I’m not sure how to respond to that. Part of me is relieved. The girl I knew back in the trailer park wouldn’t have dealt with a guy like him. She was always too good for scum like me; had too much of a future in her way to get involved with shit like MC’s and junkies. I want to ask her how she winded up here, in a seedy motel room with an entire MC looking for her, but I don’t want to push this. For the first time since I dragged her across the ground, she’s looking like herself, or at least, what I imagine she normally looks like.
“I guess it doesn’t matter what I was going to do now that he’s—”
“Dead,” I finish for her. Tact has never been my specialty.
“Yeah. Dead.”
She sits up a bit straighter and leans her body against me. Her bare legs dangle off the side of the bed, and her hand rests on her flat stomach, playing with a wet fold of her fabric. She sighs heavily with her eyes closed and begins to say something. But after a second, she closes it and places her head on my shoulder as if it was meant to be there.
“I should tell you something,” Rivet begins to say, and my mind instantly races with the possibilities. Her voice lowers as she looks up at me with those daring eyes dancing in the light of the small bedside lamp. “You know the Hal—”
She stops mid-sentence when a burst of noise raps against the door. Outside, at least two men bang on the wood frame, calling my name.
“Bishop! Bishop! Open the fucking door! It’s us!”
I look down at her, half-amused, half-pissed off beyond all belief. As I walk to the door, I watch her retreat towards the end of the bed, her knees back to her chest and her head looking down at the white blanket stained with her blood and tears.
Chapter Five Rivet
There was something there. At that moment, with his hands on my wrist and his body against mine, I felt something. It was as if I knew him. But I don’t. Not really. Growing up, the closest Bishop ever got to me was pushing me off a swing when I was taking too long to get off. How can he, his scent, and the way his fingers press into my flesh be familiar when I have never been with a man like him?
I want to know more, to ask him to do it again, but seriously, how do you ask a guy to hold you down for a few minutes so you can study the situation? You don’t. You only get that kind of attention when you’re stripped down and ready to go, and that certainly can’t be happening here. Viper’s just died. I watched his body fly off of that motorcycle like a ragdoll in the wind. The Snakes took him away on the back of a bike and took him who knows where.
Now I’m a club widow—or, at least, I’m as good as being one. I don’t know if there is a protocol for girls like me who lived with a guy, was claimed by him, but never married. I remember there being a widow when I first joined. She was in her forties with graying hair and a pearl necklace around her neck. I watched her at the funeral home with the rest of the girls as she cried over her dead husband’s cedar wood coffin. She was escorted through the group of cyclists lining up to pay their respects. They touched her hands and shoulders and promised that she would never ride alone. That is our way.
The rumor is that she is still around. The older guys, the ones that knew her husband best, pay her visits and make sure her children are fed and in school. I’m sure money is involved there, maybe some kind of MC pension fund for surviving spouses. It wouldn’t be too much. Pay for the living isn’t that generous when it’s divided by a large group of men looking for their fair share of returns. But if he was a full-timer, she has to be collecting on the sacrifice he made for the club.
That can’t be me, though. I can’t be wearing black lace dresses and pearl necklaces Viper never gave me. I can’t clutch onto a coffin for a body that doesn’t exist anymore or look those boys in their eyes when they shake my hand and tell me about how good and wonderful my man was. I wouldn’t believe them. Viper was mine. I made my bed and will lay in it, but he certainly wasn’t the kind of guy that the boys rallied around unless they were freaked the hell out that he would do them in. He was about fear, not brotherhood.
I can sense that, even now. Bishop’s boys collected us from the hotel room and brought us back to the bar. It is the one safe place for everyone to go in the city considering the clubhouse has been ramshackled and the routes are being patrolled. The bar, on the other hand, is square in our territory. The police in the area are paid off to be on the lookout for rivals like the Snakes. And they’ll be riding tonight as our personal security so we can gather and count our dead.
As soon as we entered, Bishop was pushed on towards the front of the room. The boys wanted to hear his testimony. They couldn’t care less that I was thrown off the bike too. The girls saw to that. Even fifteen minutes since I was pulled behind the counter, they’re still fretting over my bandages and asking me if I want any ice or drugs to cover the pain. I turn each of them down with a loud and resounding, “No.” Even though all I want to do is to soundlessly drift off and forget about the feeling of floating through air and landing smack on the ground, I want to be alert tonight for the baby.
I know better than to think it’s gonna kick and shout at me that it’s alright in there. It’s way too early to feel anything, but I pray for it. I send up all kinds of calls to the “higher powers” to bring me a sign that this kid is alright and that it’s managed to survive me being tossed around and pulled into ditches. The more I think about the pain it’s probably endured, the more it becomes real. I’m responsible for this thing. I’m its mom, and I can’t be doing this for much longer. I need to think about him or her first and foremost. I need to put thoughts about Viper and the club or Bishop’s hands on my body far out of my mind.
I clutch my arm protectively around my stomach and lean against the other side of the bar, out of the way of the other girls who are throwing beers to the sweaty, rain-soaked boys. Some look way worse for wear than I am. I suppose I should be grateful for that. The mass of men grows quiet as the rows in the front begin to stomp their feet for attention. Like a wave, the noise follows all the way towards the back. Even us girls turn to watch someone hoist Dig’s stumpy little body up onto a wooden table. He wobbles as he tries to gain his balance and then evens himself out.
Holding a half-empty beer in the air, his voice thunders. “Carnivores! You’re here to mourn the loss of our president and vice president, along with six other men who bravely gave their lives in defense of our club. The Snakes… those bastards that did this will pay. They will pay with their blood, their appendages, their turf, their women. I will not rest until they’re hunted down one by one and made to answer for tonight. We will make them regret this night more than anything in their short, pathetic lives!”
Not surprising to me, the men cheer loud, strong. I’ve heard this kind of talk before from past presidents. Blood and guts score loads of points when you’re talking revenge. And I can’t help being a bit stirred by him. I lean in more intently as he goes on.
“You didn’t elect me to be your president, but I’m throwing my hat into the ring. After tonight’s fights, I hope that I proved to you that I can be the leader this club needs to get us past this massacre and into the next battle. I’m what this club needs. I can make us great!”
The boys shout again, but this time, it isn’t with as much certainty. The guys in front of me, crusty old men who look like they’ve seen some shit tonight, say nothing. They instead look back and forth at one another as if to say that they cannot believe the kid up there. And I’m with them. While I haven’t seen a change in presidents, I have heard enough to know that this isn’t how a regime change goes. In Carnivores’ rules, there are nominations and seconds. The nominees make speeches and campaign for a day or two and then there is a vote by standing. That way, you have to be sure about who you’re voting for and you have to stab the other nominees in their faces instead of in their backs. If there’s not a consensus, there’s a hand-to-hand fight with MMA rules. The stronger man wins the president position and the other is relegated back to the
ir old position.
Viper was in one of those fights when he was put up for VP. I remember him telling me about how there was another guy there who wanted the spot more than he ever could. But it was down to the old blood versus the new blood. When the vote was too close, the president declared a hand-to-hand, and Viper was the clear winner. He had nearly twenty years on the guy and he almost killed him. The way he described it back then still sends shivers down my spine.
The men in front of me were probably there fighting against Viper as VP. Dig, Viper’s best friend and partner, is probably their worst nightmare when it comes to leadership. Their heads bobble to the side as they hear others like them begin to shout over Dig’s speech about brotherhood and loyalty.
Finally, one of them stands up on a stool, his voice cracking and his knees shaking under his weight. He points a wrinkled and blackened finger towards Dig as he exclaims, “No! I will not have a pansy-ass cocksucker as my president, you hear me? Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. He and his kind are the reason why we’re burying boys tonight and without a paycheck tomorrow. He knows jackshit about how to lead a club, let alone how to fight against another one! The Snakes are coming back, and we know it. Hell if they’re not plotting it now, and this asshole is up here taking claim on something he doesn’t even deserve!”
“Hear-hear!” shouts a faceless person near the front. “No on Dig!” More and more voices join them and the old man nods his head with a smile at the sight of his little uprisal. The noise rises as the younger men shout over them, their fists in the sky above their heads looking like torches and pitchforks. The girls and I retreat to the back of the bar as a bottle flies through the air and smacks the old man right in the shoulder and then crashes in shards around us. The deadly glass snowflakes only crunch under my feet as a storm of more bottles follows in every direction.
I try to push my way out of the room and back towards a hall closet, but I’m grabbed by the arm and turned around on my toes. Bishop looks down at me, his hair matted in his burning eyes.
“You alright?” he asks.
I look down at my hands and arms for cuts, but I’m clear. “Yeah. I think so.” I try to yell over the sound, but the men are raging on so loud I can barely hear myself.
“We should get you out of he—” He tries to start but someone pulls him back. I’m yanked forward with him, but he lets go of me after a few steps. I stand on my toes to see him being moved through a parting sea of guys gnashing their teeth and pounding their fists as they stare down Dig’s group on the other side. He is pulled up onto a tabletop a few feet away from Dig, but he practically towers over him with his head nearly bursting through the tiled ceiling.
A man I recognize from earlier at the bar and later at the hotel joins him there on a chair. After some foot pounding and shouts for order, the room somewhat quiets down to hear the man shout in a raspy, pleading voice, “We need a fucking leader, Carnivores! We need someone with strength and terror and who knows how to read the routes and the territories. Dig ain’t that guy, but my friend Bishop is. He hasn’t been with the club long, but he’s been riding in this area for longer than most of us as a lone wolf. That’s why our president picked him to lead the security—because he knew that Bishop is the only man who can keep the Carnivores safe.”
Dig claps his hands together and laughs with his hand around his belly. The others on his side join him hesitantly until they are full-on mocking him.
“Protect him? How can you fucking protect a dead man? This punk-ass got Viper killed tonight! He let him die on the road and then had his body taken away without getting even a scratch on him. We found him safe and sound at some motel.”
“That’s a fucking lie, Dig, and you know it.” Bishop seethes. “You know that the Snakes ambushed us, and I was off duty. The person in charge of security tonight, the one person responsible for ringing the alarms and calling in the boys was Viper and Viper only!”
“You wanted him dead!” Dig accuses, and my blood begins to boil. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re not some fucking snitch spy sent here to get our info and then relay it back to your buddies in the Snakes. How long you been with us now, hmm?”
“Shut your fucking mouth, Dig.” Bishop leans over and points a finger straight at his chest. Dig looks down at his shirt as Bishop continues, “Or else I’m gonna have to reach over her and close it for you. You hear me?”
“You wouldn’t fucking dare do that to your president.”
“We didn’t elect you!” Bishop shouts. “You stood up here and claimed it when there are guys who have been here a helluva lot longer than you have and have earned their right to vote on who should lead this club.”
“I stood up here and claimed it after you got my best friend and our vice president killed! Someone ought to put you out of your misery for being a traitor to this club, Bishop!”
I watch in horror as Dig reaches into his back waistband. It’s like time stands still and the room goes silent except for that nagging, incessant ringing in my ear I can’t get rid of. I see the faces of the old dogs turn to terror while the younger boys on the other side of the room lean forward in anticipation. Bishop stands on his table looking brave and resound. It dawns on me that he will take that bullet if I don’t stop him.
“WAIT!” I hear myself shout. “STOP!” My first few cries get the attention of maybe twenty of the Carnivores. So I continue until my throat feels like it’s about to bleed and rip apart. I walk over towards a booth at the far end of the table and step up so that I am barely seen over the tops of bald and bandana heads. The whole room turns quickly towards me, but Dig doesn’t drop his hand. He cups the back of his jeans and looks at me with a scolding expression that could freeze hell.
I’m not a public speaker. Even though I did some theater in high school, I hate the idea of having to come up with something intelligent to say in front of people I don’t know. But if it’s going to stop an innocent guy from getting killed, I have to do it.
I take a deep breath and shake out my hands as I clear my throat to say, “I was there, riding on Viper’s back. Bishop didn’t get us killed. In fact, he tried his best to get us out of there when no one else would. When Viper and I were chased out of the clubhouse, he followed us through the storm. I’ve never seen anyone, not even a member of this club, ride like he did.”
A hush falls over the room, but a few heads that were supporting Dig look over to Bishop a bit more studiously now.
I go on; this time with more confidence in my words. “Before the Snakes found us and began shooting, Bishop managed to catch up and took Viper’s order to ride in front and guide us to safety. He wasn’t far when the first shot fired. The second hit Viper and then the bike flipped. It was all a blur… I don’t...”
I look up towards Bishop whose eyes could pierce stone. His long arms cross around his chest and his head hangs low listening to me. There’s something in his face, something that reads like disappointment or failure, that breaks me into two. He has to know that he wasn’t at fault for this, no matter what Dig says.
“Bishop saved me,” I add on at the end. “Now, I don’t know what that means or what Viper would want. But I know that Bishop saved me and would’ve saved Viper if he wasn’t shot and killed. The last thing in this world Bishop is, is a traitor to this club or to my … uh, deceased boyfriend.”
I look down at my feet when I’m through. My shoes are still soaked from the ride and I see little flecks of red blood mixed in with the mud and grit from the ditch and road. I hear my heartbeat race in my ears as I try to scramble down off of the chair, but it shakes under me. Luckily, one of the girls who didn’t make it to the back runs to my side and offers me an arm. She leads me away, behind the scenes, as my words fade into the background. But I can feel the mood has changed. There are no whispers about spies and faults.
What I did was fucking foolish. No girl gets involved in club matters, not even when they’re like me and claimed by a ranking member or a higher
up. Our voice doesn’t mean shit to the boys who do the hard work and ride on those streets and take the pledge. But maybe, just maybe, mine matters tonight.
I look back over my shoulder towards Bishop. He shakes someone’s hand and reaches towards another guy as they say their thanks for his service. For a moment, he catches my eye and smiles. It’s not his usual wicked, self-righteous grin that I remember from when we were kids. This one is different, yet so familiar again. Every part of me wants to place that smile in my memories, but it’s impossible when there’s chaos all around me.
My friend whispers into my ear, “We need to get out of here before shit goes down, Rivet.” And I agree. It won’t be long until they make their decision on who will run this club next, and while part of me wants to stay to hear Bishop’s fate, the other part of me remembers that there are more important things in this world—like surviving another day for this baby and our future.
She pulls me back towards the kitchen and through the offices where the rest of the girls huddle together in a small circle on the floor. I sit just outside of them with my head resting against the door. Occasionally, I turn my ear inwards hoping that I can hear what’s going on with the Carnivores, but all I can hear is men incoherently shouting at one another and the sounds of all hell breaking loose around me.
HITMAN’S SURPRISE BABY: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Page 38
