by Tara Oakes
For my club.
The Riverdale Chapter of the Slayers MC.
Doc says I’ll be fine, and most of the time I forget it’s even there. Until I look in the mirror and am reminded of the attack. A couple of spineless thugs thought they could outman me and use my flesh to send a message to my club.
Sure, it hurt like fuck, but it takes a hell of a lot more than that to take down a Slayer. We’ve got steel in our veins. If you’re gonna try and take one of us down, you better come at us with a shit ton more than those two bastards did.
They learned their lesson the hard way, though, buried six feet deep to pay for their crimes. There’s only one thing more dangerous than trying to take out a Slayer and failing… and that’s when his brothers come lookin’ for you to properly pay you back for your error in judgment.
Even though I can’t wear my leather while on probation, I know each one of those brothers has my back just the same as if I were wearin’ my cut with pride, it still cuts deep to know that I have to hide my allegiance to them.
No wearing anything that can be taken
No going down to the strip club that doubles as our clubhouse.
No going on runs with them, riding down long stretches of highway with nothing but the sound of our tailpipes roaring.
No being seen with them out in the open as most of them, like myself, are convicted felons.
No earning my money the best way I know how, the way I have been since I was seventeen years old.
Those are some, but not all, of the terms of my probation.
As long as I want to stay a free man, without steel bars caging me in like an animal, I gotta play by their rules.
At least, I have to make it look like I’m playing by their rules.
Am I wearing my cut on my back? No. But I most definitely have the pull logo tattooed on my back just as every other brother does. This is the one you can’t ever take off. It’s there for life, just like your loyalty to them.
Am I seen out in the open with them, where any of the beat cops would be lookin’ to jam me up? No. That doesn’t mean I don’t see them every fucking day, though. We just get creative about it.
The strip club may be our main hang out, the place where my parole officer would head first if he wanted to see me back at my old tricks, but it’s not our only meeting place.
At any given time, it’s a safe bet to assume at least one Slayer is on parole. We’ve been down this road before. We have alternatives in place, just like the one I’m riding to now.
If my prick P.O. wants to try and trap me by scoping out the strip club like he’s been doing every night since I’ve gotten out, then let him. I hope the girls rip him off big time and leave him to go home with blue balls.
Cocksucker.
While he’s busy dreaming up ways to nab me breaking parole, I’ll be busy handling my business behind the scenes, discreetly.
Johnny Dangerously’s is a bar about twenty minutes outside the Riverdale town limits, off the old highway near the river. Johnny D, the man who’s owned it for the last ten years or so, is a friend to the club. He lets us use the private pool room in the back whenever we’re feelin’ the law breathing down our necks.
By the time I reach the old dirt packed parking lot, the collection of Harley’s is already pretty impressive. The first one I see in the late morning light is Dawson’s shiny black custom Harley low rider with chrome everywhere. As President, he’s earned the very first place in line, no matter where these bikes park.
Next is the Vice President, Gryff’s, Harley Dyna. A man’s bike is kind of like his fingerprint. No two are the same. I’d be just as able to point out a brother’s bike as I was his face.
Following the line, we have Chase’s, the club Enforcer, followed by Uno’s. As one of the oldest brothers still active in the game, Uno prefers comfort over style. That explains the heavy as hell bagger he sports around.
Bandit, Shooter, Hops and Ese’s bikes round out the long line of shiny steel gleaming in the sun. In order of seniority and position, I back my own Harley Softail into the empty space that’s been left between Uno and Bandit’s.
I leave my key in the ignition, just as all the other bikes have. This may not be our backyard, but we’re close enough to Riverdale where everyone who’s anyone knows not to touch our shit.
Our bikes.
Our money.
Our women.
All off limits unless you’ve got a cut on that matches ours.
“Hey, jackass, took you long enough to show up.” I hadn’t seen him before, but Chase is leaning against the side of the rust colored building, sucking on a cig.
I flip him off and dismount. “I got a curfew or somethin’ I don’t know about? What the fuck does it matter if I’m here now?”
He takes one last drag of the smoke and then drops it to the ground, smashing it with his heel. “Boys are waitin’.”
He’s busting my balls like he always does. We prospected together and have mad love for one another, but sometimes we also like to punch the shit out of each other in the boxing ring, too. It’s been a while, but I can feel a match coming on soon.
I reach the door first and pull hard, sarcastically waving my hand. “After you, Mary.”
Chase laughs.
“’Bout fuckin’ time!” Dawson calls out as soon as as the bright daylight from the open door announces our arrival.
I do a double take. “What the fuck has happened to all you pussies since I been locked up? Someone shove a damn alarm clock up your asses or something?” The Slayers have never been known for punctuality. I didn’t know we were running on a schedule nowadays.
“Let’s see how fuckin’ prompt you are when you got a kid screamin’ her head off all night, D.” I know it’s only a matter of time before Dawson knows exactly what it is I’m talking about, with his Ol’ Lady, Angel, knocked up.
I can’t wait for that kid to come out, and then I’m gonna be the first person to call his house in the morning and ask how he slept. He’s got no idea what he’s getting into and I can’t wait to be there when he finds out for himself.
“Here. Calm your ass down,” Uno hands me a cold long neck bottle of beer.
I take it and swig generously. This is one more thing I’m not supposed to be doing while on probation. No drinking, no recreational supplements of any kind.
Good thing we got a man down at the county lab on our payroll who can change piss test results or anything else we need him to. I’m not big into taking anything that’s gonna fuck me up. Been there, done that. That shit gets left behind when you hit a certain age.
But beer and whiskey are two things I’m most definitely not going to go without.
“Let’s get to business. How we doing with the new delivery schedule?” Dawson, or Das we call him, asks Bandit.
He’s kind of like our logistics guy. “Almost got all the kinks worked out. The Conquistadors are pretty efficient. Doesn’t look like any of our supplies will drop low before they can replenish them.”
A lot has happened in the last month. Things that still take some getting used to.
We’ve always been a pretty solitary, self sufficient club. Now, all of the sudden we’re in with a fucking drug cartel. I know Dawson is still feeling this out and trying to buy us some time until we’re in a position to do anything about it, but it still makes me uneasy.
Some crazy shit went down and an agreement was made, one that guarantees us a little peace for a while. But, everything comes at a cost. We’re just trying to figure out if the costs of doing business with the Conquistadors are worth it.
The biggest deciding factor, frankly, is me. It’s my freedom.
The new leader of the Cartel just happens to be Chase’s woman, Caterina’s, cousin. He somehow got Dawson on his side and we helped him oust the previous boss, who was none other than Caterina’s own father.
It was a shit show. One that nearly cost us our lives, being caught in a Cartel coup.
; Somehow, we found a way out of that mess, but at an expense. We sided with Caterina’s cousin, Mateo, and with that came concessions. We’re now tied to a fucking drug cartel, who are our new suppliers.
The Slayers have controlled Riverdale and the surrounding towns for as long as I’ve known, even before I started wearing their patch. Gambling, guns, girls, drugs… it’s all run by us. No outside interference. Well, now, we’ve got some outsiders jumping in and it turns out we invited them.
So far, the Cartel has kept it on the up and up, merely supplying the inventory, but staying out of our hair. We’ll see how long that keeps up. We don’t play well with others.
“Esè, where we at with the stockpile?” Dawson includes the youngest and newest brother. Esè was a brand new prospect when I got locked up last year. I don’t know him that well yet, having known him mostly as a hang-around begging for the chance to prove himself to the club.
We don’t take new prospects often, but he got a chance and apparently made the most of it, because he’s now wearing a brand-new barely broken in cut with a vivid Slayer patch, the Grim Reaper and two scythes, on his back.
Regardless of what a brother’s cut, or leather vest, says on the front, you can always tell his club standing from the way his patch looks.
Take Uno for instance. That fucker’s been around forever. He’s seen prospects come and go, he’s seen brothers get jammed up, thrown behind bars and even buried. The patch on the back of his cut is worse for the wear. Ripped in places, stained, with a healthy layer of road dust soaked into the threading.
It’s obvious to anyone that he’s been around the block and worn that cut for more years than he hasn’t. It’s a stark contrast to the young kid with caramel colored skin and dark, almost black, eyes that stands next to him, with a patch that is still so white in places that it’s nearly blinding.
The patch deserves respect, though, no matter how old it is. From outsiders, or civilians, as we call them, the respect is the same from patch to patch. Within the club, though, there’s a direct correlation the amount of respect you get and the condition of your patch.
“Tested all the hardware myself, D. Good to go. We’re almost double where we were last month. Got a delivery of new ammunition coming later today. The price was good but it’s not great. I’m hoping we can do a little last minute negotiating,” the kid reports.
It’s a necessity for each brother to be able to protect himself and what’s his, his family. Every single one of us has a healthy stash of weapons hidden around for when we need them. Besides that, though, there’s a cache of guns for emergencies, one that we’ve been building up in anticipation of this thing with the Cartel going sour.
Esè’s been put in charge of it. By the looks of how eager he is, he’s clearly looking to gain some brownie points with his new President. Good. Let the kid prove his worth around here.
“How we doin’ with the charity auction? Trix need anything?” Dawson now turns his attention to Uno.
Trixie, Uno’s Ol’ lady, is kind of like a surrogate mom to most of us. They never had any kids of their own so they take care of everyone else’s down at the nursery school Trix runs.
Once a year, she throws a charity auction to help raise money for some of the kids’ families that struggle to pay for it. It’s not a direct club event, but we support it as if it was.
Most of the donations come from our own pockets and coffers, and every single bit of manpower that goes into setting up the carnival-themed day is supplied by a Slayer.
“We’re gettin’ there. I got the prospects workin’ on building the booths. Need to build a new dunk tank, though. The one from last year can’t be fixed thanks to a certain motherfucker gettin’ carried away and breaking the damn thing.” Uno shoots piercing looks over to Gryff.
The rowdy VP gets called out for his fuck up at last year’s carnival. “I told you not to dunk me. I told you what would happen if you did.”
The rest of us laugh. We all draw straws every year to see which lucky bastard is gonna get stuck in that cramped thing. Last year, Gryff drew the shortest stick and won a spot sitting in that tank on wheels all day.
While the rest of us were having a good time drinking, and enjoying the day with our families, Gryff was dropping over and over again into an oversized pool of freezing water. Fun for us to watch, not so much for him, though.
Gryff is a damn good Vice President, but he’s also a moody bastard at times. There’s not one single brother that he hasn’t come to blows with at least once. His cockiness tends to piss people off to the point that fists get involved.
That’s why we have boxing night, to air that shit out and get it outta our system so it doesn’t fuck with club business.
Uno and Gryff had been having a pissing match for a while at that point and probably should had settled it in the ring, but we were too busy getting ready for that year’s carnival.
Well, after one too many drinks on Uno’s part and one too many dunks for Gryff, the shit came to a head.
“Enough,” Dawson mediates. “Gryff, you’re building a new tank for this year.”
Uno looks satisfied and nods to Dawson. Gryff growls.
“And Uno, you’re helping him,” Dawson follows up, catching both men off guard.
I laugh silently while taking another sip of my beer. Serves them right. If they want to act like asses then they should know by now what happens when you do. Dawson’s gonna find a way to make you hug that shit out in a manner of speaking. Even if it’s a year-old beef.
“Anything else?” Dawson opens the floor up.
Most of us are quiet.
“Got another message from Vince. He wants a meeting,” Gryff speaks again.
Vince is the president of one of our rival MC’s, The Kingsmen, over in Chisolm, about two hours south of us. We’ve had a rocky relationship with that club although there’s been a shaky truce for the last couple of years.
The Kingsmen may have started out as a bad ass club like ours, but they’ve gone soft over the years, going on the straight and narrow, whereas the Slayers keep their business firmly planted in shit that the law don’t look too kindly on.
“Sure he does. He can wait, though. I’m dealing with enough shit right now. I don’t need any of those fuckers to give me a reason to lose my shit and get my ass jammed up. Tell him I got my hands full and we’ll settle whatever he’s got to bitch about at the Council meeting,” Dawson blows it off.
The council meeting is about three weeks away. It’s a yearly event where the different clubs sent representatives to hash shit out. Sometimes it’s peaceful. Sometimes there are bullets. But it’s usually a good time.
“That it?” D gives one last chance.
Silence.
“Ok. Church adjourned.” He calls the ends to Church, or what most people would call a meeting.
CHAPTER THREE
DAWSON
“Angel!” I call up stairs for the second time.
I swear, this woman gets off on making me wait. No way in hell would Dawson McCade, the President of the most bad ass MC in this part of the state, ever got caught waiting on some broad.
But for Angel? I find myself waiting every single time.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Her voice trails down the stairs, from the upstairs bedroom.
I can’t resist. “That’s what you said five minutes ago, too! Now get your ass on down here. It starts in fifteen minutes!”
Sasha has already been brought to Trixie’s preschool a couple of hours ago and even though Angel’s ma lives in the apartment over the garage, she’s almost never home anymore.
Got herself a gentleman caller and is living it up like she’s a teenager again.
I’ve come to think of Lillian as kind of my own mother, and didn’t take too well to the news when I first heard it. Made sure I did the right thing and sat the guy down to give him a man to man.
Scared the ever loving shit outta him.
Earl, the man she
’s dating, is a respectable enough guy. Been an accountant in town for most of his life. Had a wife once, who picked up and left one day… actually, it was a real sad kind of story. He came home from work expecting to find her and she was no where to be found. Nothing left behind but a note telling him she needed to “find” herself again.
It left the guy so broken up that he hasn’t touched another woman since and that was over ten years ago. That boggles my mind. Not quite sure how the hell a hot blooded man is able to go that long without feeling a woman under him, but to each his own.
As long as he makes Lillian happy, then I’m cool with him.
Angel’s got enough on her plate right now, and worrying about her mom’s illness doesn’t help much even though Lillian’s Lupus has been under control. I don’t think it’s any coincidence that she started to feeling better right around the time she started seeing Earl.
I may not be one of those fancy doctors she goes and sees every few days but I got enough common sense to know that when you’re in a good place in life, your body can deal with things a little better.
Angel sees it too. Her Ma is happy. Things have really changed for the three of them in the last six months.
When I first met my Angel, she was holed up in a crappy shit hole of an apartment taking care of Sasha, her niece, with no job, a stack of bills and Lillian sick in the hospital.
I could see the fire deep down in Angel, see it begging to get some oxygen and start burning again but it couldn’t. It was being suffocated. It was dying.
There’s no doubt in my mind that if I had never met Angel, if chance wouldn’t have brought her walkin’ through the doors of the strip club the night I first laid eyes on her, that she’d be nothing more than a shell of a person by now, with the hollow stare that people get when they stop looking for the good in anything.
I know that stare.
I’d had it myself more times than I cared to remember. Angel walking into my life has done just as much good for me as I’ve done for her. She’s gotten her fire back and I’ve got everything I could have every wanted.
