Dream & Dare

by Susan Fanetti

  Bibi listened, and then her head dropped abruptly. “Faith!...Faith, wait—” She let her hand holding the phone fall to her side. “She’s not comin’. Hooj, God. She’s not comin’. It’ll never be fixed, will it? Everythin’s fallin’ apart around us.”

  “Hush, Beebs. C’mere.” He pulled her close again. “Just a rough patch, okay?”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s more’n that. Remember when you told me we were safer in this club?”

  He froze in the middle of stroking her hair. “Yeah.”

  “Is it still true, Hooj? It doesn’t feel true anymore.”

  It wasn’t true. The club he’d patched into more than twenty years ago was not the same club that was on its knees before the Perros now. This club had chased money straight into the jaws of a wolf. This club was overseen by a man who had forgotten that anyone mattered by himself, and he had taken dozens of charters to the brink of disaster without even noticing.

  And that had to change. It was time to start putting the club to rights again—or at least this charter, the men Hoosier led. Maybe this club wasn’t where they belonged anymore. Maybe this club had lived past its prime.

  “I’ll make it true again, baby. Trust me. I’ll fix it.”

  “I trust you, Hooj. I love you.”

  “Love you better.”

  ~oOo~

  As always, Bibi did him proud, arranging a funeral for a well-known and esteemed member of long standing. The clubhouse and shop were packed so tightly they were probably a fire hazard. And somehow, Bibi managed to handle all those needs and still focus on her best friend, who was moving through the day like a ghost.

  Another person moving like a ghost was Demon. Hoosier had kept his eye on the boy, and he’d been skirting the periphery, keeping his distance from Margot and Sera. More than once, Hoosier had seen him standing as tall as he could, his head canted up—scanning the room. Looking for Faith, Hoosier knew.

  He was damn glad to see the kid, but, apart from a warm greeting, Hoosier had let him be. It had to be tough, being here after so many years away, especially considering the way he’d left.

  With Blue gone, Hoosier could make that, at least, right. Something good could come out of the loss. But could it? Would Demon even see this as his home anymore, after the hell they’d put him through?

  Toward the end of the evening, with that question still rattling around in his head, Hoosier escaped into the parking lot to try to sneak a smoke. Bibi had strong-armed him into quitting, and it was a shitty time to be denying himself the occasional pleasure and stress-relief of a Marlboro.

  Still, he didn’t need the lecture, and he’d be sure to get one if she saw him light up.

  When Demon came out not two minutes later, looking like he was on his way to the road, Hoosier called him over. It was time to bring the boy back home.

  SIXTEEN

  It had been an ambush, as far as Hoosier was concerned.

  He wasn’t ready. It should have been up to him to decide whether he was ready or not. He’d only been driving again for two weeks, and only three days ago, he’d taken the trike on the road.

  Damn, that had felt great. That first trip, feeling the wind in his face, had been the first time since before the fire that he’d felt like there was still a future left for him. He’d felt like a young turk, even rolling that old man’s excuse for a motorcycle. He’d ridden every day since, and the day before, he’d been on the road with Connor and Demon for three hours.

  Beautiful. Exhilarating.

  But that had only been three days ago. And now those two men, his son and the man he considered a son, had sat him at the picnic table in Demon’s yard, with Bart and Muse, and he’d been fucking ambushed.

  They wanted him back at the head of the table. He’d sat and listened to their arguments, feeling more agitated by the minute. Things with the club were getting complicated. As he’d known she eventually would, Dora Vega was letting her massive power turn her head. The balance Hoosier and she had struck just before he’d been hurt now teetered on its axis.

  And the Feds were nosing closer to Madrone, still on the Allen Cartwright hit. A job they’d done for La Zorra.

  He was torn by his need to take the reins back and pull his club out of danger. But he’d made Bart his Vice President because, regardless of any personal reservations he might have had, he’d been sure the man—with genius smarts, a strong will, a good heart, and a clear sense of where to lay down a firm line—could and would keep the charter strong. They’d only had one serious disagreement, and that had been on the matter that had put them in league with La Zorra.

  Maybe Bart had been right. But that was immaterial now. They were where they were, and they needed a strong leader to keep them steady. Had he been so wrong? Was Bart not that man?

  But was he still that man? He was recovering quickly now, making strides every day. His short-term memory was improving. He was on the road again. His speech, while still slow, was better. But he was not who he had been. He might never be again. Would never be again.

  “I’m not ready. Christ…almighty.” Couldn’t they tell? He still had to force half the words he wanted to rise to the surface, where he could catch them. He glared at Bart. “You sayin’ you can’t…hack it with the…the…gavel?” Jesus fuck.

  “No, Hooj. That’s not it. I’m saying it’s not my time. Back in Missouri, when Isaac was hurt, Show didn’t take the President patch. Isaac was away almost a year and a half, but Show knew it wasn’t his time. He knew the Horde was still Isaac’s club. And I know that this charter is yours—we are who you made us.”

  Hoosier doubted there would ever be a time when listening to Bart wax on about Isaac Lunden wouldn’t fry his nerves. Like that man was some kind of superhero. He was a good man, sure. Possibly a great man, depending on the measure. But he was just a man.

  “Didn’t make you. You were…dumped on me.” The memory rose up vividly of the fight he’d had with Sam Carpenter over opening the club to Hollywood, and his bringing P.B. from Jacksonville and Bart, who hadn’t even been in the club at the time, from Missouri to the L.A. charter to foster his own ambitions for fame and fortune. If they had been in the same room and not three thousand miles apart, the fight would have ended in violence.

  It had taken him years to truly trust Bart. Even after he’d proved himself loyal, even after it had become clear that they thought about the club and the future in similar ways and Hoosier had brought him up as VP, there had been an edge of reserve between them. Bart had been homesick for Missouri. He lionized Isaac Lunden, and Hoosier resented the comparison.

  Now, Bart sat back, his face tightening with a spasm of anger. “Maybe so. You think I’m not all in now?”

  “You know how I feel. I think you’re…Horde. Always been.” That was unfair; he knew it even as he forced the words out. But it wasn’t untrue.

  “We’re all Horde, Hooj.” That was Muse. Hoosier turned to him, surprised. Since he had joined the SoCal charter, Muse had always kept a bit of distance from Bart, examining his input and actions closely. To hear him suggest that any perceived or real reserve Bart had kept between him and his California brothers was irrelevant was unexpected, at least.

  But he was right: they were all Horde. Sam Carpenter had led them to wrack and ruin, and the Night Horde had brought them back. Bart had brought them back.

  ~oOo~

  “Jesus, Hooj! Just look! I know you fucking see it. We are going down the goddamn drain!”

  Hoosier slammed his fist into the table. “We! You say ‘we’ like you give a fuck. You’re worried about your blessed Horde!”

  “Yeah, I love the Horde. And I’m worried. The Horde are taking the brunt of it, and they’re just a few men. And my best friend just died. But your best friend died in this shit, too. The bodies are piled on our doorstep, too.” Bart fiddled with the bandage wrapped around his right forearm, and Hoosier winced. The Perros had made them all watch while they’d blowtorched the ink off his ar
m as punishment for leaking intel to the Horde.

  A leak Hoosier had sanctioned, feeling responsible for the consequences of shutting Bart down earlier.

  Though he’d let him keep it, that ink—a steel horse—had poked at Hoosier for years, like a constant symbol that he had a man at his table with divided loyalties, a man still clinging to the life he’d been forced to leave. But he’d been sickened and disheartened to watch it bubble, melt, and blacken, and to witness the young man’s furious effort to be stalwart through what must have been outrageous agony. The truth was, though Bart’s affections were divided, his loyalty was not. He took the patch he wore seriously. He was a man of his word. Hoosier knew that, even when he forgot it.

  Wincing himself as he moved his arm, Bart went on, “I let you shut me up when Halyard showed up, but no more. I’ve had this patch for four years, Hooj. I’ve proved my loyalty. What I’m saying is that Sam has not. Not anymore. What he’s proved time and time again is that he has Santaveria’s cock so far up his ass we’re all choking on it. He doesn’t care about us, and he will serve us up to the Perros without a second thought. I think he probably already has.”

  Hoosier sighed, feeling weary and defeated. Maybe it was time to just give up. “What would you have me do?”

  “He’s been fucking other charters, too. There’s a lot of unrest. Call a meeting. Bring him to a vote. Or just break free. I can name six charters off the top of my head who would at least be up for a serious talk about reforming the club. And I think you’d name the same six. Maybe more.”

  Hoosier sat back and pulled on his beard. He could. Nobody was happy. “It’s a big move.” He widened his view, turning to his VP and SAA. “Jack, Connor: thoughts?”

  Fat Jack sighed and shook his head. “It is a big move. I think the geek’s right, though. Only a big move is gonna reset our path. But I tell ya what: I’m done. However this plays out, I am tired old man, and I’ve seen enough of blood. I’ll stick with you through this meet, if that’s what you’re doin’, but you need younger blood than mine for the fight that’s comin’.”

  The chapel was quiet as the other officers processed Jack’s declaration. For all the long years that he’d sat at the head of the table, he’d had two close advisors, two dear friends: Fat Jack, a mentor since before they wore the same patch, and Blue, whom he’d sponsored long, long ago. He’d lost Blue. Now he was losing Jack. He felt rudderless.

  But he didn’t object to Jack’s announcement, because Jack was, in fact, a tired old man, on the downward slope to eighty, and that was, in fact, a long time to be on the road. He deserved the rest.

  But Connor objected. “Jack, you can’t—”

  “Quiet, son.” Hoosier locked eyes with Jack. “Jack knows his mind. You’ll be missed, brother. Can’t tell you how much.”

  Fat Jack chuckled. “I ain’t dyin’. Not yet. I’ll be around. But you need somebody stronger and sharper at your side. Somebody with a vision of the future. You got the past covered yourself—you ain’t no spring chicken, kid.”

  Hoosier laughed—no, he wasn’t. He’d seen sixty roll by himself.

  And then Jack turned to Bart. “He needs somebody who’ll see what he can’t.”

  Hoosier understood him right away—resisted the understanding, then accepted it for its truth. But Bart blinked, confused. When he got it, the dawning was clear on his face, and he turned to Hoosier, his brow furrowed.

  Jack was right, but Hoosier wasn’t ready to admit it. “That’s a decision for another day. For now, I agree that the meet is a good idea. Let’s bring it to the table, and then if we get the vote, we’ll put it together. I want Sam in on it. None of this fucking underhanded bullshit. I want it right out front what we’re doin’ and why.”

  “That’s a risk. If Sam sics the Perros on us over it, we’re through.”

  “You’re right, son. But I don’t think he will. Showing Santaveria he’s losin’ control of his own club don’t do him any favors. Okay. Let’s get the legwork done on this as fast as we can.”

  ~oOo~

  A few weeks later, the whole club—families, sweetbutts, and all—were gathered in Hoosier and Bibi’s house. On lockdown. Homeless. Sam had turned their compound into a smoldering crater.

  The leader of their own club had blown his most profitable and highest-profile charter off the map. And if Bart’s friend Rick hadn’t alerted them, he’d have taken God knew how many lives down with it.

  But after the Vegas meet, where Hoosier had announced the LA charter’s intention to secede, and in which the entire club had made a vote of no confidence in Sam, they’d been on the lookout for trouble. So when Rick had sent up the flare, they’d gotten everybody clear—and even most of the bikes from the shop. They’d lost the rental inventory, and a couple of custom projects that hadn’t been fit to move quickly, but all the customer bikes and the most valuable show bikes were saved.

  Sam had shown his hand, and all he’d accomplished was to destroy a major revenue stream and to solidify his opposition. He was done for. Nothing left now but for him to realize it.

  And to be ready for whatever hell he rained down on them before he did.

  ~oOo~

  “Isaac is taking it to the table. It’ll be his last new business before he and Len go inside.”

  Bart handed Hoosier a beer and took a seat on the sofa across from him. Behind him was the biggest Christmas tree Hoosier had ever seen in a house, and it nearly groaned under its burden of glitter and shimmer.

  He wondered whether he’d ever get used to the opulence that was his new VP’s life. He and Bibi had done pretty well for themselves, he thought, but Bart was married to a bona fide celebrity.

  Such a strange thing this MC life had become.

  Right now, they were only a group of guys. LA had broken away from a club which was crumbling, and they were in limbo now. Or maybe it was free-fall. Either way, they had no patch, no affiliation but each other. The question before them for weeks had been whether to form their own new club and, if so, what that club would be.

  Then Bart had suggested becoming Night Horde.

  Hoosier’s initial reaction had been aggravation: yet again, Bart was pining for his old home. But the Horde were allies, stalwart allies, even when that condition hadn’t been mutual. Moreover, they had all decided to put the outlaw life behind them. With a strict focus on legit work, they could use the boost the Horde’s name would give them. They needed to get the bike shop back up and at full speed right from the line.

  As Bart had made his case, he’d convinced the whole table. So now the question was in Missouri hands.

  The question lingering for Hoosier was whether being in any way beholden to yet another distant mother charter was the right direction to lead his men.

  ~oOo~

  Hoosier didn’t want fanfare; he was not convinced it was the right decision or the right time. His speech remained slow, and sometimes he still needed a cue before he could catch a memory. It also stuck in his craw to be riding at the front while he was on three wheels instead of two. But the club had been adamant, and, truth be told, he’d been gratified by their insistence. More than that. He’d been moved beyond measure. And he’d been persuaded.

  So one morning in midsummer, many months after the fire he still had no memory of, Hoosier walked into the closet of the new house he shared with his wife, and he pulled a kutte off its wooden hanger.

  His kutte had been destroyed in the inferno that had taken away his past, so this was new—new leather, new patch, new flash, all gleaming and untouched. He remembered telling his son, long ago, that a man needed to earn the stains and tatters on the patches that showed his commitment to his club. Holding up the stiff leather, eyeing the pristine patches, running his hand over smooth embroidery without pulls or snags, Hoosier wondered if he had time enough to earn them again.

  He supposed he’d find out. Ignoring Bibi’s free-standing mirror, he shrugged on the kutte, then went out to kiss his wife goodbye. He h
ad a meeting in the Keep to lead.

  ~oOo~

  “You look well, Hoosier.” Dora Vega gestured toward a fussy upholstered chair, and Hoosier sat, with Bart and Connor following and seating themselves.

  “Thank you, Dora…I’m…feeling well.”

  She cocked her head. “You still struggle with your speech?”

  The pressure to perform always made the problem worse. At home, when he wasn’t thinking about it, he could sometimes get through several sentences without losing a word. But once the problem was mentioned, thoughts and words decoupled.