Thrash (Rebel Riders MC Book 1)

by Zahra Girard

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now.”

  “How much?” I steel myself for bad news.

  “Seven hundred dollars and eighty-two cents.”

  I didn’t steel myself enough for this. I slump a little and put my hand on the desk. Even counting the extra money I’ve made working for the Reaper’s Sons, this is going to put me a hair’s breadth away from broke.

  “And that’s for the last session? What about this one?” I say.

  “Well, I’ll talk to the insurance company again, and I’ll argue your case — sometimes they change their minds — but there’s a chance you’ll owe the same amount for this one.”

  Somehow I get the feeling that she’s not going to try very hard.

  The walls in this lobby feel way too close and, when I try to take a calming breath, it feels like I am drowning.

  “Is there anything else we can do? Please, Janet. I really need some help here.”

  It kills me to have to beg her. I know she’s gloating on the inside, miserable shrew that she is, but I would do anything to get just this one victory and feel more secure right now.

  If she told me to get on my knees, I would.

  “I’m sorry, Alice. I really am.”

  I sigh and it comes out more like a shudder and I know I’m on the verge of breaking down. I give her a quick, dismissive wave and turn my head away and make for the front door.

  I need air. I need to get away from her. I need to think.

  I step out into the parking lot.

  The clinic is on the outskirts of Crescent Falls, with forest on one side and cleared, up-for-development plots of land on the other. I head to the forest side and take a seat on a wooden bench with a view of the forest. There’s a tiny garden in front of me, something the clinic put together for patients and people waiting to relax and enjoy and feel a little bit closer to nature while they’re getting injected with chemicals and doing everything they can to prevent turning into dirt and dust.

  In the garden, there’s a little water feature — a circulating fountain and a tiny pond with a couple of Koi that come to the surface every once in a while to snatch a stray bug. I watch it for a while, almost meditatively while I look for calm inside myself. Among the quiet ripple of the burbling water, I hear the passing roar of a motorcycle; it’s not an unusual sound in and of itself, but it’s a little out of place in this part of town, so far from The Smiling Skull and the other part of town where the other motorcycle club, the Rebel Riders, has their tavern.

  How the fuck did I get here?

  And why the fuck does everything seem to be going wrong just as my mom starts on the path to recovery and I start to get my finances together?

  This is going to break me.

  I’m never going to get ahead. I’m going to keep treading water until I get too tired to fight it. And then I’m going to drown.

  A few tears start to flow, but I work hard to keep them inside. I can’t let my mom see me crying, and I refuse to give Janet the satisfaction of knowing that I’m suffering. If there’s one thing that helps me to keep it together at the moment, it’s hating that shrew-woman’s self-satisfied face.

  A beep from my phone interrupts my self-pitying reverie.

  It’s a text from my cell company.

  The credit card for my auto-billing has been declined. I’ll need to come in and pay in cash to continue receiving service.

  That does it.

  I let myself have a good cry. The kind that leaves my ribs hurting.

  It doesn’t help much, but I need those couple minutes I take on the park bench to really let out all of my frustration. I feel helpless and locked in; I’m the only person my mom has to take care of her, she can’t do this on her own and she doesn’t have the kind of insurance to cover all of her care, but, no matter what I do, I feel trapped.

  The best I can do is hold on and hope that this doesn’t break me so much that I can’t recover. But even that seems foolish.

  When I pull myself together, I take a trip to the ATM and take out the cash I’ll need; almost eight hundred dollars, enough to take my bank account frighteningly close to zero.

  I stop by my cell company’s little service center, take my ticket to wait in the molasses-slow line, and pay my bill with a few precious twenties. I don’t say a word to the person behind the counter, other than to give them my name and account number.

  After, I head back to the clinic.

  Janet takes the remainder of my cash and mumbles something approximating a ‘thank you’. Dazedly, I walk back into the treatment room and take a seat next to my mom. I hold her hand while I try to catch back up on the show — it all looks the same to me.

  “Oh, honey, where have you been?” She says.

  “Just had to take care of a few things, mom. Did I miss anything?”

  “Our hero just caught these bad guys who were smuggling people using fake military IDs. But now he’s got to chase down the people who were funding them,” she says. Her voice is hushed like she actually finds the show exciting.

  I sigh.

  “It’s just one thing after another, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so, dear. But it’s entertaining.”

  “You think he ever gets tired of treading water?” I say.

  She makes a non-committal noise and turns her attention back to the show.

  No matter how much I fight it, the best I feel is treading water, and even then, I know that one bad wave could sink me.

  I can’t keep doing this. I need to find a way to get ahead.

  My thoughts drift to earlier in the day.

  Maybe there is a way I can get ahead.

  Were Richie and Lucky serious about their offer?

  Chapter Eight

  Thrash

  “Drop it.”

  Hawk’s voice comes through loud-and-clear over my phone. It’s stern enough I have to hold the phone back from my face a bit, I’m worried he’ll actually punch me through the damn receiver.

  “No ‘hello’?” I say.

  “I’m not fucking around here, Thrash. This isn’t a social call. I’m not going to ask you to have a beer. So shut your fucking mouth and listen: drop it.”

  “Drop what?” I say.

  “Don’t play coy with me. This isn’t a date, though you will get fucked if you keep stepping out of line. I heard that you were planning on ambushing some shipments that the Reaper’s Sons were bringing up from Mexico. Don’t. We have a truce with them, and if I catch you even looking in the direction of one of their cars, I will rip your fucking cock off and feed it to my Doberman.”

  “Fine.”

  “That’s it? ‘Fine’?” He says, incredulous.

  I don’t blame him. I rarely step back in line so quickly.

  “Look, I think it’s bullshit, I think you’re ceding way, way too much business territory to them, but, you’re the boss. And I — along with a lot of the women in this town — would be very upset if I lost my cock over this.”

  “We lost five patched members and three prospects before we settled things with the Reaper’s Sons. I won’t have you fucking that up with your half-assed notions of business. Besides, their president, Mortar, has a fucking in with the mayor. If we end up restarting the war, it will not be a pleasant experience.”

  We might’ve lost a few members, but we gave as good as we got. Ten Reaper’s Sons are rotting in the ground and I put a couple there myself. But that’s in the past.

  And, as I said, I like my dick, so I let it lie.

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  “Good. Toe the line, Thrash.”

  I hang up and get back to business.

  I might’ve promised to stay away from the Reaper’s Sons and their cars, but I sure as hell am not done with their business. There’s money to be made there, and just as interesting as their drugs is the woman bringing them up.

  I need to know more about her.

  Which is why I’ve followed her.

  I squint
as the door to the clinic opens. I’m far off and mostly out of sight, but I still hunker down as she steps out into the parking lot. I’ve been on her ass all morning and, finally, I feel like I’m catching a break.

  Her coming here with a woman who can only be her mother has given me a bit of an in. It’s a snapshot of her life and a chance for me to tip the scales of our relationship even further in my favor and get myself closer to the Reaper’s Sons and their drug-running operation.

  I find her weakness, I exploit it, and then I bend her just how I need her.

  She storms her way to a bench and, the second she sits down, her shoulders slump like she’s just been punched in the gut. They shake again and she brings her hands up to her face.

  What was once interesting is now something I don’t feel comfortable watching. Part of me wants to go to her, to slip my arm around her and give her a shoulder to cry on. I know she hates my guts, I know she’s suspicious of who I am — and she’s got every right to feel that way — but sometimes in life there are those moments where you just need someone — anyone — to let it all out to. I could be that person. I want to be that person.

  She doesn’t have anyone.

  Hell, she’s barely hanging on.

  But I know that if I went to her right now, I’d blow it. She’d put her back up and chase me off with a few choice words. And, while I’d love the sight of her angry — she is sexy as hell when there’s a furious light in those deep hazel eyes — it’d ruin everything I’ve got planned.

  I fire up my bike and head off down the road so I can give her some privacy in her misery.

  I might’ve just found my way in.

  * * * * *

  “Go away. We’re closed.”

  Her voice has a bracing bite to it.

  I give her a smile in return.

  Then I gesture to the bar behind me. While The Smiling Skull is quiet right now, it isn’t empty and it sure as hell isn’t closed. I’m not going to let her attitude push me away.

  “Your door was open, there are three men in a booth back there drinking whiskey, so I think is a bit of a stretch to say you’re closed,” I say.

  “Do you really need to bother me at work? Have things progressed from you ambushing me on the road to you harassing me at work? What’s next, are you going to stand outside my bedroom window holding a boombox like Lloyd fucking Dobler?” She says, with a bit of a teasing tone in her voice.

  It’s good to hear something other than anger or sadness when she speaks. And the ghost of a smile on her lips is a welcome sight.

  “Well, Ms. Genius, you know Lloyd gets the girl in that movie, right?” I reply.

  “My name’s not ‘Ms. Genius’, Lloyd.”

  “My name’s not ‘Lloyd’, Ms. Genius. It’s Thrash.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Really? You really want to go with ‘Thrash’ over ‘Lloyd’? Maybe you should think that one over.”

  I shrug.

  “I used to be in a Thrash Punk band with my cousin when I was younger. The name stuck. I was a drummer, but it didn’t work out — I was better at smashing people than I was at smashing drums. My cousin went on to do pretty well for himself in a different band. Now, I’ve shown you mine, now you show me yours.”

  I lean forward and grin as she blushes a little at the suggestion in my voice.

  “It’s Alice. Ms. Alice, if you prefer,” she says. “Now, what are you doing here?”

  I nod towards the beer taps.

  “Ordering a beer. Give me a pint of the porter — I haven’t had breakfast yet and could use something filling.”

  She dutifully fills me a glass, though it’s practically half head. Either she is a shit bartender, or she hates me. Or both.

  “Now, why are you really here?”

  I take a look at the men in the booth on the other side of the room. They’re out of earshot, but, still, being in a Reaper’s Sons bar is a risk and, while I’m sure I can handle myself, I don’t want Alice to get into any trouble.

  “Are you comfortable talking business here?”

  She scoffs, but then gestures for me to follow her.

  I grab my beer and she leads us outside to a spot behind the bar. Cigarette butts litter the ground all around us. It’s messy, but it’ll do; there’s no one around and the noise from the street will cover most of our conversation.

  “You want to talk business? So, you’re a former punk band member, biker, and a businessman? Quite the modern renaissance man, huh?”

  I nod. “I read a Tim Ferris book. Really opened my eyes. Now, do you want to hear my proposition or what?”

  “Why should I? Why should I go behind Hammer’s back? The club’s been good to me.”

  “Do you think any of them feel the same loyalty to you?” I say, looking at her right in the eyes. There’s a second where her confident look falters and I know I’ve got my opening.

  “They’re doing pretty good so far,” she says, weakly.

  “That’s because they know you’re desperate. Don’t think they won’t sell you out if things go south,” I say. “You’re disposable to them, no matter what they tell you.”

  “Ah, I get it. The answer to dealing with one potentially-treacherous motorcycle club is to get in bed with a second potentially-treacherous motorcycle club? Makes perfect sense.”

  I sip my breakfast beer and let her insult roll right off my shoulders.

  “I’m saying you should hedge your bets. And I’m not asking you to get in bed with a second club, I’m asking you to get in bed with me. Just me. Trust me, you’ll love it.”

  Her eyes narrow.

  “Are you hitting on me?”

  “All I want from you is a ‘yes’,” I say.

  “It really sounds like you’re hitting on me,” she says.

  I shrug. “Sex and business are a lot alike.”

  “I’m going inside. This is just getting weird.”

  I reach out and put my hand on her shoulder. She jolts like she’s just stuck her finger in a light socket.

  “I know about your mother,” I say.

  She glares at me.

  “Which is exactly why I shouldn’t work with you — why should I risk it?”

  “I know about the billing problems, too.”

  Her eyes burn with anger and indignation.

  “What the fuck?”

  “Janet and I used to know each other. I paid her a visit and saw the statements,” I say.

  She makes a face.

  “Gross.”

  I shrug. “She gets a lot better after eight or nine beers. That’s beside the point — I know you’re barely hanging on. I also know you’re capable of a lot more than being some two-bit drug mule and bartender for a club like the Reaper’s Sons. I want to give you the opportunity to start making what you’re worth.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “How would you like to make a few hundred for just a couple hours work? Today.”

  She inclines her head slightly. “Tell me how.”

  “You remember that ecstasy I showed you in the door panel of your car? Drugs need buyers. And I can do that. You mention to someone in your club that you have a friend from out of town who heard you worked for the Reaper’s Sons, and this friend is looking to get into dealing in the rave scene and wanted to know if you could hook them up.”

  She folds her arms across her chest. “You want to buy drugs from me?”

  “Consider this just the start of our working relationship. The foreplay before we really get into bed together and get down to business.”

  She grimaces. “Fine. You want ecstasy, I’ll get you ecstasy.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you will, Ms. Alice.”

  There’s a flicker of a smile on her face that disappears the second she realizes I see it. “Stop hitting on me.”

  “Do we have a deal?” I say, trying to keep my voice steady though inside, I’m tense as hell; more than she knows rides on her answer to my question.

  “We have a deal
.”

  Chapter Nine

  Alice

  “You talked about our business?”

  Lucky’s face is a mask of anger and disbelief. I’ve been waiting around on pins and needles all morning for him to show up at The Smiling Skull and, when he does show — a bit later than his usual time — I can barely hold back until he’s seated and has a beer before I open my mouth.

  It’s probably not the best idea.

  His anger makes me instinctively take a step back.

  “No. Look, I wanted to come to you first because I know Hammer trusts you with a lot on this operation. I have a friend — not really a friend, but an acquaintance — who called me. I used to work with him in San Francisco, he ran some tech venture capital thing. He’s visiting San Luis Obispo which is just an hours drive away, and he wanted to know if I knew anyone who could get him some ecstasy. Since you’re so connected with Hammer’s work, you were the first person I thought to ask.”

  If there’s one thing being around these bikers, they — just like all men — love it when you stroke their egos. I know Hammer’s an authority in the club, respected not just as an enforcer, but also for his business sense in arranging a lot of the drug deals.

  Lucky’s anger subsides and a considering look comes across his face.

  “A rich man in a big city like San Francisco has to call his friend that lives hours away just for an ecstasy hookup? You expect me to believe that?”

  I nod and keep talking like it’s perfectly reasonable.

  “He made his first million developing an online video game where grown men use animated characters wielding machine guns to play capture the flag. Do you think he knows any drug dealers?”

  Lucky nods. “Fair point. How much does he want?”

  I shrug.

  “Just a couple thousand dollars worth to start; he’s having a big party and wants to be prepared,” I say. “Do you think we can help him?”

  “Fine. Give me his contact information and I’ll see what we can do for him,” he says.

  “No.”