ASA: BLACK SKULLS MC

by Walker, Kylie

  “Sure,” she said easily so Asa got the bartender's attention and ordered two Buds before scanning the many faces in the crowd. The last time he’d seen Luke Olson, Asa had been barely twenty-two. Luke was pushing sixty now and Asa had to wonder if he would recognize the president right away. He set cash down on the counter the second the bartender returned with the beers, but when he clinked bottles with Samantha, shooting her a lingering smile and hooking his arm around the small of her back, the drunken guy beside him stammered, “The fuck?”

  The look of ease on Samantha’s fragile face cracked, as the drunken guy dared tap Asa aggressively on the shoulder.

  “Fucking Black Skull, is it?” he slurred.

  Asa took Samantha by the arm and started calmly commenting, “Just here with my girl.” The trick was to not make eye contact, not engage, and simply walk away, but confrontations like that would only keep happening until he found Luke Olson and announced his business. He had never before set foot in Blood Brothers, but a clubhouse was a clubhouse and if Luke wasn’t head banging or shooting pool it meant that he would have to be in the meeting room, which meant that Asa had to find that room.

  Samantha clinged to him like a barnacle and he liked the way she felt. As they worked their way through the thick crowd, edging along the perimeter and keeping an eye out for the meeting room, she kept turning towards him whenever a biker needed to pass and the lengths of their bodies would press. Quite frankly, she was turning him on and if he found the bathroom before the meeting room, he might just have to jerk her inside, bend her over the sink and fuck her pussy hard.

  They had nearly inched all the way to the heavy metal crowd where bikers were whipping their long hair around, and some of them groping the closest chick who was wet for bikers and that head-banging type of music, when Asa spotted a door where a huge thirty-something-year-old biker with a shaved head, beefed up tattoo-covered arms, and a deadened look in his eyes was standing guard.

  Asa gave Samantha a little slap on the ass, leaned into her ear and said, “I gotta get in that room and you might not be able to come.”

  “Want me to wait for you at the bar?” she shouted up at him.

  “Not really,” he said with a wry smile before pulling her with him through the crowd. He would much rather try his luck. Besides, it was imperative for the Blue Spades to see him with her so that they would trust he wasn’t here to start a war. When he reached the biker guard who was now staring down his nose at Asa the man had to be over 6’4” “Black Skulls. Is Luke inside?”

  “Who wants to know?” said the giant in a gravelly voice that cut right through the blaring heavy metal music.

  “Asa Boone. Rodney’s kid.”

  “I know the name,” he said before glaring down at Samantha.

  “It’s a friendly visit,” Asa said, delivering a rough kiss to her forehead.

  “If she doesn’t party, then she can’t come in,” he said.

  It wasn’t surprising, but it would be better if Samantha wasn’t about to be held to some kind of iconic groupie code. Asa didn’t like the idea of her navigating the dangers of cocaine. When it came to the Blue Spades, there really was no declining, not unless you were prepared to die.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said, having literally no idea what she was getting herself into.

  Asa had built up a tolerance to just about everything. That’s what it meant to be Rodney Boone’s son. As it stood, there was little difference between a line of blow and five shots of espresso for Asa.

  Something told him that Samantha wasn’t nearly so hardened, and that was an understatement. She’d probably never done a drug in her life.

  The giant biker had cracked the meeting room door open, but Asa still took the time to remind Samantha, “Don’t do anything stupid.” She smiled at him as though he was overreacting, but a hint of fear crept into her expression. Good, he thought, as they started off through the doorway, fear would keep her on her toes and out of trouble, hopefully.

  When he stepped into the meeting room, it wasn’t at all what he expected. In contrast to the Black Skulls’ meeting room, which amounted to a table surrounded by chairs and very little natural light—a real bare-bones deal—this place could only be described as a lounge. Furnished with black leather sofas where hot biker chicks dressed in very little were flaunting their curves all over the MC members beside them, the meeting room appeared to be one big party of couples chilling and smoking and groping each other between snorting lines of cocaine. The sexual energy in the air made Asa want to throw Samantha onto a free couch and start pawing at her.

  “Holy shit,” Samantha breathed, giving his arm a squeeze.

  Straight ahead was a large, handsome desk where Luke Olson was standing and counting bricks of stacked blow as though he was some kind of fucking gangster. Asa knew exactly what she was thinking in addition to being shocked at the sheer quantity of drugs.

  There was a whole new story in it for her, or so she thought. He squeezed her hand and she nearly yelped. It wasn’t until they reached Luke’s desk that the president looked up. He wasn’t alarmed or on edge, an intrusion like this one meant nothing. He studied Asa for a beat and then eased into his chair.

  “I heard about Johnny Fox,” he said in a raspy, smoker's tone. “I can’t say I was sorry to learn that he’d been rotting out in the desert, having been buried in a shallow grave, but then again, I wasn’t sorry when he disappeared ten years ago.”

  “No one was,” Asa said, who then introduced himself.

  “I know who you are,” Luke snapped.

  For a man who had survived a heart attack and was well into his twilight years, Luke still looked like a beast with short, salt-and-pepper hair, a crooked snarl and beady eyes that never seemed to blink. He had massive shoulders, and silver rings that covered each thick finger.

  “Who I don’t know,” he went on, leering up at Samantha, “is this fine piece of ass.”

  Asa’s expression hardened, but he cleared his throat and said, “Sam, my old lady.”

  “Is that right?” Luke asked in a dreamy drawl as he began looking her up and down, undressing her with his eyes or so it seemed.

  Samantha began taking big, nervous gulps of her beer.

  “So what can I do you for, Asa Boone?”

  “Actually, it might be the other way around.”

  “How do you mean?” Luke asked his thick brow furrowing.

  Asa leaned in and said, “I’m here on behalf of the Black Skulls to help, to let you know we’re behind you, anything you need.”

  “And what the fuck would I need from you?” he challenged, suddenly defensive.

  Asa stuck to the script, saying, “With the police and the press-”

  “I don’t see no police and press in Dry Lake.”

  “You’re that confident, huh?”

  “Look, kid,” Luke said, rising to his feet and letting out a deep laugh at the obvious misunderstanding. “I didn’t do shit to Johnny Fox. Don’t get me wrong. I hated the son of a bitch. He was a real piece of shit, but if we’re being honest here, I hated your entire MC even more. I’ll tell you right now, if I had a rapist in my MC, if I had some piece of shit who started abusing his own stepdaughter like that, you bet your ass I’d take him out to the desert and put a bullet in his head. But Johnny Fox wasn’t my responsibility. He was yours.” As he said it he jabbed his thick index finger against Asa’s chest. “And that’s why I hated you pussies even more... that is until it dawned on me that y’all killed the fucker.”

  “I’m here because we thought you did,” he retorted, all too aware that Samantha’s jaw had dropped, having learned the real reason why Fox was uniformly hated by all.

  “Why would I kill him?” Luke challenged as though the notion was ludicrous. “He was the only person at your MC fighting for our operation. Johnny and Jim Joseph ran coke up from Mexico and I bought it. It was flawless. Rodney didn’t want to keep it going and thing
s landed where they landed obviously. The second Johnny disappeared we fell out of business, I don’t have to tell you that. I would never kill someone who amounts to hundreds of thousands of dollars to me. Never.”

  Asa didn’t have much to say because he was far from surprised that the Blue Spades hadn’t done it. While they were talking one of the biker chicks sauntered up to Samantha, took her arms, and said in a slippery tone, “Why don’t you come blow a line with me, honey?”

  “Ah,” she said, stalling.

  Asa spoke up for her, saying, “We were just leaving.”

  “To do what?” demanded Luke, suddenly high strung. “If you head south to tell your daddy anything, you tell him that I tried to stop Johnny, tried to talk some sense into his head and get him to leave that girl alone.” In response, Samantha piped up, shocking Asa so thoroughly that he was rendered momentarily speechless:

  “Do you happen to know a certain telephone number,” she began, pulling a scrap of paper from her jean shorts. Before reading the seven-digit number, she prefaced her point by stating, “Fox received a call from this number the night of his murder.”

  Luke cocked his head, instantly skeptical as to why Asa’s old lady would be asking such a thing.

  “Hey, babe,” said Asa. “Why don’t you have a seat back there with the girls?”

  “Who the fuck is she?” Luke growled.

  Pressing the question, she asked, “Do you know who the number belongs to?”

  “Alright,” Asa growled, taking her by the arm and escorting her to the door, though she quietly objected. “Are you fucking kidding me with this?” he hissed in her ear as they reached the door, but he didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he tossed her out into the bar and slammed the door in her face before starting back for Luke.

  The Blue Spades president smiled in such a way that set Asa’s teeth on edge.

  “You might not know this about me,” he said through a mean sneer, “but I have a mind like a steel trap.”

  “Do you?” Asa hissed unsteadily.

  “And we both know whose telephone number that was,” he stated, his sneer having bloomed into a full-blown snarl. “Yours!”

  Chapter Nine

  As Samantha worked her way through the packed bar, her heart plummeted into her stomach. Was there a term for what was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she have followed Asa’s instructions? Why couldn’t she have stuck to the role of being nothing more than his girlfriend, or old lady as he preferred to call it? Why did she have to push it, ask a question, try to get an answer? It was almost as though she didn’t truly have her own identity, but felt compelled to constantly hide behind the title of journalist.

  Was the only time she was able to shed that identity was when she was spreading her legs for Asa? The longer she thought about it, taking cautious sips of her beer and eventually finding the front of the bar, the clearer the answer became yes.

  “God,” she cursed out loud. “There’s nothing wrong with me!” Feeling instantly insane, she finished her point in her head. She was a journalist. She didn’t come to Death Falls for any other reason besides writing an article about who killed Johnny Fox and why. That’s why she hopped on Asa’s motorcycle and flirted her way up to Dry Lake! Asking Luke Olson if he knew who the telephone number belonged to had been the right thing to do, for Christ’s sake!

  Then why did she feel like an ass? Why did she feel as though she had jeopardized something important? The only thing important in her life was becoming a renowned journalist. Besides, it wasn’t as though she could have anything real with Asa. He was a man of questionable integrity who made his living illegally and he just might be a killer. She was a well-adjusted tax-paying citizen who had never broken the law by so much as puffing on a joint and she belonged in Las Vegas where the bright city lights kept the cockroach-criminals out of sight.

  The pep talk had done her wonders, or so she thought until she realized her bottle was empty. Then a slow-creeping sense of dread seeped into her thoughts again.

  She startled, confused when she felt a vibration against her butt then realized it was her cell phone. Glancing at the screen, she saw that it was Harry Walsh. She also noted that it was half past eleven. Quickly, she wormed her way to the exit door and stepped out of the noisy, heavy metal music and rowdy bikers, and into the warm night air. She swiped her thumb over the LCD screen but didn’t say anything until she had walked a good ten yards from Blood Brothers where bikers floating in and out wouldn’t be able to overhear her.

  “Look, I can’t talk. I’m undercover right now-”

  “What the fuck do you-”

  “Mean? I mean I have infiltrated another biker gang, the Blue Spades. See, the Black Skulls think that the Blue Spades killed Fox, but the Blue Spades are denying it-”

  “Did you just say infiltrated?”

  “Oh, keep up, Harry!”

  “Have you lost your fucking mind?”

  “Hanging up now!” she sang.

  “Wait! Can you get me a thousand words by 4 am?”

  It sounded like he was pleading and as she did the mental math to figure out if she had enough time and then a group of biker chicks wandered her way from the bar.

  Samantha tried to keep her voice low as she clarified, “On the whole Black Skulls, Blue Spades angle? Or maybe keep it a teaser about who killed Johnny Fox? Also, could my byline mention that I’m a crime reporter for the Las Vegas Post? I’ve always wanted my byline to say that.”

  She had spoken too loudly, and as Harry went on to clarify exactly what he would like her short article to revolve around, the biker chicks began staring at Samantha, as they passed a flask between them and lit up their cigarettes.

  “You’re a fucking reporter?” one of the biker chicks drunkenly called out before shuffling over. “Shit, Harry, I gotta go,” she whispered before shoving her cell phone into her jean shorts and offering the confrontational woman a friendly smile.

  “What? No,” Samantha said in an attempt to laugh it off. “I was just telling a friend about something I heard on the news-”

  “Bullshit,” she spat, the bikers now surrounding Samantha. “Hey, Ronda, go get Lance.” Apparently, Ronda was the one with a giant mane of teased red hair, black eyeliner rimming her dark eyes, and a tight, leather dress because that’s who started off towards the bar.

  “Don’t get Lance,” Samantha said, suddenly terrified of this Lance character and what he might do if he learned there was a reporter from the Las Vegas Post in their midst. She polished the suggestion off with a nervous laugh then insisted, “I’m just here to have a good time. I’m with my boyfriend. He’s in the Black Skulls.”

  Again, the ringleader spat out, “Bullshit!” And her partner in crime who was wearing a fringed leather jacket circa 1982 yelled, “No Black Skull has set foot in here for at least six years, and no Black Skull I’ve ever heard of would be caught dead with a prissy little tit-less cunt like you.”

  Samantha Wilde had never thrown the first punch in her life. In fact, she had never thrown a punch, not even when she was a tantrum screaming toddler, so no one was more surprised than she was when her fist made hard contact with the ringleader’s jaw. The woman stumbled backward as her girlfriends gasped and cursed. After shaking off her shock, Samantha had almost no time to register that all five women were now coming after her. She turned and sprinted for Blood Brothers, but wasn’t entirely sure how careening through the joint was supposed to save her. Asa was inside, she reminded herself. He would know what to do. He’d save her. But just as she flung the door open, someone grabbed her hair from behind and jerked her back outside.

  She fell to her knees in the dirt, having twisted strangely on the way down, and after suffering three severe blows to the stomach—the biker chicks took turns kicking her as hard as they could while she was down. After a while, she glanced hazily up to find a mountainous biker stalking towards her from the bar who could only be Lance.

&n
bsp; Keeping at Lance's side, Ronda pointed at Samantha as they neared and declared, “That’s her! She’s a reporter!”

  “I’m not a fucking reporter you bitch!” Samantha spat the words out as she eyed Ronda and then Lance.

  Another biker chick said, “She said she’s here with one of the Black Skulls.”

  No sooner than the woman had announced as much, two Blue Spades bikers, each clutching Asa by the arm, burst through the door. Word traveled fast in Blood Brothers, it seemed.

  His lip was split and it looked like he had gotten punched in the face. Asa locked eyes with her and his furious expression twisted with regret to see Samantha on her knees in the dust. Without warning, he growled, jerking free of his captors and then all hell broke loose. Asa threw punch after punch, delivering jabs and hooks with impressive skill, as he fought off the two bikers who had held him, not that Samantha was watching this unfold. She had sprung to her feet and was in the panicked throes of doing what she could to defend herself against the raging blows of five drunken women. By the time she heard Luke Olson storm out of the bar and yell, “Get the fuck out!” her ear was ringing where she had been decked in the side of the head and her knuckles on both hands were starting to swell.

  She sensed more than saw Asa step in beside her and as the gathered crowd spat and cursed at them, they limped off to Asa’s Harley, jumped on, and wasted no time tearing out into the dark night. She clung to him, as they soared at over ninety miles per hour south along the highway, and her ribs burned and head pounded, but none of that felt as bad as the thought that Asa hated her.

  She could feel it in the stiffness of his body, in the way he changed lanes, in his posture—he seemed to be leaning forward as if he couldn’t stand to be near her, couldn’t tolerate her arms around his waist—and she was no longer able to convince herself that she had every right in the world to do whatever the fuck she wanted.