by Wolfe, Layla
Faux Pas threw up his hands. “Who the fuck knows these days, savez vous? Cropper’s been doing whatever he wants, however he wants it for a long fucking time!”
A lot of men mumbled in agreement. Faux Pas was right. Ford shouldn’t shoot the messenger. “What then?” he demanded.
“Well, then those two fuckheads—Cropper and Riker—proceeded to beat the crap out of each other. She begged me not to tell you—said she was doing it all for Speed.”
“I knew it. I fucking knew it,” moaned Speed, clutching his head. “It’s all because I stacked the ride.”
“Then what?” Ford demanded.
“Then I didn’t see her again until…the incident Tonya talked about, with the pictures and all. Those Baal’s Minions were there, but from our club it was just Cropper and Riker, naturally. Anyway, the only part I glimpsed—are you sure you want to hear this, Torino?”
Ford narrowed his eyes so they were slits. “Indubitably.”
“I saw…” Faux Pas looked from side to side, shifting in his boots uncomfortably. He crapped out on owning up to what he’d seen, at first. “I saw what Tonya said. Crew screw. Except no, you know, screwing part. They were just pulling their puddings. You know how Cropper does. And…”
Ford stepped closer to Faux Pas. Faux Pas was maybe one inch taller, but Ford easily faced him down with superior muscle power and rage. Faux Pas flinched. “And,” he said, to postpone Ford’s rage a split second. Then his words came all in a rush. “And she was bleeding. And Riker had his stupid fucking face between her legs.”
“Oh God.” Ford had to wander over to a window just to prevent himself from strangling Faux Pas.
Men murmured in agreement, in disgust. Women were more vocal. “That’s just wrong.” “Riker needs to be stopped.” “He needs to be put on a fucking leash!”
Ford had wanted the club to hear because he wanted them to dislike Cropper and Riker as much as he did. He wanted them to know the full story so that when he went to kill Cropper, they would understand and back him up.
Cropper and Ford had never really gotten into it physically before. They’d thrown a few toasters and television sets at each other in their time, but never really given each other a beatdown. This time was different. This was the woman Ford loved with all his heart, and Cropper couldn’t even leave her alone. While it was somewhat true to a certain extent that Speed would have to work off the price of the bike since the club owned it, in no one’s book was it written that the Vice President’s old lady would have to work off her brother’s debt in sex.
Now that they had to vote about how to proceed, they needed to get away from the women. “Church in fifteen,” Ford shouted to the room. He went to the master suite to get his Sig Sauer, sticking it in the usual spot, under his belt at the small of his back. Just in case he saw Cropper.
He was going to bury that motherfucker once and for all.
Riker could stay. Cropper was the engineer of this entire mindfuck. Riker was just a warped son of a bitch. Also a combat veteran, Riker probably had traumatic brain injury just like Ford, but he’d been hexed since birth by drug addict parents. Riker was just twisted, the sort of guy who’d think it was fun lapping blood from an unconscious woman’s pussy.
Riker had excuses up the yin-yang for his behavior. Cropper had none. Ford knew that his Italian grandparents were old school squares, and he seriously doubted they’d done anything to corrupt or pervert their son. Cropper had just preferred a nomad, outlaw lifestyle, and that’s all his son knew.
It wasn’t just the Madison events. For years Cropper had been mistreating women—Ford too, to a certain extent, because that was his only role model. Cropper had beaten Ingrid, and that was just the tip of the iceberg. Hell, Ford had done time in Juvie due to Cropper’s profligate ways. Sure, he’d earned his “Filthy Few” patch at sixteen after killing the father of a girl who Cropper had molested. She’d been Ford’s girlfriend, but Cropper just couldn’t keep his hands off, and when her father came after Cropper with a piece, Cropper had ordered Ford to bury him. Of course he had. He was protecting his father.
Yes, he had a “Filthy Few” patch, and people were afraid of him, but at what expense? His childhood had gone, his youthful exuberance had been sucked from him, he’d become hard and bitter like the other junior thugs-in-training at the facility, while Cropper went scot free.
Cropper would not twist, pervert, and degrade Madison any longer.
The Citadel was only a ten-minute drive from Ford’s McMansion. Shivers raced up Ford’s spine as he strode the corridor to the chapel. He had to go past the game room where some of the incidents had taken place. Someone had cleaned up. Not one billiard ball was out of place. He snorted with disgust.
The kitchen, too, had been tidied. Maybe some of the women, not wishing to rile Ford any further, had come to straighten up. Ford gave the guys some time to pee and figure out how they’d vote, and slipped into his office to call Madison again.
While the phone was, predictably, ringing and ringing, he noted a few drops of blood on the floor. He was sick of blood. Had Madison come in here for something right after Cropper had kicked her? Why was she bleeding? What had Cropper broken inside of her?
“Listen, babe,” he told Maddy’s voicemail. “I understand that you’re freaked out right now. Faux Pas finally came clean and told us the whole story. Sugar cookie, no one holds anything in the slightest against you. You were just trying to save your brother’s hide. We could have worked something else out. That’s not our tradition to use women to work off a brother’s debt. But look, that’s all water under the bridge. Faux Pas said you were bleeding too from Cropper kicking—listen, I can’t even bring myself to say it. Kicking you.” His voice was thin and pained. “We’ll work it all out, mija. Everything will work out. Cropper’s never going to bother you as long as you live. You can rest assured of that.”
Turk stuck his head into the office to indicate everyone was seated in church, so Ford cut it short.
“Listen. Wherever you are, know that I’m going to bat for you. I’m not going to operate a club where I have zero respect for the President. What was done to you never should’ve happened, and I will eternally be so, so sorry for all of it. Cropper’s a twisted degenerate and should be removed from office. Bye for now.”
He didn’t mention that his version of “removed from office” would involve murder, fratricide. There was no other way. They could remove him, burn off his backpack, and send him into the wilds of Borneo, but knowing he was out there and had ruined Ford’s honor, that was too much to ask him to bear.
This wasn’t the first time Cropper had done this, and it wouldn’t be the last if no action was taken.
Ford wielded the gavel. It was Speed’s first meeting as a fully patched member. Ford was compelled to comment on it.
“I’m sorry, Speed, that your first vote had to be this way.” He gestured for Speed to speak. He had almost as much at stake in this mess as Ford did.
He looked like he’d been crying, or smoking weed. His eyes were rimmed with red, and he rubbed them again. “I just want to say I feel utterly responsible for this whole clusterfuck being brought down on your head. If it wasn’t for me ODing on peyote in the first fucking place, none of this would’ve happened.”
Protests arose from the men around the table. No one wanted Speed to blame himself.
Ford said, “You know, there’s a whole line of what ifs that go along with that, Speed. What if Riker wouldn’t have forced you to OD on peyote in the first place?”
Duji said, “What if you wouldn’t have seen those Furries yiffing?”
“Exactly,” said Ford. “There’s a whole raft of what ifs, and you were at home with your arm in a sling the whole time Cropper was pulling this shit. How were you to know? He lied to your sister to manipulate her, to use her, and that’s not in the slightest your fault. Now. What do we do about this?”
One by one, Ford looked at the men he’d grown up with. Duji
, who was so dapper and suave when he was a kid, now resembled a beaten-up Al Pacino. Tuzigoot, with his waist-length flowing locks, was starting to look like an escapee from a Venezuelan prison. Speed was their newest, youngest blood. Ford had been thinking about this lately, so he said, “We have to hustle some of the bitter, nasty old poisonous blood out of this club, and I think it’s obvious who needs to go. We need to start patching some of the newer more reliable prospects in here, like Kneecap, Wild Man, and August.”
There was a murmur of approval.
“I’m making my move. This doesn’t need to involve any of you. This is strictly on me, my decision. But I’m not going to be Veep in a club where I have absolutely no respect for the President. Brothers don’t turn on each other, so this stays in the rearview. Not one more word about it.”
Turk cleared his throat. “Just to be sure about this. You’re going to take him out.”
Ford nodded. “I don’t want P&E becoming a war zone. We stole the tunnel from the Baal’s Minions so that’s payback from them. Riker’s just a crazy motherfucker, so let him learn by Cropper’s example. Cropper has to go. Let’s put it up for a vote.”
“I understand your anger,” said Tuzigoot. “But Cropper and I go way back. I can’t authorize this. We’ve been together since short pants days. We’ve got too much history. I know he betrayed you, Torino, but this is an extreme reaction.”
Ford couldn’t believe it. Tuzigoot was a “Filthy Few” as well and had never hesitated to bury anyone. “Ziggy?”
“I’m with you, Ford. This isn’t the first time he’s fucked over one of our old ladies. It’s happened to me, to Duji, even to Tuzigoot. That guy’s out of control and needs to be put down like a rabid skunk. His business decisions lately haven’t been the best, either.”
Tuzigoot said, “But that’s no reason to bury someone, Zig. Most CEOs wouldn’t be in business if that was a good reason.”
“That’s hardly the only reason,” Ford protested.
Tuzigoot held up a hand. “I know, I know. He’s pretty much committed the most unforgiveable act. I just can’t give the green light on this. I say we remove him in good standing. It’s just time for him to step down.”
The vote was divided. Ford, Turk, Ziggy, and Gollywow were all for burying Cropper, period. Tuzigoot, Duji, Faux Pas and surprisingly Speed were all for removing him in good standing. Tuzigoot even wanted to use the word “retire” regarding Cropper.
Ford was so full of rage he couldn’t see straight. He couldn’t even listen to the traitor’s justifications for why Cropper shouldn’t be buried. He couldn’t force his wishes upon the entire club. If it wasn’t unanimous, nothing could be done.
Ford shouted, “He should at least be out bad. I’m not going to watch him walking about Pure and Easy flying his colors.”
“His life is ruined anyway, Torino,” Tuzigoot shouted back. “No club, no Presidency, and now no old lady.”
Ford half-rose, he was so angry. He pointed at the table. “He still has his trucking business, the dispensary, the range, the army surplus. He’s hardly fucking ruined.”
Tuzigoot half-rose too. “Look at it this way, Torino. You remove him as President of the club, you’ve taken his entire life away from him. Take away his access to the chapel, game room, all the club facilities, just stick him in his office doing estimating and contracting. He might as well be retired.”
“But I still have to look at him,” seethed Ford. He was just livid. The club wasn’t going to let him wreak vengeance on the man who had mortally insulted his old lady. Since when had the club become such a namby-pamby bunch of wusses? “I still have to look at his fucking ugly goonish face, and so does my old lady if she wants to come visit me at the Citadel.”
Duji said, “We’re not all on the same page. Retirement is the best way to go. Let’s just put the fucker out to pasture so this doesn’t happen again. Now there’s one more agenda item. Slushy has received a date from that Lyle Bloodgood lawyer in Nogales. The eleventh is when the suministros need to be picked up at that Hardscrabble Ranch. Turk, why don’t you go down, since you’ve already seen the setup. Take Tall Peril with you as driver, since he knows the product. Ford? You want to go, to get your mind off things?”
Ford considered it, just because it had seemed as though Cropper didn’t want him returning to Nogales. He’d do anything to spite that bastard. Ultimately, though, his passion for Madison won out. He needed to go find her, to make sure she was all right.
To make sure she still wanted him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MADISON
It started out being mortification that kept me away from Ford.
I was truly, thoroughly, utterly mortified by what had happened with his father. The Baal’s Minions had threatened me, I recalled through the haze. They had threatened to send the pictures to my hospital administrator, to ruin my chances of getting a new job in Pure and Easy.
Once they knew I was affiliated with an outlaw motorcycle club, no one would want me. That was probably true. Image was a lot of a nurse’s career. Any hint of a drink or drug problem or any other personal strangeness, and people talked.
I quickly got over my mortification when I discovered I was pregnant. Present tense—was still pregnant. Cropper may have made me bleed, but I didn’t lose the fetus.
Because Jake and I had always used rubbers like any good European, there was only one person who could possibly be the father.
I realized Cropper had maybe never penetrated me due to the Tay-Sachs gene he was obviously so paranoid of. Ford and I both, however, had gotten carried away that time in the toilet trailer during the rally. We’d been good all the other times we’d banged each other—just not that first time. That was obviously the fateful time.
And by “fateful,” I mean fateful. Obviously I considered aborting it. Ford Illuminati wasn’t the most stable or secure father-to-be in the world, and there was that pesky gene to think about. It wasn’t fated to be.
It was actually Sabrina who convinced me not to terminate the pregnancy. I stayed with her for a week and we had many good talks. Her mother had been a good Christian woman who worked for outreach organizations, so Sabrina had that upbeat, do-gooder attitude. Through our many talks, I realized I had alternatives.
“You love Ford.” Sabrina stated a flat fact. “You’ve loved him forever. The two of you are meant to be. I think you need to get over this Cropper thing.”
“It’s not that easy, Sabrina. Have you ever been molested? It stays with you, in your gut. Every time I look at Ford, I’m going to think about all the things Cropper did.”
“That’ll die down in time, Maddy. My mother worked with abused women, rape victims. True, it never really goes away completely. She said that sense of privacy, of being unviolated and safe, is what’s precious. But it does start to dull over time.”
“Yes. What do you mean ‘time’? Decades?”
“Maybe years.”
“Years. See, I don’t have years. The genetics of Tay-Sachs isn’t my field, but I talked to a few nurses I used to work with here in Flag who have studied it. My situation is extremely simplified if I do fetal DNA testing. His brother died of early-onset Tay-Sachs. Ford seems unaffected, but he could very well have late-onset. But to affect a child of ours, I have to be a carrier too. All I have to do is find out by doing both DNA and enzyme assays.”
“Then find out!” Sabrina cried, banging her fist on her table.
“I don’t want to run the tests at my hospital, that’s the problem. I already quit my job and I couldn’t afford COBRA so my insurance runs out soon. Anyway, I don’t want them knowing what’s going on with me. The test is about two hundred dollars.”
“Fucking hell!” cried Sabrina. “I’ll give you the fucking money if that’s what’s stopping you!”
It was stopping me. I hadn’t saved any money working as a nurse. Between paying my own condo rent and buying a new—now old—Honda, I had lived from paycheck to paychec
k. So I took Sabrina up on her generous offer and went through her GP.
That’s how I found out that I was fine and our daughter was fine.
I was glad that Cropper hadn’t ruined that, too.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
FORD
“For a hundred years or more the world, our world, has been dying. And not one man has been crazy enough to put a bomb up the asshole of creation and set it off.” ~ Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer
“The suministros are humans.”
Ford faced down Cropper like two gunmen in the middle of a dusty Wild West street, except they were on the same side of the battle.
Allegedly on the same side, but Ford had wanted to take Cropper out since before Turk had called him with the news. Turk’s security cam that covered the Hardscrabble Ranch tunnel had shown him that the suministros, which all along Ford had assumed would be marijuana or cocaine, were in fact human fucking beings.
Ford had been sitting in his saddle, looking daggers at that fucktard doctor’s Flagstaff house, when Turk had called with the news of the human cargo.
“They’re fucking people, Ford, about thirty human beings. Mostly youngish women, a few able-bodied men. All I can figure is they’re trafficking in humans, maybe to use the women for whores or maids or whatever it is they do. The guys, I don’t even want to imagine.”
That had been the only thing to tear Ford from his reverie. He’d already been inside the oncologist’s house. He had busted his way through the front door when Dr. Jackoff had answered it. He had pummeled the idiot into oblivion in an attempt to find out where Madison was.
He’d come away empty-handed. More and more, as he sat on his ride fuming, looking at Madison’s old house, Ford was slowly facing facts.
Dr. Jackoff didn’t know where Madison was.
He’d only whaled on one guy, and already he was out of other options.
