“Tough luck.” I shrugged, and then looked around. “Anybody else armed?”
No one responded.
“Anyone else pulls out a piece, shoot ‘em, Pete,” I said.
“Wait a minute,” One of the men coughed out. “I got one, but I ain’t looking to pull it.”
I looked in his direction.
Some people had no business with guns. He was obviously one of them. “Give it up,” I said, struggling to keep from laughing at his stupidity.
He reached behind his back and produced a Colt .45. I took it and shoved it into my belt. “Anybody else?”
No one said a word.
“You fellas get on your sleds and go find a bar of your own,” Crip shouted. “This one’s ours. Everyone can head for the door except for my buddy here.”
Slowly, and as many of them grumbled under their breath, the men filtered toward the door. As soon as the first man’s back was facing me, I shook my head in disbelief.
On the back of their kuttes, a top rocker with the word Gremlins was over a patch depicting a cartoonish gremlin. Below it was a bottom rocker claiming California as their territory.
The bottom rocker got my full attention.
“Hold up, fellas,” I shouted. “Hold. The. Fuck. Up!”
I turned toward Crip. “Fuckers are flying a bottom rocker, Boss. California.”
Crip’s eyes went thin and his jaw flared. “Your kutte doesn’t identify you, but I’m guessing you’re the president. Solely based on your big mouth. Am I right?”
With Crip’s pistol still leveled at his face, Beard swallowed hard and nodded his head.
“You and your crew are going to drop your kuttes at the door. Did you think for one fucking minute that you’d claim territory without a fight?”
Beard didn’t respond.
“You can tell ‘em or I will,” Crip said.
Beard blinked a few times. “Listen up,” he said in a low, squeaky tone. He cleared his throat. “Everyone needs to take off their kutte. Drop ‘em at the door.”
“What the fuck?” one of them said.
I turned toward the door. “You claim territory, you need to be prepared to die for that patch.”
I raised Gray Beard’s pistol. “Take ‘em off or get shot.”
“This is bullshit,” one of them said.
I pointed the pistol at him. “No. What’s bullshit is you dumb fucks just decided to sew a California patch onto a vest you bought on fuckin’ Amazon. You want to wear that patch, there’s protocol to follow.”
I wagged the barrel of the pistol at him. “Take it off.”
He tossed the vest aside. The other nine men followed. With their kuttes in a pile beside the door, they sauntered into the lot.
I looked at Cholo. “Guard the door.”
“Come here, Peeb,” Crip said.
I exhaled a breath of relief and walked to Crip’s side. He lowered his pistol, and then held it out to his side.
“Take this.”
I did.
He raised his hands as if prepared to fight. Naturally, Beard followed.
Crip swung a straight right into Beard’s chin, knocking him backward a few steps. “That was for being disrespectful. And this…”
While Beard was stumbling to catch his footing, Crip swung a ferocious roundhouse kick with his right foot. The side of his boot slammed against beard’s cheek, and drove him to the floor.
“…is for even thinking about pulling that pistol on me.”
As Beard struggled to push himself up from the floor, undoubtedly attempting to hold onto a little slice of pride, Crip stomped his heel into the man’s skull, smashing his face into the hardwood floor.
“And that’s for claiming territory that you didn’t earn.”
Blood splattered from his mouth and he went limp.
“Toss his ass in the parking lot,” Crip growled. “Before I decide to piss on him.”
Cholo grabbed the man’s boots and dragged him toward the door. Crip turned toward the bar and nodded. “Good lookin’ out, Pete.”
“Any time, Nick.”
“Bar rag for this blood?” Crip asked.
“I’ll get it,” Pete said.
Half of the men had left as soon as they walked outside, and the remaining few waited for their battered president to regain his senses. Ten minutes after the first group pulled away, the sound of the rumbling exhaust gave warning that the others were on their way out.
As Pete cleaned the blood from the floor, I peered through the window. After the taillights of the last bike faded away, I turned toward Crip.
“They’re gone.”
“That fucker I busted up make it?”
“Guess so.”
“You guess so? God damn it Peeb, look out there on the lot. I don’t want any surprises when we stroll through that door. Hell, he might be laying where Cholo left his dumb ass.”
I crouched down and looked to my right. The lot was empty.
I looked to the left.
Crip’s and Cholo’s bikes were still sitting upright, but the Sporty was laying on its side.
“God damn pricks,” I said through my teeth.
Crip spun around. “What?”
“They kicked over the Sporty.”
“No shit?”
“Yep.” I headed for the door. “But yours and Cholo’s are still on their kickstands.”
“You parked in the middle,” he said with a laugh.
I pressed my hand against the door. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“If the one in the middle’s tipped over, the other two aren’t, I wasn’t an accident. It was intentional.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Looks like a hate crime.”
“Against big mean fuckers?”
“No,” Cholo said. “Against payaso babosa’s who ride Sportsters.”
While Cholo and Crip shared a laugh, I shoved the door open.
I walked to the Sporty and stared down at it. Frustrated that I was forced to ride it, and even more aggravated that one of the departing idiots chose to push it over, I bent down and grabbed the handlebars of the overturned motorcycle. As I struggled to lift the 550-pound motorcycle, I grew even angrier.
It seemed every time I turned around, there was another reminder of what Tegan did to my bike.
And it was high time I got my revenge.
Chapter Forty-Six
Tegan
As I sat outside the coffee shop at 7:00 p.m. on a Saturday waiting on Pee Bee to arrive, I wondered just what he did all day – everyday – that prevented him from breaking free for thirty minutes so I could pay him.
The sound of music blaring over the unmistakable drone of a motorcycle’s exhaust led me to believe he was pulling into the parking lot, but I didn’t bother looking. Sitting outside at a table with my back to the building, I stared straight ahead as if I could care less about him or his motorcycle.
Dressed in jeans, lace-up boots, and his leather vest, he was either shirtless or was wearing a wife beater, I couldn’t tell. His long muscular arms were bare, and dangled at his sides as he lumbered toward me in more of a galumph than a walk.
Fascinated by his awkward swagger, I watched intently as he approached.
I wondered if it was his big feet that caused him to walk in such a way, or if it was something he did intentionally. Before I could decide, he sat down in the chair across from me.
“See the ride?”
“Kind of.”
“What does that mean? Kind of?”
“I kind of saw it when you pulled in. Like, out of the corner of my eye.”
“You didn’t look at it when I pulled in?”
I shook my head and tried not to smile. “No.”
“Man, you’re a hard little--”
I glared at him. “You about said it, didn’t you?”
“Said what?”
“The B-word.”
The corner of his mouth curled up. “Maybe.”
His hair was all one
length, and slightly past his shoulders, which surprised me.
I knew it was long, but not that long, “Why’s your hair so long?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Huh?”
“Your hair. That mess of brown straw on top of your head. Why’s it so long?”
His hands shot up as if to check and make sure it was all still there. He ran his fingers through it, forcing it back along his scalp. “What about it?”
“Your loud exhaust must be ruining your ears,” I said. “Why. Is. It. So. Long?”
“Why. Are. You. Such. A…” He raised both hands in the air and gestured with his index and middle fingers.
I laughed. “Did you just give me air quotes?”
“Is that what they’re called?”
I fought the desire to laugh out loud and nodded. “Yep.”
He shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Tough guys don’t use air quotes.”
“Says who?”
“Says me. They’re reserved for politicians and douchebags. You’ve not in politics, are you?”
He scoffed. “No.”
“That explains it, then. Never mind.”
I reached in my purse, pulled out an envelope, and tossed it on the table. “There’s a sheet of paper in there I’d like you to sign. Actually, there’s two of them. One for you, and one for me.”
He opened the envelope and pulled out the folded sheets of paper, looked at them, and then shot me a confused look. “What the fuck is this?”
“Proof of payment. I figured you preferred cash, and I didn’t want to pay for a money order, so I’m paying you in cash. You need to sign that so I’ve got proof that you’ve been paid.”
“Just handing me the money ain’t good enough?”
“Sorry, no.”
He unfolded one of the sheets of paper and read it. “Why not?”
“I need proof. To protect me.”
He peered over the top off the paper. “From what?”
“From you.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“Nope.”
“Why?” He ran his fingers through his hair, clearing it away from his eyes. “My hair?”
I shook my head. “It’s not that.”
He raised his eyebrows. “’Cause I’m a biker?”
“Nope.”
Truthfully, his hair, and his beard were great. They reminded me of a past relationship, and they helped me remember, each time I saw them, just how much I didn’t want to be hurt again.
“Why?”
“You’re a man,” I said. “Men can’t be trusted.”
“Why not?”
“Just sign it, please.”
“Tell me why.”
I leaned onto the edge of the table and met his gaze. “What are you thinking about right now?”
“You’re all over the fucking place.” He rubbed the heel of his palm against his eye. “You ask questions, and then you’re just on to something else.”
“I’m not going to beg you to give answers. If you don’t answer me, I’m just going to assume you don’t want to, and I’ll move on.”
He leaned forward. “I’m like Samson. That’s why I’ve got the hair.”
It was a cute response. It didn’t make him safe, but it – along with his frequent smiles – made him seem boyish.
“It makes you strong?” I asked.
He brushed his hands through his hair and nodded.
“Do you believe that?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, yeah.”
“Interesting.”
“Hey, hold on a minute,” he said. “A minute ago. Did you call me a douchebag?”
“Not like when you called me the B-word, no.” I chuckled. “I inferred it.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“Took you a minute, though, didn’t it?”
He looked me up and down. “God damn. Do you ever let up?”
“Rarely. It’s a self-preservation thing.”
“Because you don’t trust us?”
“Something like that.”
He looked at my hands, and then glanced under the table. “You haven’t got a drink yet?”
“I’m not getting one.”
“We met at a coffee shop. People drink coffee here.” He outstretched his massive arms. “Look around you.”
“You picked this place, not me,” I reminded him. “You haven’t been back to your father’s house since you barfed on the floor. If you had, I would have paid you there.”
“I’ve been back,” he snapped back.
“Not in my presence,” I said with a laugh.
He shrugged. “I’ve been busy.”
“You made a fool of yourself, and you were embarrassed.”
“I ate too many jalapenos, and then grabbed a sloshing bag of piss. That shit ran down my arm. Nothing embarrassing about that, just gross.”
“You stopped coming after that, I was just saying--”
He sat up straight and puffed out his chest. “You’re full of shit.”
He was full of shit, but I’d give him the benefit of the doubt. It was time to move on. “I don’t waste money on things like coffee. I’d rather eat.”
He glanced at my car, and then let out a laugh. “Or get your car fixed?”
“My car’s a long way down the list.”
“You’re not going to fix that door?”
“It still gets me where I’m going. And, it never rains this time of year. So, as long as it gets me from home to work, there’s no need to spend money on it.”
“Interesting concept,” he said. It looked like an original thought entered his head. He raised his extended index finger. “I’ve got a question.”
“Okay.”
“How come you never cuss?”
“I was raised differently. I don’t need to cuss. I get results with wit and charm.”
“Wit and charm, huh?”
I nodded. “It works well.”
“So, you never cuss?”
“Today, I have no need to. I wouldn’t say never. At some point in time I may need to, and when that time comes, I’ll do it. At least whoever I’m talking to will understand the urgency.”
“Say fuck, and I’ll buy you a coffee.”
“No.”
“C’mon.”
I was tempted to. Instead, I chuckled. “No.”
He let out a sigh. “I’ll buy you a coffee, anyway.”
I shook my head.
He nodded and then stood. “What do you want?”
“I want you to sign that sheet of paper. Then, I want to pay you. And then, I want to go.”
He reached for his wallet. “Let me buy you a drink.”
I pressed my finger against the piece of paper, pinning it to the table. “Do you promise to sign that after we’re done?”
“Yep.”
I conceded, and it felt good. “Okay. Get me something.”
“What?”
“Surprise me.”
He grinned and walked away. A sigh escaped me.
Being in his presence wasn’t as easy as I’d hoped. He was attractive, and so far, he wasn’t being a dick. It seemed he might be different than I expected. I wondered if his asshole-ish behavior was the product of me wrecking his bike, and of him being in the presence of his equally asshole-ish father.
He was still a man, but if he wasn’t a dick, it was possible that we could get along while I was employed to care for his father.
In a few moments, he returned.
He placed a cup in front of me. “Did you look at the bike?”
I glanced at the drink. It wasn’t what I expected. A clear ice-filled cup with white liquid at the bottom and brown at the top, I had no idea what it was. “No, I didn’t. I was thinking.”
He sat down.
I took a drink. “Oh, wow. That’s good. What is it?”
“Iced caramel macchiato.”
I raised the cup as if toasting the subject. “The fact that you can even o
rder something like this supports the air quote statement.”
“I asked them what girls like.”
I motioned toward the sheets of paper. “Sign those before you forget our agreement.”
“You said after we’re done.”
“Did I?”
He took a sip of his drink and nodded. “Yep.”
“Tell me, Samson. Before your hair was long, were you short and skinny?”
He laughed. “No. It’s just. Shit used to happen. A lot of shit used to happen. Then, I grew it out. And, since it’s been long, nothing really bad has happened. So, it’s kind of like Samson, or a good luck charm, or whatever.”
“You believe in good luck charms?”
“I believe in not changing shit if it’s working. Kind of like you and your car.”
“I see.” I took another drink, and studied him the entire time. “What kind of shit?”
He scrunched his nose. “Huh?”
“What kind of shit happened? You said a lot of shit used to happen, and then you grew your hair out. The good luck charm thing, remember?”
“Club shit.”
“What’s club shit?”
“That means it’s not to be discussed.”
I took another sip. “Not with women?”
He leaned forward. “Not with anyone.”
“Like Sons of Anarchy?”
“You watch that shit?”
“I’ve seen it a few times, yes,” I lied. I’d seen them all.
“Kind of like that, but not Hollywood-ized.”
“What’s Hollywood-ized about it?”
“We don’t shoot guns from our hips while we’re riding our bikes.”
“You wait until you come to a stop?”
“Yeah,” he said with a laugh. “We try to.”
“Makes sense. It’d be easier to aim.”
I took another sip, and then looked at the cup. I’d finished a quarter of it without realizing it. I set it aside and folded my hands together.
“Pop says you’re a good nurse.”
I sat up excitedly and then realized I’d done so, but it was too late to fix it. “Did he?”
“Sure did.”
“That was nice of him.”
“He says nice shit from time to time. Ain’t very often, but he does.”
“I like him,” I said. “A lot. I’ll be glad when he’s better, but it’ll be sad not to see him anymore.”
“Nothing saying you can’t stop by and see him sometimes.”
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