by A. C. Bextor
“You don’t need to know her,” I defend, knowing full well I don’t have to justify myself to anyone here or anywhere.
Leglas was named VP of Saint’s right before I took over as its president. When Pop, Gypsy’s old man, stepped down, Leglas made no secret of wanting my position for himself, but Pop knew Leglas wasn’t of right mind to hold the gavel as a president should.
Leglas can be selfish. Anything he wants, he feels he deserves on personal merit alone. He’s smart, yet at times his hotheaded decisions don’t prove his intellect. He’s also loyal. The six foot three inch powerhouse is willing to get dirty for any member, and he’ll willingly, and enthusiastically, walk on the wrong side of the law or his own already weak morals to do it.
My VP is not only tall but thick, the biggest man of any of us. Not that he gives two shits about his appearance, including his own personal hygiene—or the whores he sleeps with. Typically, he wears his long, light brown hair down on his shoulders, only pulling it up only before bracing for a fight. His jaw is usually left unshaven and dirty, and his fingers are covered in tarnished silver rings. He’s older than I am by five years, pushing him to almost forty. And he’s never had a woman he’s truly cared about in his entire life—sans one—the one that got away.
As soon as Pop stepped down, he bought Elenor, more known to those here as Mom, an RV and moved her closer to her family in southern Texas. They call, but rarely visit. Pop gave no reason on why he decided to retire, other than his old lady rode his ass until he couldn’t take it anymore. He loves his Elenor, and his son, Gypsy. He was torn, but he told us all it was time to let go.
So he did.
Still agitated, Leglas sits back and crosses his large, tatted arms over his chest. Glaring at the boys around the table, he notes, “Doin’ any favor for those Russians is bullshit, Elevent. Not to mention, the last one we did was fuckin’ free. What’s in it for the club if we do this?”
“One million dollars enough to wade in this time?” I return, looking around the table as Leglas had done, my eyes stopping to rest on each of my men—one by one.
One million dollars should be a good enough reason as any. The club needs more members. The building needs structural improvements. We also need a stake left after, big enough to bankroll the immediate future.
My gaze stops first on Gypsy. He’s clenching his jaw. Not due to the topic but because of his utter hatred for Leglas. The two covet no common ground. As it is, and we all know it, Leglas has the only woman Gypsy’s ever loved in his bed. But that’s a whole other story.
Gypsy isn’t just another member of this organization. He’s also the best friend I’ve ever had and the brother I trust above all others. His eyes are hazel, and he wears his light brown hair clipped short. You can take the man out of the army, but you’ll never take the army out of the man. He served our country as a medic for nearly a decade and saw enough combat in those years to haunt him for a lifetime.
Gypsy is built like I am, tall and muscled. But it’s not his brawn that got him where he is now. Unlike most of the men in this room, Gypsy uses his level head to his advantage.
Gypsy is as close to a chaplain as this chapter has, acting as the club members’ moral compass for those who seek his advice. Which is why I allow him to sit in on meetings. He’s also the in-house doctor—per se.
“I’ll do whatever you think needs done, El,” Gypsy swears his agreement, nodding to me with respect.
“Imagine that,” Leglas butts in.
Fucking hell, those two.
Pyke, the oldest member of the club, and the one who’s been around since its inception over twenty years ago, clears his throat to assuage the brewing standoff.
Pyke’s nearing sixty and has been with Saint’s Justice longer than any member here. He used to be VP to Gypsy’s old man. He stepped down at the same time I took over, but he didn’t leave completely as Pop did. He stayed back because he had nowhere else to go. He lives mainly inside the club. And he’s been a good, trusting friend and sound mind since.
His official job is the club enforcer, which is ironic being that he rarely goes on rides and when he’s here, he seldom leaves the bar. But time in service and brothers’ respect dictates he be given an official position.
So be it.
Pyke may be one of the oldest in the club, but that doesn’t mean he’s not still built in a way that scares. His all-gray hair is long, most times tied back in a tail. His beard is wiry and also gray; matching the color of his aging skin. His ice-blue eyes stay narrowed and the skin around them is permanently wrinkled. For an old man, he still manages a lot of pussy; likely because his reputation precedes him. He’s never been married, never wanted anything to do with what he deems a ball and chain.
His heart is Saint’s. Always has been. And forever will be.
“Hell, that’s a lotta cash. And fuck knows we can use it to help get us what we need,” Sty motions.
Sty, formally known as Sylvester Mayhem, has been with Saint’s about five years. Until meeting Gypsy, one night at a bar down town, Sty led what he calls a boring life.
Together the two fended off a man hurting his woman in public. After, they talked. Gypsy found Sty was interested in Saint’s from the start. He quit his day job as an information analyst for a growing marketing firm not a month later, and came to prospect here.
He serves as our in-house accountant. Sty handles the finances and dues from members, roamers, and whomever else he can get to pay. He knows what and where we spend our cash and brings to my attention anything out of the norm. He doesn’t drink, do drugs, or partake in sexual play other than his steady woman, Sunny.
“Yeah, and we don’t mind Russian money,” Gypsy clips. “Blood money still spends.”
Leglas starts to speak over Gypsy, but I raise my hand to hold him quiet. He scoffs, but keeps his tongue.
“That million will finance the war with Arrows,” Pyke states. “That is, if they ever make their move.”
“If I have a say here,” Advay, our resident road captain, asserts from his place at the end of the table. “My problem with this is—why can’t Zalesky handle this? Why can’t he protect this girl?”
Advay is a full-blooded Mohawk Indian. When Dark Arrows comes calling, I expect to see the brother fitted out in war paint, coupled with his bow and arrow, which I know for fact he has stashed in his room.
He wears his black hair long, cares about his personal hygiene, and he doesn’t indulge in club whores. He’s quiet, but incredibly intense. Advay also has a steady woman on the outside that very few know about.
“Vlad’s hands are tied,” I return, relaying what Vlad himself said this morning. “His focus needs to be in flushing out his enemy. We all understand that. Mia is a complication, an extra to look out for.”
“One million dollars, El,” Advay returns. “She sounds fuckin’ expensive.”
I agree. One million is a lot of reward for babysitting. However, this may turn into fuck knows what, so negotiations up front were necessary.
Leglas sighs, finally settling in his chair. “What do we gotta do for this brat? We gotta keep her happy? Toys and shit?”
“She’s a grown woman, you jackass. Why you always gotta go straight to stupid?” Sty clips.
“Right,” I agree with Sty. “We’re not here to entertain her. She’s here to be kept safe.”
“Why is she important? Who the fuck is she?” Leglas spits.
Responding, still irritated, I give, “She’s the kid sister to Veniamin Zalesky’s fiancée.”
A few heads lift. I resist rolling my eyes, but just barely. I know what’s coming.
Leglas is first to express carnal interest. “Fuck, if she looks anything like Myra Zanders, I’ll volunteer for first watch.”
Gypsy’s growl vibrates the room. Being that he cares a great deal for a woman in the club, Cricket, and she is Leglas’ unofficial old lady, Gypsy’s reaction is reasonable.
“No,” I clip. “She’s he
re ‘cause we’re being paid to watch her. That’s it. Actually, that reminds me of something else.” Once I have the attention I need, I remember what Vlad had said. “She’s got an ex. Not sure how ex he is, but he’s been known to put pressure on her when it comes to her family.”
“Lovely,” I hear someone utter.
“An ex. Of course,” another comment comes.
Pyke, the only member at the table who shows no interest in the girl, questions, “What if all this is a setup? Can we trust Zalesky?”
Good point. But it’s not a setup.
“Zalesky needs us more than he’ll admit,” I reiterate. “Just like Arrows is coming for us, they’re in the same boat. Sicilian families are coming for what little Ciro Palleshi left behind. Same with all Killian Dawson did, as well.”
“Still though,” Pyke starts to argue, unconvinced. “Ciro played us, remember? I’m not excited to get played again.”
“I’ll vouch for her. And I’ll vouch for Zalesky. I’ll take fault if this goes bad.”
“Oh, you’ll take the fault,” Leglas mocks. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means, if this goes south, it’s on me. You want my blood for it, you can have it.”
“I don’t think it’ll—” Sty starts, but instantly Leglas senses ownership.
He takes advantage by insisting, “You’ll surrender your gavel if this goes south.”
“What the fuck?” Advay hisses.
“Watch your fuckin’ tone, Leglas,” Pyke punishes.
“Yeah or no?” Leglas presses.
I could back down, make a statement as president and deny his dare. But I won’t. Rather, I promise, “If the Russians fuck us, I’ll surrender my gavel.”
Silence deafens the room.
“Fuck, you’re an asshole, Leglas,” Gypsy rumbles, but carries the meeting forward with, “What else we got?”
“Ride out. Our goal is adding eight potentials, for now. Vante’s out now, looking around. Once he has leads, we’ll vet them, watch them, and make the decision there before inviting them home.”
Saint’s is running with skeleton crew. We’ve never been an oversized chapter anyway, but with time, some of the members have gone to other chapters, while others have quit the life entirely. None have ever been replaced.
In the recent past, our hands have been full with aiding the Russians, which took more time and concentration than we’d hoped. Now, here we are about to do it again. This time for a flow of cash we desperately need.
“Thought Vante had this shit covered?” Sty queries.
Vante, our sergeant-at-arms, is young, but still ranked because with all he’s established for the club, and with his continued dedication, he’s earned the right.
“He’s doing the recon I ordered. He also got us the leads we need to start, but it’ll take follow-through.”
“Noted,” Sty marks. “I’ll work that out and let you know.”
Looking to my left, Leglas is picking his fingernails with his pocket knife. Pulling him from his manicure, I ask, “Where are we on the Dark Arrows intel?”
“Tyrant swears they want nothing from us. Cricket’s old man’s been outta prison for two months, and he’s back inside with them. There hasn’t been a word of him wanting her back, and they know where the fuck to find her.”
Tyrant is our only informant inside Arrows MC. He goes back in history with a few of the members of Dark Arrows, but he also goes back in history with some of us. His allegiance is torn, as it should be. However, he cares about women, losing his mother to a brutal rape and murder years ago. So whenever Cricket’s name is dropped, he sends word to give us a heads-up.
“Fuck that,” Sty murmurs. “That’s bullshit. They’re gonna want her if only because we have her.”
“Maybe they know Ty’s leaking info,” Advay sorts. “Maybe they’re givin’ him the wrong intel.”
“Or they could be waitin’ on Pop to get in. You know this goes as far back as him and Bynes,” Sty suggests. “If so, Pop’s coming back soon. We should be ready.”
“Cricket’s lived here her entire life,” Gypsy adds. “There’s no good reason they want her back.”
“Revenge is sweet,” Leglas puts in. “And bein’ you’re the one who yanked her from their clutches before she was sold off for a fuckton of money…” He trails off, using the end of his knife to point at Gypsy. “Maybe they’ll come for you first.”
“Wouldn’t you enjoy that?” Gypsy clips. “Well, fuck you too, brother.”
Fucking hell.
“Shut the shit down,” Sty cuts off. “We have other matters to press. Do we need the girls to start cleanin’ this hole? Coming from Zalesky, I’m guessing he wants her treated as royalty.”
“Money doesn’t give someone royalty rights, dumbass,” Leglas touts as he stands. “But if she does happen to look fuck hot like her sister, I’m willin’ to worship her for a taste.”
As the rest of the members stand, I stop them before they can go. I have one more thing to say and with these heathens I gotta do it quickly and deliberately. “No one touches her.”
“Oh, hell,” comes from Sty.
“Makes sense,” comes from Pyke.
“What the fuck?” comes from Leglas.
Gypsy and Advay, as usual, don’t mince words.
“Good, we’re clear. Now let’s stop with the bitch talk and get some fuckin’ work done.”
As we stand in front of Saint’s Justice Motorcycle Club, Cricket presses her polished pink fingernail against a large, round red button beside the door. A doorbell, yes, but not just that. There’s also a small, round camera lens next to it. Cricket bends to it, smiling wide, as if posing for a selfie.
When this cheerful and stunning, long-haired blonde woman, with startling big blue eyes, walked with Abram into my room to take me away, I was in a daze. I knew this day was coming, no matter how much I wanted to deny its plan. I never presumed I was welcome where my sister lived, however, she was there and that’s all that mattered. Now, being here, I’ve lost the comfort that being so close to her had given.
Reaching for my hand, Cricket attempts to reassure. “I promise you’ll feel welcome here. The old ladies are all super nice. Most of them have been around a while.”
Wait. Old ladies?
I picture women wearing purple slippers with pink rollers in their hair. Surely not. Behind these doors aren’t old ladies settled around a card table playing bridge. That’s not what Gemma, Jax’s mom, did.
Cricket ignores my confusion and doesn’t notice my hesitation. Instead, she powers through. “And—yeah, okay—the guys can be a little crude, but it’s all out of love. You know?”
No. I don’t know. And I stopped listening after the word ‘crude.’
“So, anyway!” she chirps excitedly when the door clicks through its locks. Grabbing the handle, using all the strength she can muster, she shoves the heavy wood open and exclaims, “And here we are, my friend! Home, sweet home.”
Sighing, Cricket slams the door to close, and I jump as we both take in the front room.
Oh, my God. No.
While I’m settled at her side, at a complete loss for words, she frowns and shakes her head. “I went to bed early. Left early to get you this morning. Used the back door. Last night the party must’ve gotten messy.”
Her definition of ‘messy’ to mine isn’t even close. Seriously—way off.
The air in the dark, closed room is thick with stale cigarette smoke and remnants of leftover alcohol. Other questionable stenches permeate throughout as well. Full ashtrays and empty bottles, in a variety of different drinks, are scattered about on small drab tables and the floor.
The carpet itself is timeworn, aged down with wear. A few holes, snags, and stains add a mixture of colors to its once solid brown.
The window dressings are dull and drab, somewhat resembling a gangster movie from a previous decade. The panes are covered in thick chunks of dark material. Dust motes flutter whe
rever streams of light manage to break in.
A genuinely nice, big-screen television is mounted on the far wall. Beneath it, several different consoles and games are strewn about the floor. Batteries, remotes, and what appear to be high-tech headsets accompany them as well.
This can’t be where these people live. There must be another way out of here and into the rooms where they sleep. No normal, sane human being could call this home.
Could they?
“Girl, this place is a mess now,” Cricket excuses, taking my arm and offering support as we climb over and clamor around the littered floor. “No one’s been in to clean yet.”
I’m startled to find that this ‘mess’ isn’t the biggest issue I have with my new living space. On each piece of generously used furniture, several bodies, both men and women are asleep, half-clothed or wearing no clothes at all. Men snore while women lay against or beneath them in a cuddle or a coo.
Hairy chests, silver rings, man buns, beards, and the lot make up the men.
G-strings, tramp stamps, and fake boobs best describe the women.
I’ve never seen anything like this in my life.
Ever.
Internally, I’m deciding if I shouldn’t just cut and run, taking my chances that not one of Vlad’s enemies will find and kill me. Maybe I can call Myra, arrange a deal. Have a bodyguard planted outside my apartment door. Maybe I can bargain my way out of here with Vlad himself, get him to change his mind.
Anything but this.
As Cricket walks me deeper into the filthy arena, three young women, all awake, alert, and most importantly dressed, turn their focus at our direction. They’re seated in front of a light wooden bar as the woman standing behind it is catching she has guests.
“Great! Gang’s all here,” Cricket merrily exclaims, continuing to pull me along with her to no doubt meet the ‘gang.’ Only this gang doesn’t appear as happy to see me as they are my new friend, Cricket.
Nodding to the woman standing behind the bar, Cricket starts, “This is Sunny. She’s with Sty. Like really with him, with him, if you know what I mean.”
