Unrequited (Fallen Aces MC #1)

by Max Henry

  We just click. Witty banter comes so naturally with her, and she gives as good as she gets. I feel like she was more than a one-night stand—she’d become a friend. Mixing those two together, lust, and camaraderie, has got me all kinds of fucked up.

  I glance across to Twig’s bike as a pick-up buzzes past us, heading in the opposite direction. Strapped to the sissy bar is the box the creeper gave us. Worn down edges are held together by two wide bands of tape that circumvent the whole cube. Whatever’s inside holds a little weight to it, but it wasn’t too heavy when I strapped it on back at the death shack.

  Apex doesn’t even know what’s inside. Twig’s none to happy about it, and me? Well, I don’t get to ask. I move my gaze up formation to where Apex leads us, stretching first his right and then his left leg off the pedal to presumably regain feeling in his feet. Everything about this run is shared on a need-to-know basis, and being a prospect, there ain’t much need and a hell of a lot less knowing where I’m concerned.

  All I know is the job today is a simple in and out. Pick up and drop off. We take the goods from point A to point B without question and without interference.

  The work Carlos has given us is supposed to pull the club out of the red. It’s no secret between the brothers that the Fallen Aces are in financial trouble. Question is, how did the club get to the point of there barely being enough in the kitty to rub two fucking coins together?

  First impressions—they’re what counts. I’ve been told a hundred times already that I need to keep my head down and speak only when spoken to. I’d question why I’m even here on a run with two officers, but I already know the answer to that. Center patch. I’m here to prove my grit, and show I’m worthy of the honor.

  I’m usually the quiet one, the guy who doesn’t like to cause unnecessary trouble. But I’m also that sneaky fucker who lurks in the shadows, seemingly as calm as a kitten but as dangerous as a fucking tiger. I might be an observer ninety per cent of the time, but I’m also fucking relentless when provoked.

  So here I am.

  Quietly observing.

  Waiting to be provoked.

  Our procession turns into a quiet suburban stretch off the main road, and we weave and wend through the streets. The steady growl of our engines ricochets off the clean, white walls of the well-kept homes around us. Our wheels roll on, and the manicured hedges of the yards soon give way to broken timber palings, and finally rusty chain link. The average re-sale value more than halves the deeper we go, the houses probably part of what was the original estate in these parts. Our procession slows, and with a tight wrist from Apex, we pull off to the side of the road one by one, backing our bikes against the curb, in order and evenly spaced.

  Appearances. Everything in life boils down to appearances.

  Without the deafening tones of the engines running in unison, barking dogs are clear as day, as is the distinct lack of any other sound. The street’s a ghost town. Smart fuckers are probably all inside, hiding behind nicotine-stained blinds, watching what we’re doing here. The creak of leather accompanies the three of us as we dismount, each man stretching his limbs out and groaning as joints pop and crack. We’re not here for a holiday, but after riding as long as we have today, we’re also in no hurry.

  Apex jams his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and rocks back on his heels as he takes in the broken-down house before us. “Fuckin’ disgustin’.” He turns his head to the left and spits, not exactly helping add to the place’s street appeal.

  I walk around my ride to Twig’s bike—a real nice Night Train—and unstrap the cargo as he pulls out a cigarette. My eyes roam the ripped off labels and tags on the box as I do, looking for some clue as to what it originally was. Why? No reason other than curiosity to know more about the people we deal with. I don’t get told much being a prospect, and I wouldn’t say the rule aggravates me, but I feel . . . vulnerable, I guess. When you’re ill informed, you’re ill prepared, and that’s not something that sits well with my nature.

  “Got your shit together yet, King?”

  I tuck the last strap into Twig’s saddlebag and hoist the box up. “Aye.”

  “What do you think is in it?” Twig asks, cigarette bobbing between his lips. He dips his head toward the waiting flame.

  “None of our business.” Apex takes the box from me. “Probably gear, something like it. The guy we’re doing this for is into class A shit, so who’d know what we’ve got in here exactly, or if it’s even pure.”

  “You met this guy?” Twig asks, one eye squinting against the smoke that curls up the side of his nose.

  Apex stares off down the street, clearly avoiding eye contact. “Nup.”

  “Can’t believe we agreed to transport something without knowing what it fuckin’ was,” Twig mumbles.

  “You think I’m that fuckin’ reckless?” Apex prods Twig in the chest with his free hand. “Assurances are it wouldn’t harm us, so unless it’s a tickin’ bomb I couldn’t give a fuck what we’re carrying, only that we’re being paid to do it.” He looks across at me, that ever-present scowl firmly set in place. “King, you have the bikes.” I swear the guy would have a coronary if he smiled.

  Keeping my eyesight firmly on Apex as he wanders casually up the pathway of a dilapidated single-level dwelling, I hold my hand out toward Twig before he goes. He crosses my palm with his pack of cigarettes, following it quickly with the lighter.

  “Thought you were giving up?”

  “There’s a time and a place, and fuckin’ standing around with my finger up my ass while I watch the bikes isn’t it.”

  “Fair enough, brother.” He hangs about and waits for me to return the pack and lighter before joining Prez.

  The tobacco crackles as I take a long drag and squint against the setting sun. There are maybe six or seven more houses each side before the street opens out onto a four-lane highway. The area’s nothing like where I grew up amidst overgrown fields, broken down farm machinery, and a stone’s throw away from the nearby creek where I’d fish with a shitty homemade rod and reel. It might have been frugal, but it was real, and it was mine. Times like this, when I’m stuck in suburbia, I pine for it: the open spaces, the smell of rain on the horizon, and the hum of the tractor working the fields behind the house.

  But things change, and we’d all be fools if we ever thought there was a chance of staying lost in paradise forever.

  The resounding thud of Apex’s knuckles against the front door snap me from my reminiscing. Twig drops his cigarette butt and screws the toe of his boot into it as the front door opens. A middle-aged woman, hair pulled back with grays evident at the edges, looks out at the hulk-ish men on her front stoop. I kind of expect her to slam the door and call the cops, both the kinds of things my mother would have done if she’d been faced with large, leather-clad bikers on her doorstep. But the woman’s face falls, and her head drops, her chin touching her chest as she braces herself with a hand on the doorframe.

  She was expecting us.

  A man soon joins her, just as devastated to see the three of us taking up their front yard. From where I stand, I can’t hear what’s being said, but the gestures Apex makes, and the sullen nods they respond with lets me know that it’s somber. That ill feeling of ice washing over my flesh makes an appearance. Something’s off here. The whole thing just seems too . . . pedestrian.

  Why would three of us have to deliver a couple of kilos of coke or the like? The math doesn’t add up.

  I watch on as Apex holds out the box to the couple to take and the woman looks at it quizzically, as though although she’d seen him holding it, she hadn’t clued it was for them. What were they expecting if not a delivery? The man takes it off Prez’s hands and places it down on the lip of the doorframe to try and open it.

  Apex turns to look at me and with a sweep of his hand, gestures I should join them. “Need your knife.”

  The silence of the street strikes me as I pull the blade from its sheath and offer it to the man. The
dogs have quieted since we arrived, replaced by the rustle of the leaves in the trees. The unrelenting hot wind that’s been plaguing us all day picks up, and somewhere a sprinkler starts its subtle rat-tat-tat. I’d call it the soundtrack to suburban bliss, but I get the feeling the day’s going to end anything but peacefully.

  The tip of the blade pierces the tape, and the guy passes the knife back to me in order to pull at the tabs with his fingers. I catch the pop of the cardboard as it breaks the last seal, right as I slip my blade back in its sheath.

  “Jesus!” the man yells, hands flying from the cardboard as though the material gave him an electric shock. “No. No, no, no . . .”

  Holy shit . . .

  Apex goes stiff to my left, muttering under his breath. He runs a heavily ringed hand over his beard and takes a large step backward as Twig moves forward to peer in the box. He turns rapidly away also, hands braced on the back of his neck.

  What the fuck have we got ourselves into?

  I kneel opposite the man who’s collapsed on his heels and covered his face with both hands. The scream that breaks from the woman when she finally steps forward isn’t anything I can describe; it’s not fucking human, that’s for sure, and tells so much more than words ever could. Blue fabric pools about her in my peripheral as she slides down the doorframe, her shoulder pulling against the wood while she howls.

  My interest never leaves the grotesque contents of our delivery.

  Reaching inside the beaten cardboard cube, I knit my fingers through the whitest blonde hair I’ve ever seen on a little girl—at least, what used to be a little girl. Her head is jammed against the side of the carton, her eyes staring blankly out over my shoulder. Nestled in the soft bedding of her long hair is the head of a younger boy. Fuck, he can’t be more than two years old—all chubby in the cheeks still, and apart from the bruising and hacked flesh where his head’s been sawn roughly from his body, flawless skin.

  What the fuck is Carlos playing at?

  The box goes flying, the contents strewn over these people’s entrance as the woman launches to her feet. I move rapidly out of the way as she growls and barges past my position, knocking Apex in the shoulder to run down the path at speed. Twig lunges for her but misses as she heads straight for our bikes. Fuck. An angry, frustrated roar rips from her throat as she shoots both palms out flat and shunts my bike over into Twig’s. “You assholes!” The machines tilt over with a creak and groan of metal on metal.

  I cringe. God, do I cringe.

  “Lady!” Twig yells, running toward her. “Hands off!”

  Apex reaches her first. He wraps his thick arms about her middle and hoists her clean off the ground. She kicks and thrashes in his hold, beating his arms with her fists, and connects her heel to his shins. He carries her back up the path to where her husband stands in the doorway, shocked, the heads of what I can only assume are their kids at his feet.

  “This is your fault, you spineless fucking asshole,” she screams at the guy, still wrestling against Apex’s hold. He drops her down before the front stoop, keeping her arms behind her back with one of his hands wrapped about her wrists, the other held up to Twig to tell him to put his gun away.

  “You said they wouldn’t hurt them.” Her voice is deep and strained with her grief. “You said it would be okay.” Her body goes limp and slumps against Apex’s legs as she begins to wail.

  “What could I do?” the guy asks, taking tentative steps toward her. “What could I have done different?”

  “All of this happened because of you.” Spittle flies from her lips with the force of the last word. “I fucking hate you!” Her vocal cords crack with the intensity of her words.

  He kneels down before her, Apex letting the woman’s arms go as her husband reaches out.

  She recoils and collides with Prez, moving around him to get away. “Don’t fucking touch me, you liar. You keep your filthy fucking hands off me.” Her palms flat on the path, she pushes off to run toward the children’s heads.

  My stomach cramps as I watch the way she carefully picks them up and lays them side-by-side, muttering the whole time as tears stream her face. “Oh, my babies . . .”

  “Wendy . . .” The man stands and turns to her. “Listen to me, please.” His voice builds to a groan with each word.

  “I think we should probably go,” Twig murmurs to my right.

  Apex has already returned to his bike and sits astride it as he casually sucks on a cigarette. He stares off down the street as though nothing is going on, like these people aren’t falling apart before our eyes. I guess it’s his way of dealing?

  Twig steps toward the man and says something about us leaving, when the guy whirls around. He grips Twig by the wrist and bends around him to snatch the revolver from his waistband.

  “Oh, fuck no.” I pull my Glock out and train it on the guy’s head. I haven’t killed a man, but I’m picking now’s as good a time as any to start.

  Turns out I never had a thing to worry about. The man had no intention of hurting Twig, or the woman. The guy looks his wife square in the eye and utters a few final words, “I’m sorry for everything,” before turning the barrel on himself and blowing his head half off.

  Jesus. What the fuck kind of sideshow did we ride up to?

  Twig dives to the left to try and avoid the mess, but he may as well have been trying to avoid a downpour in the middle of the rainforest. He ends up with blood and brain matter across the side of his face and left shoulder.

  My heart’s going a hundred clicks a minute; seeing people get shot in the movies? It has nothing, nothing on real life.

  The guy’s wife screams where she’s sitting in the entrance to their house, her hands still on the top of her children’s heads. She just stares at her husband’s lifeless body, catatonic, and screams.

  “Come on!” Apex yells from where he’s dismounted amidst the chaos. “We’re fuckin’ out before this shit gets any crazier.”

  I re-holster my weapon and give the man’s body one last look. He’s sprawled half on the path, half on the lawn, advertising to anyone and everyone that shit most certainly ain’t right around here. What did these people do? What the fuck could a man do that means his children are killed and he feels guilty enough to commit suicide as a consequence?

  Twig gives me a pat on the shoulder after he retrieves his gun, and turns to head down toward the bikes. I watch him, lost in the gravity of the moment, trying to make sense of what I’ve just witnessed, while he picks up his ride and mine.

  Apex lifts an apologetic hand to the woman—not that she notices. She’s still screaming.

  The confusion on Twig’s face when I mount my bike is as palpable as my own.

  “What the fuck are we doing here?” I ask him before he fires his engine. “This isn’t what we do. This isn’t us.”

  “I wish I knew.” He lifts his gaze to Apex. “I really wish I could give you an answer there, brother. But I’m still tryin’ to work it out for myself.”

  TWELVE

  King

  The clink of pool balls mingles with the chime of glass on glass as we step through the entrance to a roadhouse just outside the city. It’s busy, but not crowded, giving us options when it comes to a table far enough away from curious ears to talk. We were given instruction to meet Carlos here after the run, as long as it went successfully. I’m not really sure I call that successful.

  Twig sets us up against the back wall at a table that’s seen better days, and heads to the bathrooms to clean the remainder of the dried filth from his face and cut. He did his best in the parking lot to wipe the gore off with his T-shirt, before throwing it in the skip at the side of the building, but there’s only so much a man can do without a bit of water.

  Eyes are on us from all directions. Rough characters aren’t unusual in a place like this, hell, bikers probably aren’t, but what is out of place are our patches. Fallen Aces. We’re sitting in Devil’s Enforcers MC territory.

  “Nosy fuckers, ai
n’t they?” Apex grumbles beside me. He spins on his seat to give them his back and looks me square in the eye. “You holdin’ up after that?”

  “Yeah.” It’s the best answer I can give the guy. I think I am, but I’ve also never seen anything so macabre, so brutal. How long does shock take to set in? I’d like to think I’m not that soft, but fuck, that was some sick shit. Even sicker when I picture the asshole we received the box from. To think his face was the last one those kids got to see . . . it’s the kind of shit that can make a man seek blood, that’s for sure.

  Twig emerges from the men’s looking albeit wetter, a darn sight cleaner. He stops at the bar, and then returns to the table and places three bottles of beer before us.

  As though mirroring my previous thought, Apex turns to Twig and asks, “You rung ahead and let the Enforcers know we’d be passing through, right?”

  “You think I’m fuckin’ stupid?” He dishes out dog-eared cardboard coasters as if they’re playing cards. “Of course I did.”

  We slide the coasters under the drinks like the well-raised men we are. A shave might be few and far between for most of us, and after a few days on the road our jeans become what we call ‘slicks’ from all the dirt and grease embedded in the weave, but we aren’t mongrels. We still have manners.

  “Just checking.” Apex stares across the bar at a guy in a trucker cap whose gut is about as large as the keg of beer he probably consumes each day. “Not in the fuckin’ mood for any more shit today.”

  The three of us fidget with whatever we can lay our hands on as silence cloaks the table: coasters, bottle labels, even the hem of our sleeves. A thousand questions stream through my mind, but none of them will be voiced. Asking Apex what the fuck he was thinking accepting an unknown load would be the ultimate form of disrespect—I’m not going there, not when I’m dying to get my patch stitched on.