Driller: Dead Ringers MC Book 1

by Deja Voss

  When she finally came back around, I wish I could say I put my foot down and made her promise she’d never hurt me like that again, but instead I just pretended like nothing happened. I knew by the way she was picking up extra hours at the bakery to save up so she could get the tattoo of Brad’s name removed from her hip she regretted it all. I assumed she regretted hurting me, too, at least; I wanted to believe it with all my heart.

  We never did end up going on the road together.

  Riley was pregnant with her first child at our high school graduation. She married Henry as soon as she was eighteen. He went on to become a police officer and the two have settled down happily for the last fifteen-ish years in our small hometown.

  Last I heard, Brad was in jail for some sort of aggravated weapons charge. Him and his cousin Donovan went on to join the biker gang their fathers were both members of when we were kids.

  Every once in a while I’d get a stray text from Riley. I never pushed her, never wanted to be that needy friend. I guess part of me still felt guilty for things I may or may not have done.

  That was the one and only time in my life I’d ever got drunk.

  And now I sit with the fancy cocktail menu in my hand, trying to decide if I want to get back into drinking again with a cranberry infused margarita or a Moscow Mule. Bathtub gin would probably suffice at this point.

  “I’ll have an IPA,” Carl says. “Whatever you have on tap. And whatever she’s having.”

  “I’ll have the same.” I don’t know an IPA from an IRA, but as long as he’s buying I’m not trying to be difficult. Maybe I’d been doing this life all wrong this whole time. Always being in control got me absolutely nowhere. I’m broke. Likely homeless. Definitely jobless. Loveless. Tomorrow I’m probably going to have to go crying back to my dad, begging for him to let me back in his shop. Tonight I get to sit here with my former coworker Carl and his supermodel girlfriend and hope I don’t puke before I pass out.

  My phone rings in my purse and I don’t even want to look at it. All that can wait until tomorrow. The bartender sets a frosty mug of beer in front of me and I barely get it to my lips before the smell of pinecones and lemon peels overwhelms me. It’s definitely going to be a challenge getting drunk off this stuff. I can barely will myself to take a sip.

  My phone begins to whistle with my text message alert and I pull it out.

  “Call me ASAP, sweetie” it reads from Riley.

  I haven’t heard from her in so long, it must be an emergency. I tell Carl to keep my seat warm and walk back into the bathroom.

  “Hey, girl,” I say. “Hope you’re having a better day than I am.”

  “Please don’t freak out,” she says, but the tone of her voice leads me to believe she already is. “I don’t really know anything yet, except that Henry just got called over to the shop.”

  “Did my dad get robbed or something? Is he okay?”

  My hands get really cold all of a sudden. I know my dad doesn’t take good care of himself, and he’s about a pack of Marlboro Reds away from a heart attack. I also know he has a tendency to make more enemies than friends, and he isn’t exactly great at locking the shop up at the end of the day.

  “Like I said, I don’t really know anything yet. I know you’re probably going to want to get home, though. You need me to come get you? I can take the kids to my mom’s.”

  I suck in a deep breath and try not to let my mind go to the worst possible place.

  “Tell me what you do know,” I say. “Tell me the truth, Riley. I can handle it.”

  “All I know is everybody got called over there. Police. Fire. Ambulances. I’ll keep you updated.”

  I’m about to pass out. My knees buckle as I lean up against the wall. I need to get home right now. I sprint from the bar without even saying goodbye to Carl. This is what I get for being such a selfish brat. My dad was right. Barry was right. “I’m on my way. Keep me posted,” I say into the phone before getting in my car and heading north.

  Chapter Six

  Driller

  “What climbed up your ass?” Cubby already ordered his food, and as he drags his knife across the plate to cut his pancakes it makes a scraping sound loud enough that the people in the booth behind us are cringing. “Looks like you didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “Looks like you didn’t get the memo from the doctor that you’re prediabetic.” I slink down into the booth and fill up my coffee cup from the carafe sitting on the table. I don’t even wait for it to cool down, just throw it back like it’s nothing. I’m not sure if there’s enough caffeine in the world to make me act like a human today, but it can’t hurt trying.

  “Prediabetes is a hoax.” He lifts his fork to his mouth. “I’ve been running on maple syrup since 1965, son. I quit now and I’ll probably end up dead.”

  Every Thursday since I was just a kid, Cubby and I meet at the diner for breakfast. Back then it was so my dad and Uncle Stoney could get stuff done without me interfering in their business. It just kind of stuck after that. I admire the old guy. Growing up in the club was like having twenty different dads looking after you at any given time. Cubby was always my favorite, though. He never had kids of his own, but he had a way with dealing with every single person he came across like they were the most important person in the world, no matter how old or young they were. No matter where they came from or what color they were. Cubby’s a good guy, and in this life of doom and darkness I latched on to whatever good I could find, even as a child.

  Maybe that’s why he’s been our chaplain since the day he was patched in. Ain’t nobody else in this world good enough to fill that spot.

  Still talks like a sailor and throws down like the best of them, that’s for sure.

  The waitress comes over to take my order, but I just wave her off. I don’t think my stomach can handle anything right now. “Just keep the coffee coming, Millie,” I say, handing her the empty carafe.

  “There any specific reason you’re fixing to climb the walls today? Gonna take up running marathons or some shit?”

  “Guess I just don’t feel right,” I say. I don’t feel right at all. Seeing my Uncle Stoney like that last night opened up a whole new world of worries for me, and not just present day ‘what the fuck is going to happen to the club’ kind of worries. Worries about my dad. Myself. If whatever is going on with him is hereditary is that something I have to look forward to in the future?

  Even more so I feel like shit because I can’t open up about it to Cubby. Doing so would be a total betrayal of my family. I feel like I’m being ripped in half from the inside, and the only thing I can do is sit here and chug my coffee and try not to talk too much.

  I don’t like lying. Don’t do lies. Sure, there’s some shady shit that goes down in the club, but at least we have each other.

  “I just got back from the hospital,” Cubby says, point-blank, smiling right through me like he was reading my mind.

  “Is everything okay? I was just joking about the diabetes thing. If you needed a ride or something you should’ve called me…”

  “Your Uncle Stoney is resting. He seems to be alright, but they want to run a few more tests before they send him home.”

  “I… I…” I’m speechless. I press my coffee cup to my lips and hope he doesn’t ask me too many questions about the incident. I have no idea what all he knows. What all I’m allowed to tell him. Nobody told me Stoney was in the hospital, even though that brings me a little relief.

  “They did a brain scan. They think he’s been having mini strokes for the last few years. Not big enough to notice, but that shit’s starting to catch up with him. Add in the PTSD and the self-medication and apparently you get whatever the hell it was that happened last night.”

  I gulp.

  “What do you know about last night?”

  His wrinkled face is serene, his eyes kind. “I know you’re a good nephew. Good son. Good soldier. I know there ain’t nobody I’d rather have riding by my side, Dri
ller.”

  I am getting tired of the placating bullshit. This rift between the old-timers and the new generation of the club is holding us back, and everybody just expects me to sit on my hands and be a good boy. It’s exhausting.

  “Why the fuck can’t we talk about this? Why does it always come down to pussyfooting around. I don’t know what I’m allowed to say and what I’m not allowed to say. I don’t know what the fuck the future of this club even is at this point. If Uncle Stoney has an episode in the wrong place at the wrong time, shit could get really ugly. Hell, last night could’ve been a fucking disaster. For all of us!”

  All it would take would be one of our enemies to see him weak and our entire club would have to go to war just to keep what we worked so hard all these years to secure. It’d be bloody. Lives would be lost. Every day would be a fight for survival. I lived through it once when I was a kid, and I don’t ever want to see those days again.

  “We’re talking about it, son,” he says, casually popping a bite of pancake into his mouth. Just like that. We’re talking about it. It’s handled. Words I would’ve believed when I was younger. Now, the idea of my daddy and his friends handling things just sounds stupid. Like the very real threats are actually just monsters under my bed.

  “Who is this we?” I growl, leaning into the table. “Sure as shit ain’t me or Ransom or Decker. Don’t you think we should get a say in whether or not our president is out there walking around not knowing his head from his ass?” The words sting as they come from my lips. I sound like I’m downplaying Uncle Stoney’s condition, and that’s not my intention. “I mean, he’s sick, right? He’s in the hospital obviously.”

  “Driller, I’ve known you since the day you were born. I’ve never done you dirty. It’s not as easy as you young bucks think it is. There’s paperwork. There’s policy. Did you ever stop to think that maybe you young bucks don’t know everything?”

  I hang my head. I might be in my thirties, but I know my place here. I don’t like my place here right now, but I am well aware that no matter how loud I talk I’m not gonna get anywhere.

  “As it stands, we push this issue right now, and when Kid gets outta the can he stands to take over the club. That what you want for us?”

  “Wait, what?” I stammer. My cousin is a lot of things. Street smart. Brutal. Fearless. He’s also impulsive as fuck and doesn’t care what he has to do to get what he wants. I can’t imagine what five years in jail did to his mental health, but from the few times I visited him I know it sure as hell hasn’t made him kinder and more rational.

  “Club policy. If a president steps down, the current acting president is next of kin. We put it in place to make sure somebody in the family always had the power. Just so happens we made a bad call.”

  “Then just fucking change it,” I say. “Can’t be too hard. My dad knows how to run this club better than anybody. Hell, even you know how, Cub!” I’m getting more frustrated by the minute. I don’t like being treated like a child. Club semantics that don’t serve the club don’t fucking make sense to me.

  “Kid will have to vote on it. You think he’s gonna do that? You think he’ll give up his chance at power for the good of the club? He don’t see things that way. You think your uncle wandering around in Stinger’s territory is the thing we need to worry about right now? Your cousin becomes president and we’re opening the door to a whole new world of warfare. He’s got more enemies than all of us combined. Who even knows who he’s been fucking with in the joint.”

  I stare down at the table and sigh. I don’t like the fact that we have a brother amongst us we can’t trust with our club, but Cubby is right.

  “I know it’s hard for you, son. Your Uncle Stoney knows, too. He’s on board with whatever we decide. At least, that’s what he’s said in his moments of clarity. We just gotta hold on ’til Kid gets out of jail and go from there. No big moves until then.”

  “Somebody needs to keep an eye on Stoney ’til then,” I say. “Like twenty-four seven.”

  “You think your Aunt Anita is gonna put up with this shit? She’s gonna be so far up his asshole he’ll be her personal puppet from here on out. You just relax.”

  Even though I trust Cubby with my life it’s hard to relax knowing everything is in shambles right now. The club, my family, my uncle’s mental health, if anybody catches wind of what’s going on, we could be fucked.

  “Why don’t you go back to the house and find yourself a nice distraction? Somebody with big old titties and a pretty little tramp stamp.”

  “I haven’t even had breakfast yet,” I say with a laugh.

  “That’s your fault, not mine.”

  “I need to know why Stoney was trashing Vinnie’s apartment, Cubby. There’s gotta be a reason. Those two are best friends. Why would he lash out like that? He wasn’t playing around. He was legit pissed. I’m so confused.”

  “Those two have a long history. They seen shit in ’Nam that the lot of us wouldn’t even understand. Nobody ever pressed that issue. Don’t think now is a good time to start.”

  I personally think now is a great time to start.

  “I’m going over there,” I say. “I think I need some tattoo work.”

  “Don’t get in over your head, boy,” Cubby says. I flag down the waitress and toss her some cash for the check. “Some stuff just doesn’t need brought to light. Some battles just don’t need fought. Especially not by us.”

  “I’m not starting a battle,” I say, standing up from the table. “I’m just trying to make sure we’re covered on all bases. If they have some secret pact that’s gonna bite us in the ass, we need to know so we can be prepared. I love you, Cubby, but I want to get out in front of this shit. Gimme your blessing.”

  He raises his eyebrows. He’s not thrilled with the idea and I know it. The easiest way to keep out of trouble is by not poking around where we’re not welcome, but Vinnie has been basically an associate member of the club since before I was even born.

  “Call me if you hear anything else about Stoney. I’ll drop by on my way back through town and check on him.”

  “You remind me of a young version of myself, Driller,” he says. “I’m proud of you, boy. You’re the reason why this club’s gonna live on long beyond me and your old man and your uncle.”

  I am already halfway to the door. In my mind, if we don’t get on top of this, our club isn’t going to live to see much more than another day. I know Cubby and my dad and the rest of the old-timers have the club’s best interest at heart, but they don’t realize what kind of world we’re living in now. I don’t want my brothers to have to fight for their lives. I don’t want war in the streets.

  I don’t want lies.

  I hop on my bike and drive off to Vinnie’s studio, hoping I can get some answers without getting in too deep.

  Chapter Seven

  Driller:

  Steel Horse Studio is in a neutral part of town. Not a good part of town by any stretch of the imagination, but the shutdown of a couple major factories in the area contributed greatly to that. What used to be a booming community is now a lot of dilapidated old buildings. There’s no good reason to visit this part of town unless you want to risk getting jumped by some random teenagers for a bottle of vodka from the liquor store.

  Vinnie’s shop has been a staple in the community for as long as I can remember, and when I was growing up it was a hot spot for bikers, local celebrities, and rich businessmen looking to live out their midlife crisis’ with a little ink. The parties Vinnie used to throw were insane, even by the club’s standards, and I put in a lot of time as a teenager making a little extra cash playing designated driver.

  Standing in front of the shop today, it’s like none of that ever existed. None of that ever happened. Steel Horse is falling apart from the outside in.

  The wooden sign that hangs over the entryway had long rotted away, and the storefront is smattered with graffiti. The windows are so dirty I can’t even see inside. Back when Pearl w
orked here, this would’ve never happened, but she’s long gone, off living some kind of hippie dippy artists’ dream life funded by daddy’s hard work.

  It’s a shame to see the place like this. I don’t even like parking my bike out front. Even though it’s neutral territory I can’t help but worry somebody is going to try to jack my shit.

  The front door swings right open, but inside is dark. Quiet. It smells like old cigars and stale booze, worse than Romeo’s apartment. My eyes struggle to adjust to the lack of light. I guess it’s only noon, and most people in this business don’t keep typical nine to fives, but something just seems off about the vibe as a whole.

  If I know anything about growing up around Vinnie Haines, it’s that he takes pride in three things: his business, his daughter, and his service to our country. The state of the shop right now doesn’t reflect any of that. It looks like a freaking flophouse.

  “Hello?” I shout into the darkness. “Vin, you here? You alright?”

  Maybe he’s still upstairs in his apartment. Maybe he had a couple too many and forgot to lock up last night.

  “Vinnie!” I shout louder, looking for a light switch. “It’s Driller. Donovan. Stoney’s nephew. You open?”

  There’s a grumbling from the couch in the corner and a cough that sounds like a combination of drowning and vomiting as I hear the Zippo lighter flick open.

  “What do you want, boy? What the fuck time is it?”

  “Vinnie, what are you doing? The door is wide open. Ain’t you scared you’re gonna get robbed?”

  “I just dozed off for a second. Got clients coming in this afternoon.”

  The sounds he makes when he pushes himself off the couch and walks across the studio are worse than the sound of Cubby trying to get on his motorcycle. Vinnie’s always been in great shape, even working out at the gym with me and the guys every once in a while, but it looks like ever since Pearl left, so did his motivation by the way he’s limping around.