piece of shit can be.”

  Red cleared his throat. “I, uh...I do have eight citizens locked in a room in the back, all unhurt.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “Their, uh...their phones are in a box behind the bar, along with their car keys, and wallets. The girls are in lockdown in the panic room, all unhurt. Delilah is in the office, unhurt.”

  Mason snapped to Tug, “Call Tats; lockdown at the clubhouse until we’re sure. Pull in families for now, and let’s plan on a week.”

  Tug nodded, took his phone from his pocket, and initiated a call that would bring all Rebel members and their immediate families into the extended clubhouse. Andy’d heard it discussed over the past few weeks, and the facility located in southern Wisconsin sounded like more of a compound than any MC clubhouse he had seen before; it could house up to three hundred people.

  “Bones, what we discussed on the phone still stands. No blowback, no issues, the change in status of this business was a miscommunication. I thank you for your help today.” Mason walked over and offered his hand. “I owe you, brother.”

  Bones gripped his wrist firmly, shaking slowly up and down. “I will hold you to that, Mason. A Rebel marker is a significant thing; I appreciate your respect.” He pointed at Andy with his other hand. “If you get tired of this one, I would like to know. Balls of titanium, he has. Easy as you please, just fired...a plunk, a plunk, a plunk...like he was at a carnival, shooting balloons. Never even broke a fucking sweat, simply took care of business.” Releasing Mason’s arm, Bones reached out to Andy. Shooting a look at Mason, who nodded, Andy accepted the grip on his wrist, returning it. Bones asked him, “Who the fuck are you, brother?”

  “This is Slate,” Mason responded proudly, “our newest and best prospect.” Andy looked at him in confusion, and Mason continued with a hard laugh, “Just named the fucker; take a look at his face, Bones, knocked him senseless. Slate—it’s a hard fucking rock, takes a fuckton of abuse without breaking. Joining an MC is also a chance to begin again, so you are officially a clean slate as of today. Write your own fucking story, Slate, hard and unbreakable. It’s a good name, brother. Write your own story.”

  ***

  It had been a tough year-and-a-half for Slate, since he walked into Jackson’s for the first time. Tough, but exciting, and if he would admit it, it had been fulfilling too. Moving through the ranks of the club from prospect, to member, and then now as a trusted confidante of the national president—every step forward just worked to validate his decision to keep moving for so long. He’d finally found what he’d been looking for…where he belonged.

  Sitting in the waiting area of Ink Me, a tat shop a couple of blocks up the street from Tupelo’s, Slate ran his hands through his hair distractedly. Tupelo’s was a neutral bar owned by Rebels; he’d been working there for the past couple of months. Located on Cicero Avenue, it was in a part of town where it was necessary to keep a guard posted in the parking lot to ensure everything stayed where it was supposed to be.

  He was there for the last session on his back piece, ready to ink the final bits of color into his commitment to the Rebels. In addition to completing the patch design that was being etched into his skin, complete with rockers, Slate had asked the artist to work up a sketch to go across his lower back, hip to hip. Framed with a faintly French-flavored fleur-de-lis design, he wanted the words, ‘Bleed with me and you will forever be my brother’.

  “Yo, Slate,” came the high-pitched call from the back of the shop. He climbed to his feet, walking the hallways between the private stations until he arrived at the last one on the left.

  “Silly, you ready for me, baby?” he teased.

  “Always ready, big guy.” She nodded her neon head; if her hair color was any indication, she must be feeling a little frantic today, because that particular shade of green looked like it should be buzzing. It looked striking against her dark, Hispanic coloring. She held out her hands, flicking them under his nose. “Lookie, Slate, aren’t they pretty?”

  He pulled back his head, focusing with difficulty on the dermal piercings she had on the backs of her moving hands and fingers. “Roses, Silly?” he asked, not quite sure he had made out what the design was.

  Her response was a shrill, �
��Yeaaahhh, look—orange and lavender roses. Orange means desire and enthusiasm, and lavender means enchantment. I’m enchantingly enthusiastic and desirable.” She admired the backs of her hands, squealing, “Aren’t they pretty? You know, I thought about a day of the dead skull, but the roses were so pretty!”

  “Sylvia, they are definitely beautiful, just like you,” Slate said solemnly. Taking off his cut and shirt, he hung them up carefully and unfastened his pants, pushing them down barely off his hips, giving Sylvia plenty of room to work on the back piece. Straddling the chair, he leaned forward and cushioned his head on his folded arms, waiting.

  She slapped his ass hard, laughing when he jumped. He was looking at her, watching carefully, and laughed silently to himself when he saw the transformation from silly-Silly, to work-focused-Sylvia. She pulled out her portfolio book, refreshing herself on the requirements before beginning. Her hands stretched out for the machine and ink, her foot automatically pushing the pedal into position as she readied the colors needed for his tattoo.

  He saw her retrieve a piece of paper from the table, and took it when she wordlessly offered. It was a sketch of the tattoo for his lower back. “That’s perfect, Sylvia. Can we do that today after you finish up on my colors?” He was pleased with her work so far, and already had a half-dozen more ideas floating around in his head. He knew she’d do each vision justice.

  Her voice had dropped two octaves, sounding raspy and whisky-filled; this was definitely her alter ego, Sylvia. “I’m ready, Slate. Get still and hold the fuck on, man. We’re gonna ride, so let’s get this party started.” He heard the buzz of the machine and relaxed into the sting on his skin as his eyes drifted closed.

  Later that evening, he was standing near the back wall in Tupelo’s, his back burning pleasantly, reminding him he shouldn’t lean against anything. As a neutral territory bar, they had their share of regulars who came in to meet with friends patched into other clubs. Tonight, however, he’d seen quite a few men come in he didn’t know, and even more unusual—he didn’t recognize their patches, and they didn’t introduce themselves. That meant they were either gypsies from off, roaming and looking for places to start a chapter, or new clubs in the area, who were unaware of protocol when coming into the bar for the first time.