Rebel Rising: A Rebel Storm MC Romance

by Tahlia Gold

  Jimmy Mac pulls a pistol out from behind the bar, holds it by his side. “Not a problem. Good to see you man.”

  The door to the meeting room is closed. I walk up to it and take a deep breath before I go in to calm myself down. I have no idea what to expect on the other side of the door. Some of the guys I know are sympathetic to me and they hate Road Dawg but it’s very possible that I’ll never walk out of this building alive. But I’m not doing this for me. I’m doing it for Prez and I’m doing it for the club.

  Inside, Road Dawg is sitting at the head of the table, in Prez’s spot. Everyone turns to look at me when I walk in.

  “Well, well, well.” Road Dawg leans back in his seat—no, in Prez’s seat. “Look what the cat dragged in. A goddamned traitor boys. I honestly never thought I’d see the likes of you again. Not if you knew what’s good for you. Apparently you don’t.”

  I give him a nice, big, relaxed smile. “No, you’re not going to get rid of me that easy.”

  Road Dawg leans forward again, puts his palms flat on the table. “Check him for a gun.”

  I hold up my hands while somebody takes the gun from my waistband. It doesn’t matter. For what I’m planning I don’t need a gun. Besides, if they want to kill me, one pistol isn’t going to make a hell of a lot of difference.

  “I see,” Road Dawg says, “you’re still wearing your jacket. The fucking nerve. But not for long. I wasn’t going to bring it up today but since you decided to be a dumbass and show your face, we may as well vote on it.”

  Road Dawg looks around the table. “Our so-called brother here told his little bitch of a girlfriend about club business. Told her we’re in a war. Who knows what she did with that info. For all we know he’s the reason Prez is laying in a grave right now. And then he had the audacity to point a gun at me. Honestly, maybe he and his girl were in on Prez getting killed. I know he’d set his sights on Prez’s place at the table. He’s a fucking traitor.”

  I start clapping, slowly. Everybody is looking at me. “Bravo, Road Dawg. And nice touch with the word audacity. Where the hell did you learn a word like that?”

  “I learned it from your whore mother,” he says. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Is that so?” He’s trying to get under my skin but I’m done playing his games. “Let’s see. You said I’m a traitor? That’s funny because if anybody in this room could be called that it’s you. This entire war with the Soul Crushers was orchestrated by you so that you could make a little cash. Prez is dead right now because you’re a greedy son of a bitch.”

  Road Dawg laughs. “Just keep talking your lies. You’re only digging your grave deeper.”

  He’s acting cool but I can see the fear in his eyes. Road Dawg is reckless, not fearless. Prez was fearless. I saw that man wade into brawls when he was outnumbered ten-to-one with nothing more than his fists and his balls. No, this man is not fearless and he never will be. Nor is he all that bright. Prez was right. He’s not cut out to be the man on top.

  “So,” I say, “you’re telling us, your brothers, that you haven’t been selling guns on the side? Cutting into Soul Crusher business?”

  His eyes shift to the left for a split-second before he answers. “Fuck no I haven’t. Anybody that says I have is a lying bitch. I stand by that.”

  “Interesting,” I say. “I’m sure you won’t mind hearing from somebody who is saying just that then?”

  “Fuck this,” Road Dawg says. “Let’s vote this scum out and get on with real business.”

  Ripper pipes up. “Hold on now Road Dawg. Let’s hear what the man has to say.” Other guys nod their agreement.

  Road Dawg shrugs. He can’t go against everyone. “Whatever. But after we hear his lies I’m going to personally stomp his face in for slandering my good name.”

  I go get the meth head. I practically have to pry him off the stool because he knows walking into a room full of bikers to snitch on a business partner is akin to a death sentence. I tell him he’ll be free to go afterwards—I don’t mention the deal doesn’t stand if I’m dead though.

  Back inside the meeting room, I tell the story of how Road Dawg took me to Vegas and how we bought guns, gave them to Skinny Pete, and how Road Dawg told him to mail them to him and that he wanted lots more after.

  “Isn’t all that true, Pete?”

  He looks like he’s about to cry.

  Ripper says, “Answer him you little shit.”

  Skinny Pete mumbles something and I elbow him in the ribs. He says “Yes, yes it’s true.”

  Road Dawg says, “He’s lying. Look at him. He’s a crackhead. This is your proof? Oh my god, you’re dumber than I thought.”

  The guys are siding with Road Dawg, saying it’s true you can’t trust a crackhead, especially when it’s his word against a brother.

  “You know,” I say, “the thing that all meth heads have in common? Besides missing teeth?”

  Road Dawg says, “I know what it is. They’re all goddamned liars, and they’re good-for-nothing wastes of space that belong in the ground. That’s exactly where this one is about to be.” He gives Skinny Pete a long, hard look.

  I say, “That’s true Road Dawg, they are all liars. They’ll say anything, do anything to get another hit off the meth pipe. But another thing that comes from the speed? It makes them pay attention to the details. It can come out in different ways. Some of them have the cleanest houses you’ve ever seen. Some have lawns that would rival a Japanese Zen garden. But our friend here?”

  I pull skinny Pete next to me, put my arm around him. He’s shivering.

  “He’s actually your friend too isn’t he Road Dawg. You two did time together?”

  Road Dawg looks like he’s about to explode. The words come out in bursts. “That don’t mean shit. I done a lot of time with lot of peckerwoods like this.”

  “Sure, I know you’ve done your fair share of time with a lot of meth heads. But the thing about this particular peckerwood? He saves everything. He’s meticulous. When you took me to his house, I noticed it. His little trailer is wall-to-wall with filing cabinets and boxes. Every time he buys so much as a pack of cigarettes, a case of beer, he saves the receipt. Isn’t that right?”

  Skinny Pete nods. I’m surprised he hasn’t shit himself already. Maybe he has; it’s hard to tell with the way he smells.

  Road Dawg’s face goes white. He knows where this is going.

  “So,” I say, “when you had him buying guns for you he also saved the receipts then.”

  “That,” Road Dawg says, “don’t mean shit. He wasn’t buying a damn thing for me. Tell them you fucking peckerwood.”

  Skinny Pete is staring hard at the ground. I feel his body tense up like he wants to bolt.

  I pull the envelope out of my back pocket, put it on the table. Somebody opens it and spreads twenty receipts out on the table.

  “Now,” I say, “I know exactly what you’re going to say, Road Dawg. The gun receipts themselves aren’t enough to prove anything. And if you said that, you’d be right. But—in your infinite wisdom—you had Skinny Pete here ship the guns to one of your side-chick’s houses. And guess what? I think you’ve already guessed based on the look on your sad face right now. Yep, he saved the post office slips for that too! Imagine that.”

  Now Road Dawg isn’t saying anything. His eyes are darting back and forth, trying hard to figure a way out. Too bad for him, figuring isn’t his strong suit. I almost feel sorry for him. He’s like a trapped animal, ready to gnaw his own hand off to save himself. I almost feel sorry, except for he’s the reason Prez is dead. And for that, he has to pay.

  The guys around the table are murmuring to themselves. A couple are staring daggers into Road Dawg.

  “And you know what else?” I say. “I had a little chat with the president of the Crushers. He already knew it was you trying to edge in on his gun business. You weren’t too sneaky about it somehow. But he thought it was a club sanctioned action. I let him know you were a lon
e operator. He said he was willing to kill the war if we hand you over to him.”

  Road Dawg tries to get up but two guys grab him, take his guns—even making sure to get the one he keeps in his boot—and sit him back down like he’s a kid in the principal’s office.

  “Of course,” I say, “I’m not going to hand over a Rebel to those bastards even if that Rebel is a murderous traitor like you. We protect our own. That’s something you never quite got the hang of.”

  He spits at me but it doesn’t even make it to my boots. “Fuck you,” he says. “I don’t give a shit. You’re a pussy. All of you are pussies. Prez was a pussy. I was just trying to make us better, stronger. Give us more money. Don’t you understand that? Guns are the future. Guns are where the real money is.”

  “Guns,” I say, “are where the real risk is. We’re smarter than that. You’re not. That’s why we’re going to vote now on what to do with you. All in favor of cutting him out of the club?”

  Every hand in the room, except his and Skinny Pete’s, goes up.

  “Motion carried,” I say. “But what to do with him? I say we have enough blood on our hands. There’s no reason to hand him over to the Crushers. They’re blood thirsty. They would cut his dick off and feed it to him. With the guns out of the equation, our beef with them stops. They’ve spilled our blood, we’ve spilled theirs. I think it will die on its own. But what do we do with Road Dawg?”

  Somebody says burn him alive in a barrel of diesel. These guys don’t take treachery lightly.

  I say, “That’s an option.”

  As much as I hate this lying bastard, I don’t want his death on my conscience. That’s not how I want to live my life. So I’m going to at least try to convince them to spare him.

  “But,” I say, “he’s one of us and I think we give him one chance to leave town. Go to the East Coast, as far from Oakland as possible. If he ever sets foot in this town again, hell, if he ever sets foot in Cali again, then we chain some concrete blocks to his feet and dump him into the East Bay… alive. All in favor?”

  The guys are mulling it over. I raise my hand. Then someone else raises their hand. Road Dawg even raises his hand which is almost funny but his vote obviously doesn’t count here. Slowly, one by one, enough guys raise their hands to give it a majority. Some of the older guys, like Darkside, don’t raise their hands. They have revenge in their eyes. They came up with Prez. They might even have ideas to go after Road Dawg when he’s gone. I’m sure as hell not going to stop them. He’s on his own now. That was his choice. He decided that when he went against his brothers.

  Now they’ll take his most prized possession—his jacket—and set it on fire. They’ll burn the tattoo of Rebel Storm off his back. It won’t feel good. Then they’ll tattoo ‘BANISHED’ across his chest, prison style. They’ll beat his face until it’s a bloody mess. He may not have any teeth left when they finish. But they won’t kill him. They won’t kill him because they’ll stand by the decision we made together, as brothers.

  I feel good. I feel so fucking good. It’s like the weight of the universe has been lifted off me. Prez would be happy I think. Even he wouldn’t have wanted Road Dawg to be murdered. An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind. I’m right with the club and they’re right with me.

  But there’s one thing missing:

  Jess.

  33

  Jess

  A week has gone by since the incident with the security guy and Webber has managed an incredible feat: she hasn’t said a single word to me. It’s quite impressive. We’ve had to work together—closely—a couple times now and even then if she had to tell me something she would just say it to a nurse but loud enough for me to hear. The nurses were confused at first but gossip travels fast in the hospital and by now I think even the janitors know what happened with the security footage and why she’s so pissed off.

  Webber and I are the only two docs working the Emergency Room today and she’s still keeping up her silent treatment. I thought she might give it up soon, if for nothing else than it’s entirely impractical and unsafe, but that woman is stubborn as hell. Maybe even as stubborn as I am.

  It’s fine with me though. I really don’t care to speak to her either.

  Another person on the short list of people I haven’t spoken to this week is Dylan. I called him once but his phone was off and it went straight to voicemail. I think I left a ten second message of me just breathing into the phone like a weirdo, trying to think of something to say, something to make sense of everything, but finally I just gave up. After that I didn’t try calling again and he hasn’t tried to contact me either. Probably it’s the end of us.

  I’m empty inside. It’s like a star died—an old star that burned bright for so long—and when it left, it created a black hole where my heart used to be.

  The Residency Review Board sent me an official-looking letter a few days ago saying that I’m to appear before them at the end of the week for disciplinary action and possible termination of my status as a resident. Webber will be there and she’ll make her case against me. She’ll probably say something like I’m irresponsible, unfit to be a doctor. I don’t think I’ll even have a response. Maybe she’s right. I’m not sure anymore. Anyway, it won’t matter what I say. It’s just a formality at this point. The board will do whatever she wants. She’s the head of the Department, she has twenty years of experience as a doctor, and her word is as good as gold with them.

  Madison has been consoling me, telling me everything will be okay, that I’ll be able to find another residency to accept me. It’s sweet of her but I don’t think a residency will touch me with a ten-foot pole. If I want to be a doctor, I’ll have to go to some third-world country where they’re starved for medical staff and they would be willing to overlook some past indiscretions. That’s if—a very big, fat if—I still want to be a doctor. I’ve lost all confidence in myself.

  While Madison is giving me her latest round of pep-talks, a call comes crackling in from the dispatcher over the radio.

  “75-year-old male found unresponsive. Faint pulse. In and out of consciousness. Complaining of chest pain.”

  Here we go.

  When I get to the ambulance bay, Webber is already there. When she sees me, she just shakes her head and looks away. We wait in silence for a long three minutes before the ambulance whines to a stop and the doors swing open.

  Then all hell breaks loose.

  They’re rolling the patient out of the rig. He has an oxygen mask on and his eyes are half open, his hand is on his chest. He’s in a lot of pain.

  Webber lets out an ear-piercing scream when she sees him.

  “Dad!” she says.

  It’s Webber’s father. I’ve met him once before. A retired Army Sargent. A great guy who currently appears to be in very bad shape.

  The paramedic is rattling off his vitals and I’m not sure if Webber is even listening so I’m doing my absolute best to concentrate on every word that comes out of his mouth. There’s fat tears falling out of Webber’s eyes as she’s trying to shake him, to wake him up.

  “Dad!” She’s shouting into his face. He’s not responding now. She slaps him, hard, and he comes to for a moment—confused, eyes wild and searching.

  “Doris?” He asks.

  “No, dad, it’s me, Delilah. Mom is gone. It’s your daughter, Delilah.”

  Webber is losing it. She’s in no condition to deal with this.

  I put my hand on her shoulder. “Let’s get him into a room.”

  She whirls around. “Don’t you touch me,” she screams. “And don’t even think about touching him.”

  That seems to at least jolt her out of her panic and she’s back to doctor mode, giving orders to the nurses.

  We get him into the trauma room. I want to leave, to get away from her, get away from the entire situation. But I can’t. She’s pretending like she’s in control, but her hands are shaking, and I don’t think she’s going to make good decisions. She’s way too c
lose to the situation.

  Webber frantically reads the EKG. She’s like a scared animal. Finally, she looks up and announces to the room, “Ok, people. He’s having a heart attack. The EKG shows an inferior stemi. This is his second heart attack. You know what to do. Follow my orders.”

  Then she turns to her dad who is now semi-awake. “You’re having another heart attack Dad, but don’t worry we’re going to take good care of you.”

  He manages to say something. “My back hurts like hell.” And he’s clutching his stomach too.

  Webber just nods and orders aspirin and Heparin from Madison who immediately starts to prepare it.

  Something is not right.

  I don’t think this is a heart attack. Back pain and belly pain means it could be an aortic dissection—easily confused with a heart attack.

  And if Webber gives him what she intends to give him it’s going to kill him. If I’m right and she’s wrong, she’s going to kill her father.

  “Doctor,” I say to her.

  “Not now,” she says. “If you can’t help then stay the hell out of the way.”

  “Have you considered—“

  She snaps at me. “I was trying to be polite before but now I’m going to be blunt. Do not say another word to me.”

  I go over to where Madison is working on the meds and whisper to her to take the blood pressure in both arms before she gives the meds.

  “Are you sure? Webber will jump all over me.”

  “Please. It’s possible this isn’t a heart attack and Webber isn’t thinking clearly about it.”

  Madison does what I ask. She starts taking his blood pressure.

  “What are you doing?” Webber asks. “I ordered aspirin. He’s having a heart attack.”

  “It’s coming,” Madison says. “I’m just taking his blood pressure. The meds will be here in one moment.”

  The blood pressures in both arms are slightly different. That’s enough to warrant an ultrasound of his belly to check for dissection.