by V. Theia
PTSD the military doctors said. That was the correct term, people always wanting labels so they could feel better about something. It didn't matter if it was cancer, long as it had a fucking name, didn’t matter that he was screwed in the head now, PTSD the doctors said and put it right there on his medical records. What did they know? Let them see their brother blown to pieces and see how they coped, Ash was doing the best he could at the bottom of a bottle and the doctors could go fuck themselves.
“They call me Grinder.”
“I’m sure there’s a story there.” He smirked passing along a bottle and toasting his new friend before giving his attention back to what was important; being alone.
“And you?”
“Asher Priest.” No one had used his name in eight months six days. The last time he spoke to his father. His mom’s birthday was coming up, he should call home. Taking a long pull of the cold brew, he jutted his stubble chin. “The jacket, you in an MC?”
“Yeah. The Renegade Souls.”
“Hm.”
Maybe the noise sounded judgemental because the guy narrowed his eyes and asked “What?”
“Nothing, man.” Ash shrugged. “Just heard things about them on my travels is all.”
Not all good. Not any good. Downright bad if he was truthful. That was the thing with biker bars, the fuckers gossiped and the Renegade Souls were on a lot of tongues about the shake up and Rex the president who if rumors were believed was about as worse an MC president as Bush was for America.
The guy grimaced and hunched his shoulders over his beer, both facing forward, but his head turned a minute later. “Yeah. Used to be bad. Out with the old, in with the new, you know.”
Out with the old. That’s how he’d felt the day the army had kicked him out. Not that they called it that, it amounted to the same, they couldn’t use his killer services anymore, he was too much of a liability, but thanks for killing a bunch of people for us. Fuckers.
“Looking to join a club? It’s a sweet ride you got outside, a ‘78 right?”
He nodded. “Nope. Clubs ain’t for me. I’m not a team player.” Anymore.
“You look like shit, if you don’t mind me saying.”
Get the balls on this one, Ash thought, squinting at both of them. Wait. There was only one a minute again. He blinked and the image merged back into one guy, there you are, fucker.
“And you’re just a pretty bastard ain’t ya.” He side-eyed, supping his beer and tossing back some more roasted nuts, stale as fuck, but hey, it was food. “If you’re trying to romance me, gotta say, not my type, and not looking to be recruited into whatever KKK cult you might have going on. Just passing through whatever bumfuck town this is.”
His head hurt. Right in the back where the shit lived, it pulsed and made Ash slip on his seat, listing off to the side as his eyeballs throbbed and he caught flashes of things he’d rather forget, just tear them out of his brain.
“Woah, man, watch yourself before you faceplant, don't know what kinda nasty shit is on this floor, you get me?”
Lights popped behind Ash’s eyes, a slideshow of phantom pain that came from the heart and not any limb he could identify.
“I’m alright.” He lied a minute later once the sensation in his head had passed, but he pushed his beer away, maybe time to get to a motel for the night. “What town is this anyway?”
“Just outside Westbank Falls.”
Ah fuck. He’d circled back home. Well fuck.
Didn’t all stones roll home eventually? Apparently.
He sat and talked bikes with the guy for a couple hours. “I built my baby up from nothing, she was in a state when I bought her at auction, I don’t think one thing worked on it, worked five months on her.”
“No shit? She’s a work of art. We have a bike shop, just got it up and running, if you’re interested in some work. I can put in a word with my boss for you.”
He could do with some ready funds. Ash rolled a shoulder. He had no plans and hadn’t had any for so long.
“Sure. Maybe. But still not joining your cult, man.” Grinder laughed. “I gotta take a leak.”
Coming back from the bathroom a few minutes later it was as if Asher had walked into a war zone and he knew what he was talking about having seen three of them. Bikers arguing nose to nose, the atmosphere dripping animosity. The guy he’d been talking to was standing by the side of another beard faced guy. Ash took in the scene with his military training. The fat oaf in the guy’s face. Two more joined Grinder.
Whatever. He had no dogs in this fight.
Only it became Asher’s business as he tried to walk by to grab his beer and plonk at a table, when the fat oafs friend, ugly fucker, shoulder checked him.
“Walk away, man,” Asher warned with a slight slur to his tone, but he was steady as a rock on his feet, sensing trouble. Drunk he might be, stupid he wasn’t and he glared at the guy to back off before he got himself hurt on Ash's fist.
What do you know, ugly bastard didn’t listen, they never listened. Why did they never fucking listen? Ugly bastard took a swing that Asher ducked out of the way of, letting it fly in mid-air, he caught him around the head, choke hold was easy enough until he struggled to which Asher stomped on the back of his leg to take him down to one knee as he screamed. Boy, did he scream. “You’re going to stay down now. I’ll let go, stop struggling, you’re about to pass out.” Ash knew the pain must be intense with his fingers digging into the guy’s pressure point on his neck. Ugly bastard nodded furiously pleading that yes, yes, he would stop struggling. Ash let him go and took a step back.
The fracas seemed to have ground to a halt. Everyone in the bar looking towards him. Ash checked his zipper. Nope, dick was tucked away. He shrugged and swayed his way back over to where he’d left his beer, only now some idiot had swiped his bottle, or Preston/Kane had cleared it away. That was his cue to get gone.
“Damn, that was some jujitsu shit right there.”
“Jackie Chan shit.”
“Jackie Chan was martial arts, idiot!”
“What the fuck, isn’t that jujitsu?”
Asher let their talk go over his head. He knew how to handle himself and not only with a sniper rifle in his hands.
“That was impressive.” A deep voice said. Asher cocked his head to look at Grinder’s president, or so the patch on his cut said. Grunting agreement, he didn’t say much else, not when four more of his men shuffled into line. If they were about to start shit with Asher --well, they’d probably win, big shitheads. He eyed one at a time. The scruffiest one, dirty blonde hair and a beard a weed whacker would break off on glowered at him. “Something to say to me, handsome, or you just want to make out?”
One of them guffawed and shoulder bumped scruffy. “Woah, Hawk has a date, where’s my diary, I gotta write this shit down!”
“Rider, this is the Preacher. Asher Priest, I was telling you about, he’s got the touch with bikes, been building them since he was a kid.” Interjected Grinder standing directly in front of scruffy’s eyeline before he got with kissing Asher. He’d been without pussy a few nights, but even he wasn’t that desperate to get off. Besides, he didn’t look like a cuddler, and Ash needed the affection. That and a lot less dick. Like zero dick.
“My boy here said you’re interested in a job?”
“I could do with a couple days’ work.”
It was like a secret society Asher didn’t get when they all looked at each other in that silent conversation way. Was he being initiated? ‘Cause he meant it when he said he didn’t join clans, been there, never again. Not his thing.
They talked about what experience he had and seemed impressed. Told him to turn up at their club the next day.
Fucking hangovers. He forgot.
He was awoken by an almighty banging on the door. Fuck that, he’d paid until twelve. He growled for whoever it was to fuck off and buried his head under the pillow so he could die in peace, the throbbing sounded like a drill at each temple.
“Fucking hell, man. Put some draws on, I just had pancakes and the sight of your lily-white ass is not doing anything for my gag reflex.” A voice inside his room said.
Inside. His. Room.
Asher bound out of bed like he was shot out of a rocket, reaching for his weapon instinctively. A gun he no longer had, but the nature was there.
“Jesus. How did you move so fast, man?” Grinder laughed showing he’d brought two steaming cups. “And any time you wanna put pants on that’d be great, unless you like swinging in the wind.”
With Asher’s heart somewhere in his throat, a giant ball of nerves, he unclenched his fists glaring at the guy, memories from last night coming back in a hard rush, or he would have choked the fucker for being in his room. Speaking of. He yanked on a pair of denim. “How the hell did you get in?“ He hadn’t heard a thing.
Grinder chuckling, handed over a coffee so hot the Styrofoam burned his fingertips and so black Asher almost whimpered his thanks. Asher plonked down on the side of the bed and rubbed his military buzz cut hair. Some habits were hard to break. He was going to let it grow any day now.
“Didn’t I mention last night I do a bit of B&E? My daddy was a bounty hunter, learned everything from him. You weren’t answering and I’ve been standing out there twenty minutes. You’re damn late, by the way. Rider doesn’t give second chances. I spoke up for you, said I’d come get your ass.”
“Shit. Let me grab a shower, I stink like a sewer.” Halfway to the bathroom, a mouthful of coffee swilled down his throat he turned back, the guy making himself comfortable in the only armchair the shitty motel room had. He wore his leather cut today. Asher eyed it.
“That happened last night, at the bar? My memory is sketchy. There was some showdown with your boys?”
“Yeah, nothing new with the Raging Rebels, they have a hard-on for our territory. You showed their VP, though, talk is his leg is fucked.”
“And the other one, scruffy dude, with a glare like a bee sting?” He questioned, only picking up pieces from last night.
Grinder smirked, mouth on his cup. “Hawk. That’s my VP. You left an impression on him, that is, he wasn’t impressed, but nothing personal, he doesn’t like anyone.”
“Huh. I was sure I dreamed that scary fucker.”
“A lot say the same when he’s running behind them with a knife.”
In the shower, Asher scrubbed at his face, didn’t bother shaving, and ran through all the cons for even going to this MC to work. The list ran into the tens, every one of them a bad idea, but he needed the money, and it wasn’t like he’d want to stick around.
“Come the fuck on, Preacher, we got places to go!” Yelled Grinder. Asher in the process of dressing yanked the door open buck naked and dripping water everywhere, he did like swinging in the wind. Scowling. “Who the shitting hell is Preacher?”
Present Day.
Lost in memory lane, down on the garage floor, Preacher had almost fixed the problem with the bike by the time he lifted his head and looked over at his best friend. He never did ask Grinder what he’d seen in him that night at the bar to make him stick his neck out for him, or why when he told Grinder all about his episodes that he still sponsored him and cajoled him into patching into the club.
What did any of the brothers see in each other, but loyalty, a trust that ran deep and an endless row of friendships that interlocked in one amalgamation of the club? Preacher couldn’t say that was what made him go to the club that day, it really had just been about the money, but day after day he’d stuck around, saw how things ran, how close the boys were, what they did for each other, going back to back, walking into danger for each other. He hadn’t known exactly what he was doing with his life until then, until he’d seen what he wanted in the Renegade Souls.
It still took years for Hawk to like him. That fussy weirdo. But they still didn't cuddle, thank god.
Wiping his hands, he sauntered over to where Grinder was working on an engine, whistling to himself. Preacher cuffed him quickly around the shoulder in a bro-way yanking his hat off and ruffled his hair, pissing him off ‘cause the guy liked his hair just right. Grinder had always been honest with him, been there for him in the shittiest times. The friends didn’t have secrets and he wasn’t going to start now. “What you asked earlier about Ruby … it’s something. Not sure what, but it’s something.”
“Gotcha.” Grinder answered with a smile. He didn’t rag Preacher. Just grinned flashing white teeth against the darkness of his beard. “I don’t need you to come with me this trip, hopefully I won’t be alone though. Can you finish that off for me? I gotta head off a while.”
Giving Preacher a knowing smirk Grinder nodded. “Sure thing, buddy. Remember try not to say pussy this time, chicks are so damn sensitive.”
Both men laughed and Preacher went to wash up.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“This is Ruby's vagina calling for Preacher's dick. Can it come out to play? - Booty-call
The filth was fertile in Preacher’s mind as he strode through the doors to Otis’ bar an hour after he hadn’t found Ruby at home. Her work was the next possible choice and bingo her car was in the parking lot. He would explain he was a jackass, and then he’d talk her into coming outside with him for a little foreplay. If she hadn’t sneaked out of his bed this morning he would have woken up how he wanted to; planted deep making her scream. Instead, he’d spent the day calling himself all the assholes under the sun.
She’d agreed to more time. Not letting her out of that, he decided. The shit she'd cried out when he'd been tonguing her was a bonded contract between two people, just let her try to wriggle out of it, the beautiful tiny dancer had a fight on her hands.
What derailed him from every-fucking-thing was seeing her sitting on the customer side of the bar, being flirted with by one of his own prospects. Thoughts of whispering hot dirty persuasive words of seduction fell out of his brain, to be replaced hotly by murder and more murder and did he mention fucking murder?
That cocksucking knucklehead.
A foreign sensation building in his chest, like an infected stab wound he'd only just discovered. Not a heart attack, per say, but something in that region as he halted dead center of the doorway, blocking the entrance tall as a tree, nothing else held his gaze as tight as seeing the prospect leaning into Ruby’s space like he was Hugh goddamn Hefner, the kid was only missing the smoking jacket.
Now as a rule, Preacher didn’t start trouble in Otis’ place. For one the man was alright and he liked the Renegade Souls so the club played fair in his establishment, plus the kitchen made the best fire-wings he'd ever tasted, you don't shit where you eat, and Preacher liked eating those wings.
A few summers back when Otis was having trouble with a booze supplier Rider had stepped in and sorted it for him, with a smooth persuasive talk that might have included a bit of violence and a finger being cut off. But all ended well and Otis had his suppliers back on track and he’d paid the club well. So, the guy was okay, and Preacher didn’t want to smash his bar to pieces, but the need. Oh, the fucking need for it rested right there under his ribs. It pounded, it bled into his eyes. He let his feet walk forward, a prowling menace with one target in mind; the kid who made the most perfect cup of coffee for him every morning. It was a sacrifice well worth it if he didn’t stop giving Ruby the eyes and the small grin and the come to bed smolder.
That little coffee making bastard.
“You can do that, really? Amazing.” Ruby’s voice, all soft and sweet and amused kicked Preacher in the chest. She wasn’t buying this act, was she? My god. Now he was really going to kill the kid. He’d use Lawless’ tool bag and chop him up into small pieces and feed to the coyotes. He heard coyotes loved knuckleheads for snacks. When she laughed, Preacher’s brow folded in a frown. Territorial growls got swallowed up by the noise of the bar.
“Oh yeah, right over the handlebars, couldn’t walk for a week.” The prospect laughed.
“Amazi
ng.” She said again. The same smile she’d given him last night but for a whole different reason. Preacher was about to re-enact that not walking story, but making it a permanent fixture in the kids’ life.
"Hey, Dix?" His voice granite, barely holding onto his jealous temper as he watched the prospect trying to work his wiener-pointing magic on Ruby. On fucking Ruby. Smiling at her, touching his fingers to her inner wrist. That little cocksucker I'll bury him.
He swerved around. "Yeah, sir?"
Sir. Asshole. He liked the sir's the prospects gave him. usually. Not today. Ass-kisser. He scowled, turning his eyes flat, pinning the kid.
"Go back to the club, don't you have toilets to scrub or summit?"
"I got all the crap done Prez told me to do." Look at that, Preacher thought to himself, the younger man not taking the hint. And he’d been clear enough; get the fuck gone.
Oh, but Ruby was, she was doing her own beautiful scowling at Preacher. He ignored her for now or he'd do something wild like shove his tongue down her throat, claiming her.
"Take a hike, prospect," he knocked his skull ring on the bar. And for good measure, because he was a jackass, he added "this one," he pointed to Ruby whose eyes had turned to dirty little gorgeous slits. Damn, he could fuck her right now. Just shove that scrap of material she called a skirt up, and take her hard, fast and filthy against the bar, just how she liked it, let every man there hear how she screamed for him. "Is off limits to you, prospect."
"What?"
"WHAT?" Added Ruby. "You're absolutely crazy. Don't listen to him, he's senile, you don't own me, Preacher."
"Prospect..." His timber serious, holding Dix's eyes. Go ahead, kid, try to backchat a member, see how far that gets you. The thing with prospects was the moment they signed on for a club their life was not their own until they had that cut on their back. If a member said jump the prospect was meant to ask, "off a tall building or cliff?"
