The Rising Sons Motorcycle Club

by Davida Lynn

  Trask could hear that Bear was in a shit mood. “You’re out?”

  “Yep. Said the charges were dropped. Did y’all kill Earl or something overnight? No, no. Don’t tell me. Let it be a surprise.” Bear knew he was being ornery, but he didn’t really give a flying fuck. He wanted coffee, and he wanted his beautiful wife to give him a back rub. All of that would come after he washed the stink of the local jail from his body.

  “I’ve gotta take care of some shit. I’m gonna send Gunner to pick you up.” Bear couldn’t hear any happiness in his son’s voice. Part of him would have liked that, but another part of him enjoyed the cold, hard truth of Trask’s simple words.

  Bear decided the coffee couldn’t wait. “Whatever. I’ll be at the coffee joint across the street. Tell him to ring me when he’s near.” After a cop car passed him, he crossed the street to the coffeehouse and pulled his cut back over his shoulders. He could sense things were going to be busy in the near future. The coffee would do him good.

  Trask rode back towards Los Bandoleros, too focused on the problem at hand to worry about safety. He was on the phone with Gunner.

  “Technically we only need ten percent of bail, but then we’d have to go through a bondsman.”

  “What’s the advantage there?”

  Trask recited what he had quickly skimmed and memorized from his phone, “Basically, the bondsman promises Bear will show up to court. If he doesn’t they send a bounty hunter. I know it’s shitty to open this up and get more people involved, but I don’t think it’s a great idea just letting California know that the Sons can pull fifty grand out of a hat at a moment’s notice.”

  Gunner agreed, “Makes sense. Makes sense. Alright. I’ll get on the phone and come up with some bondsmen. We can have Bear sprung by tonight.”

  “Rock on, brother. I’ll be back at the clubhouse in fifteen.”

  Trask ended the call and reached behind him, sliding the phone into his saddlebag. As he rode, he missed the text from Raven. Leave Bear where he is. I’ve got this.

  Trask saw the text when he arrived at the bar. He stared at it, wondering what in the hell that girl was up to. Maybe his speech night before had gone to her head. Sure, he though she was one of the smarter people in the club, but she was as green as a pasture. How the hell was she planning on getting the prez out of jail?

  He felt like texting back and reminding her that this wasn’t a problem that could be solved with violence. They weren’t going to put chains around his barred window and pull the cell wall off. They weren’t going in guns blazing to free Bear. Trask decided to do something he rarely did. He decided to trust Raven. If she could get Bear out, that’d be a fuckload of brownie points for her. If she didn’t, it would be a fuckload easier to give her the steel-toed boot.

  Trask found Gunner in the back office. He was leaning over the desk on the phone with someone. “…Alright. If we came down right now, how long do you think all the paperwork would take?”

  He looked up, hearing Trask sink into a chair opposite him. Gunner raised a finger implying he was nearly done. Trask dragged his thumb across his throat. Gunner nodded.

  The secretary on the other end was still talking, but Gunner cut her off, “Gotcha. Well, we’ll figure out what we’re gonna do and get back with you. Thanks, sweetheart. You’ve been a helluva help.” He killed the call and turned to Trask. “Changed our minds?”

  Trask looked bewildered. “Raven said to leave him where he was.”

  “And why the fuck are we listening to that stuck-up prospect bitch? I’m sick of her walking in like she owns the place, Trask.”

  He understood Gunner’s point of view. Most of the bikers in the club thought she was trying to take over.

  “I get it, I really do. For a prospect, she’s reaching way over her pay grade.”

  “Fuckin’ A.”

  Gunner was a hot head, but he understood reason. If something was explained to him just right, he’d go for it hook, line, and sinker. Trask was listening to Raven because he believed in her. He saw something in her that most of his brethren lacked. Gunner was one of them, so Trask lied, “If she fails, we bail him tomorrow and kick her out at the same time. If she succeeds, we save five grand. Win win.”

  Trask read Gunner’s face. A toddler could have read it: Pure joy.

  Fifty thousand dollars. In some ways, Bear was proud. He was furious in other ways, but he decided to focus on the pride. He had made himself into a powerful man in Southern California, and the price of his bail was proof of that.

  Bear had worked hard for more than twenty years, making a good life for himself and Faith. He worked hard to fulfill the promises that he made to her when he got out of prison. The first few years were rough, and there were more than a few occasions when they thought the club would collapse in on itself.

  Bear knew with a good lawyer, the charges could get dropped before it even went to court. He was already planning to countersue. He knew enough about the legal system to exploit it. The Rising Sons had the money to wait out someone like Earl McFadden. Six months of fees to the courts and lawyers would have him dropping his case in a heartbeat. The Sons were worth something in the range of three million dollars, and if need be, Bear could get access to nearly half of that in cash.

  He leaned back against the cinder block cell wall and waited for the Rising Sons to bail him out. And waited. And waited.

  The guard brought him a simple grilled cheese and a Coke at six that evening. Bear had sat and listened to the sounds of the drunk in the cell next to him get released, and some post bail for the wife-beater next to the guard’s station. He slept in the afternoon, but it was restless, and he felt worse upon waking up.

  He’d been offered his phone call, but he declined. Bear saw it as a weakness. He knew they’d come, but it could have been sooner. Trask had access to Bear’s personal wealth through Faith. There was far more than five grand in cash at home. That thought got to Bear, until he realized that they may have been playing a game for show.

  If the club took a few days to get the money together, no one would bat an eye, but if they showed up ready to pay the full amount, Kern County and California might start digging. It wouldn't be the end of the world, but it would distract Bear and the club from the real problem: Earl McFadden. He had to be dealt with, and if the Sons kept out of the public light, that would make things easier.

  Bear ate the bland dinner in silence. He would have preferred to tune out the TV playing at the end of the hall. The local news was more bland than the dinner, but it wasn't up to him. He watched the sun trace its arc across the sky, and soon the shadow turned the deep orange of the security lights outside his narrow window.

  Twenty two years since he’d last slept on a bunk. Bear wasn’t looking forward to it. He decided that if they didn’t come to bail him out by noon, he’d have to make a few calls.

  Bear laid awake long into the night. The guard had changed three times that day, but the TV never turned off. The sounds of movies and annoying commercials played as Bear struggled to get comfortable. It was hard enough on his soft mattress at home, but the cot was making him feel every ache and hurt he’d gotten over the years.

  Some time after three in the morning, exhaustion took over, and Bear drifted into a bleak, colorless sleep.

  “Rivers. Get up!”

  Bear shot straight up in bed, his muscles reminding him that he wasn't a young man anymore. He laid a firm hand on his lower back and tried to ease his heart down from its rocket pace.

  “Christ, you tryna kill me before I can stand trial? Fuck off, pig.” Bear tried to live a life separate from the police altogether, but being dragged kicking and screaming from sleep didn’t have him thinking clearly. He regretted his words the second they left his mouth. He rubbed his eyes and spoke without facing the guard, “Sorry, must have thought I was still dreaming.”

  “Mhm. I’d love to turn that dream into a nightmare, you piece of shit, but you’re not my problem anymore. You’re
outta here.” The guard leaned back against the wall, waiting for Bear to stand up and get his shit together.

  “Who posted bail? Nah, it doesn’t matter who posted, so long as I sleep on a real bed tonight.” Bear stood up, freezing halfway when his back found an extra sore position.

  “No one posted bail. The case was dropped.”

  Bear grunted a reply, “Even better.” He forced his body to straighten up. “Goddamn. Point me to the nearest Asian massage parlor.”

  “Stop wasting my goddamn time, Rivers.”

  The guard unlocked the door and escorted Bear back to processing. He collected his belt, shoelaces, wallet, cell, and cut. He gave them a wave that all parties knew meant “fuck you,” and Bear walked outside.

  Shielding his eyes from the sun, Bear looked around. It was a Monday morning, and traffic was light. He pulled up Trask in his phone and hit Send.

  “Yeah?”

  “Someone coming to get me or what?”

  Trask could hear that Bear was in a shit mood. “You’re out?”

  “Yep. Said the charges were dropped. Did y’all kill Earl or something overnight? Don’t tell me, let it be a surprise.” Bear knew he was being irritable and sarcastic, but he didn’t really give a flying fuck. He wanted coffee, and his beautiful wife to give him a back rub. All of that would come after he washed the stink of local jail from his body.

  “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

  Bear decided the coffee couldn’t wait. “I’ll be at the coffee joint across the street. Ring me when you’re near.” After a cop car passed him, Bear crossed the street to the coffeehouse. He could sense things were going to be busy in the near future; the coffee would do him good.

  Trask just had to smile at the club’s turn of fortune. Bear had gotten out. No money, no violence. His head shook side to side in disbelief. Raven had done it. Whatever it was, she had done it.

  He pulled her number up. Two rings later, she answered. “Hello?”

  Trask didn’t have time for any small-talk bullshit. “Where are you? We got someone coming to pick you up, and you’re going to pick up the old man. I don’t know how you did it—and frankly, who gives a fuck—but if the charges really were dropped, it’s gonna be a big night.”

  “I’m at work.”

  It sounded like she was whispering, and Trask had to push the phone hard against his ear to hear over the traffic. “Well, you’re calling off early. Need me to talk to someone and get you free?”

  “Trask, I can’t just call off. I’ve got clients scheduled.”

  He sighed. “I don’t remember asking if you could get off work. The club comes first. Objections?”

  She let out a sigh of her own. “No objections.”

  “That’s better. Where you at?”

  Raven tried to control her frustration, “The Inked Bird.”

  “Got it.” Trask hung up. He didn’t have that many problems with Raven, but her arguing back and forth was one thing he hated. He didn’t like wasting time. Just accept it and move on, he thought. Club business, especially at that moment, was more important than a tramp stamp on some MILF.

  Raven hung up. She pushed in all the drawers on her tackle box and closed it up. Her mind was racing. She was angry at Trask for thinking that she didn’t have a life outside the club. There was also some distain that Allan had done what she had asked, meaning she had to do what he asked.

  “Daniel,” she called out. Her boss was around somewhere. He wasn’t a fan of customers, or people in general. He hung out in back, thinking no one could smell the pot smoke.

  Raven walked from the “dressing rooms” back to the storage area. As she’d expected, he was leaning far back in an old tattoo chair. Headphones canceled out any sounds that tried to get through, so she had to pull them off to get his attention.

  “Rave, ‘sup?” His eyes were only half-open. She wouldn’t have to worry about his shitty attitude, at least.

  She gave him a sexy smile. “Something came up, and I need to check on an old friend. I’ll reschedule my eleven and my one. I should be back this afternoon. If room three is open, I can make up my hours tonight. Cool?”

  “How much are the eleven and one jobs?”

  “Total? Just under two hundred. Nothing fancy. A sparrow on a shoulder and coloring in some work I did last month. I know both customers. Rescheduling shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Daniel sat up. It took him some time, but he managed. “Raven. You’ve been skipping out an awful lot. I can’t run a business this way, you know? Make up the hours and get your shit together. I’ve got inkers waiting in line for your hours. Good artists, too. Just keep that in mind.”

  For a stoner, he was a hard-ass. Raven loved her job, but hated the parlor. He was right, though. The club was forcing her to skip out on peak hours. She was between a rock and a hard place. If she made that argument to the club, they’d say almost the same thing.

  “All right, Daniel. I’ll make it up. I promise.”

  “Whatevs, Rave. What. Evs.” He leaned back and threw the headphones back on. Raven wanted to punch him square in the dick.

  Her phone vibrated before she had the chance. When she saw who it was picking her up, it was the icing on the shit cake. One more thing to piss her off.

  Gunner was outside. She grabbed her tackle box and headed out the front door. She looked around but didn’t see his motorcycle. When he honked the horn, she jumped. Raven had completely missed the pickup truck near the corner. She was glad that at least she wouldn’t have to wrap her arms around the stupid bastard.

  Walking up to it, she joked, “Didn’t think you’d drive anything with more than two wheels.”

  “It’s Trigger’s. Sometimes you gotta haul cargo. Speaking of, you getting in?”

  “Oh, you’re a funny motherfucker.” Raven set the box containing a tattoo gun, needles, and inks in the truck bed. Walking around to the other side, she couldn’t help but think of how many tattoos Gunner had. She had a pretty good idea that the sleeve up his arm was just the start. She reined her thoughts in as she pulled herself up and into the pickup. There was work to do, and he wasn’t funny.

  “All right. How’d you do it?”

  Raven’s heart jumped. Allan had basically blackmailed her. That was how she’d done it. Trade a Son for sex, and she didn’t want to tell Gunner. Her heart ached at the prospect, but Raven told herself she’d worry about that later. In the meantime, Bear was out.

  “I talked to one of my friends.”

  Gunner looked over at her. “Why don’t you tell me about him?”

  There was something in his voice that Raven didn’t like. Something demanding. “What do you mean?”

  “Listen. Some of the guys know about you and this cop. No one is saying anything bad, but you need to understand that you are walking a tightrope. We’ve had cops try to get inside the club before.”

  Raven had heard bits and pieces of the story. Two years before, there had been a bloodbath when they found out. The club didn’t like to talk about it. She kept telling herself to look back through the papers and find some articles on it, but it was on her growing list of things to do.

  “He’s not trying to get in. I’ve known him since high school. He’s a good guy, Gunner.”

  “No, that’s where you’re wrong. Good guys don’t do whatever he did to get Bear sprung. God knows what he’s asking for in return.” He gave her a look that made her feel owned. “Good guys think the system isn’t broken. Good guys don’t become cops, Raven. Assholes with small dicks become cops.”

  Raven could hear something almost like jealousy in Gunner’s voice. “He’s not an asshole.”