by BT Urruela
Preach scoffed, stroking his long, graying beard. “You think I don’t know that, Dimitri? You think I haven’t lost sleep over it long before this day came?”
“So then help me understand what happens next. Because you and I both know this group has been unraveling for a while now. And Robbie has been just waiting for his in. He’s got a lot of guys backing him, leadership included. A lot of prospects in his pocket. Now, we either find a way to take back control, or we lose everything my family has worked so hard for. Everything you have worked so hard for.”
Preach leaned in for emphasis, and said, “I would never let that happen. Not ever. I built as much of this thing as Jameson did.”
“If not more. So why aren’t you as worried as I am right now? To be honest, I’m afraid, Preach. Afraid we’re gonna lose all of this. Like we’re at the tipping point. I can feel it.”
Preach leaned back in his recliner, his tired legs propped up, and he grabbed the beer that had been warming on his side table. He let out a heavy breath, his face shadowed in the dimly lit studio of the apartment he shared with Jameson up until that morning. “You’ve got a father to mourn, kid. Let me worry about this, huh?”
Dimitri scoffed and shook his head. “That’s what I’ve been doing my whole damn life, Preach. I’m done mourning. Now, it’s time to fight.”
Preach narrowed his eyes at him as he snatched a Black & Mild from the pack in his front pocket. He hesitated a moment, taking the young King in, and visualized the heavy weight that had been thrust upon his shoulders. “You know he loved ya, kid … your father. He truly did.”
“My father didn’t even know me,” Dimitri responded sharply, shaking his head. “Didn’t even try to.”
“He just—” Preach’s throat knotted up and his eyes glistened over, which caught Dimitri’s attention. “He just loved your mother so damn much, Dimitri,” Preach croaked out, lighting the cigar with shaky hands.
“Hey, listen, Preach. I didn’t mean anything by it. I remember when he cared, but I can’t help but feel a little hate for him for abandoning me like Mom did.”
Preach sprung up from the chair like a jack in a box, the cigar dangling from his lips. He pointed a finger at Dimitri and said, “Dammit, kid, don’t you ever say somethin’ stupid like that again. Your mother died. She didn’t abandon you. You think she wouldn’t be here if she could? You’re all she ever wanted.”
“Well, who do I blame then, Preach?” Dimitri glanced toward the ceiling briefly. “God?” He scoffed. “He ain’t listening.”
“You watch your mouth in my home when you’re talkin’ about the Lord,” Preach said in a slightly playful tone, though his eyes told a different story. As did his reputation among the members, Dimitri included. “And your mother,” he added.
“I’m just saying … My dad could’ve tried harder. He could’ve done more. Could’ve talked about her.”
Preach nodded, understanding. “Your father was a great man. And an imperfect one. He loved you and your mother so deeply it can’t even be quantified with words. There’s no doubt about that. But yeah, he could’ve done more. And hell, I wish he would have. But …” Preach’s eyes lingered on the ceiling, as if he saw the spirit of his old friend hovering above, listening to him speak. “I think he lost a little piece of himself that day you were born, and what he gained in you just couldn’t fill the void as it should’ve.”
He glanced over at a framed picture—grainy and yellowed—of himself sandwiched between Jameson and Natasha at the ’85 World Series, in Cardinals red with wide smiles on their faces. Preach smiled faintly, his eyes glistening over. “This is a day of remembrance for your pops and the woman he loved and now joins, and that’s what we ought to be doing.” His eyes met Dimitri’s. “And your day as well. The day you carry on the King name as president of the Sinners.”
Dimitri laughed, so uproariously it caught Preach off guard and he hooked a curious eyebrow.
“No fucking way, dude. You must be mad,” Dimitri said, still laughing.
Preach looked surprised, his cigar building long ash between his pinched fingers. “It’s what he would’ve wanted.”
“Fuck off, Preach! You’re kidding yourself, you know? I told him plenty of times I never wanted his position. I like what I do. I want no more, no less. Dad knew that, and that’s exactly why you’ve been running things since he lost his shit. You’re the president of the Sinners, man. You know that.”
Preach went to respond but found himself tongue-tied. He cleared his throat, the falling ash tumbling to the recliner and reminding him of his cigar, and he took a deep drag. He let the smoke drift from his lips when he finally said, “You’ll get more support than me, Dimitri. The guys respect you. They like you. They trust you.” His eyes fell to his weathered hands and he rubbed a thumb against the rose tattoo on his left hand, the same one he got with Jameson back in ’79. He took a deep, steadying breath, then added, “I don’t think most of them believe in me anymore. I’ve lost their faith over the years.” Preach felt the weight of the club on his shoulders, had been very aware of dissention. And for the briefest of moments, he allowed himself to understand just how paranoid Jameson had gotten in the end.
“You still got their faith, Preach,” Dimitri said, lighting a cigarette. He stood from the couch, took a drag, and stretched his stiff back. “The good ones … they know,” he said, the Marlboro hanging from his lips as he pulled out his phone, more than likely to see where he was getting fucked up that night. “This club is yours,” he continued, still eyeing his phone and searching for a text, from Knuckles, he was sure. “My father would’ve told them himself could he have.” His eyes met Preach’s once more and he pocketed his phone, putting a hand out for him. “You’re the president, Preach. You’ve been the president for years now already. And tomorrow during the meeting, you’re gonna make that very fucking clear.”
Preach took his hand and he stood slowly, his knees cracking and popping as he did. Too many wipeouts in his heyday. Too many fights. Too much running. “You get yourself some sleep and stop worryin’ so much,” Preach said, giving the boy a tight hug. “Gonna be a long day tomorrow.” He grinned, knowing Dimitri wouldn’t be sleeping. Dimitri couldn’t sleep without the alcohol. Too many thoughts went around his head.
“Sleep?” Dimitri scoffed, patting the old man’s back a few times. “What the fuck is that?”
“I imagine to you, it means some hole-in-the-wall bar on Jones Street, where Knuckles has a whiskey on ice and two girls already waitin’,” Preach wise-cracked, a knowing eyebrow arched. He steadied himself back down into the recliner with an audible groan.
Dimitri laughed. He nodded his head, impressed. “You know me too well, old man.”
“Just like your father,” Preach quipped to the fleeting twenty-three-year-old kid, with the chip on his shoulder and a taste for hard partying.
The next day, Knuckles and Dimitri rode together to Archie’s Diner for the meeting, hangovers in tow. Archie’s served as the headquarters of 3SMC since the days of Gregor. The diner at that point was run by Archie Junior, or AJ as he preferred, and Archie Senior before him, who was a legend among the patched members after his passing.
They settled their bikes alongside a row of Harleys of all models, as well as a handful of Indians and Triumphs, and, of course, Honey Bear’s blood-orange Chopper. The lot just behind Archie’s was full as well.
A few members mingled out front, smoking cigarettes and cussing up a storm. A prospect swept the patio with little enthusiasm around two sets of tables and chairs beside the entrance. Preach stood there too to greet them, and as Knuckles and Dimitri shuffled toward him, he said, “You fellas look like dog shit,” and chuckled.
Dimitri huffed, his head still a storm. “Haven’t heard that one before,” he murmured.
“How’s it goin’, Preach?” Knuckles asked, his Wayfarers hiding a fresh shiner.
“Where’d that thing come from?” Preach removed Knuckles’ sunglas
ses and examined his eye.
Dimitri laughed loudly, passing a knowing glance toward Knuckles before grabbing the door and holding it open.
“Shut the fuck up, D,” Knuckles said. He snatched his sunglasses back and put them on, and then pushed Dimitri on his way inside.
Preach grinned wide as he went in after Knuckles and said, “Spill it,” over his shoulder.
“Fucking with the wrong chick’s girl,” Dimitri said, his smile broadening, and he followed Preach in.
“I said shut up, fucker!” Knuckles called out, already past the booths and the counter, the flat top grill just behind it. Heading for the narrow hallway at the back of the diner, he yelled, “Asshole!” His voice filled the empty place.
“A chick’s girl, you say?” Preach asked with an arched brow as he walked with Dimitri toward the hallway.
“You heard that correctly,” Dimitri said, laughing along with Preach as they made their way down the hall that led to the club’s meeting room, where a few dozen members were already posted up. The back wall was adorned with photos of each officer, with their title listed below, and the picture of his father at the helm caught Dimitri’s eye. His laughter stopped abruptly and his chest seized up. Not enough beer in the world could’ve prepared him for that kind of hurt. Not enough weed. Not enough cocaine. Not enough anything could’ve made him feel all right in that moment, or about what was to come. But he continued on, as he did each pressing day, because he knew the shoes he must fill, and he knew the name he must honor.
Preach knowingly patted Dimitri on the back before taking his place at a large circular table in the center of the room, in one of eight chairs that surrounded it. Jameson’s seat at the helm remained empty.
Robbie, Jacoby, and Honey Bear were seated in their designated chairs already.
Robbie Savage, a combat-hardened Marine with a love for whiskey and prostitutes, served as the club’s Sergeant-at-Arms. He was one of the oldest members in 3SMC and his attitude was as unsettling as his cherubic face, his nose crooked from too much fighting, his eyes bloodshot with heavy bags beneath them. There was always a frown set behind his overgrown beard, always a furrow in his thick brows.
Honey Bear was in the same unit as Robbie during the first Gulf War—as a chaplain, of all things—which he had done for the MC as the Wise Man ever since getting out, back in ’99. Nobody could ever figure how an Alabama moonshine producer and right-wing militia member before his Marine days could ever become a preacher, let alone a Devil Dog. But there he was. His nickname, Honey Bear, according to him, came from his superior ability to tan. Just call me the Honey Bear, he would say in his thick drawl. But mostly, they called him HB, and only Robbie knew his real name.
Jacoby Bastien was a pretty boy from Utah, who grew up the black sheep of a Mormon family and rebelled from day one. The porn videos online of girls deepthroating all twelve inches of him were a testament to that. So were his mohawk and the tattoos that covered nearly every square inch of his body. He looked tougher than he really was though, his heart his biggest attribute. When he wasn’t running with the Sinners, he was fostering abused dogs. He served as the club’s Road Captain, and at that point before the meeting, he was battling to keep Honey Bear’s thick hands from fucking with his iPad.
As Knuckles and Dimitri took their seats at the table, Jacoby leaned in, football cradling his iPad away from Honey Bear. “Really sorry for your loss, bro,” he said softly, genuine remorse in his features. “How you been?”
“Appreciate it, man. Good as can be, I guess,” Dimitri responded, his eyes abruptly drawn to a commotion near the hallway.
The club’s Treasurer and Secretary, Peter Hackney III, better known as Pyro, came storming in. He tossed his laptop case onto the table and crashed down into his chair. “Fuck 270 traffic! I swear to fuck, I will pull someone out of their car one day and skin them alive. I said it here first, motherfuckers! You’re all accomplices,” he barked, letting out a heavy exhale as he positioned himself in the chair and fixed his vest.
Pyro was a former stockbroker, who lost it all after catching his wife cheating and setting their house on fire. Burn scars earned after saving his wife from that very fire marked fifty percent of his skin. After seven years of hard time, twenty prison tattoos masked most of the scars, and he added about forty pounds of muscle. He carried a tension with him that made one think he could blow at any second. What once was a full head of hair, had long since gone bald and was Bic-ed clean and coated in sweat.
“Wait, you’re sayin’ you ain’t yet?” HB asked, his eyes squinted. “That’s surprisin’ to hear.”
Pyro removed his black-framed glasses, leaning in and narrowing his eyes at Honey Bear. He pointed to a member standing near the back of the room. “You keep fucking with Dalton and it’ll be you I skin alive, HB,” Pyro retorted, his jaw clenched. Deep lines formed in his forehead, as he wiped the condensation from his glasses with his shirt and then returned them to his face.
Honey Bear faked offense. “Who, little ol’ me? It was only a love tap.” He glanced toward Dalton and made kissy faces.
Dalton, the small redhead in the back of the room wearing two fresh shiners, shook his head disagreeably but avoided eye contact.
“I’m not fucking with you here, HB. I will pull your bottom lip over your fucking head and staple it to your asshole,” Pyro said matter-of-factly, pointing his finger at him.
“Why so agitated, Pyro? Afraid your boyfriend can’t handle it. I know how you felons get after a few lonely years.” Honey Bear chuckled loudly as he made an O with one hand and penetrated it aggressively with the pointer of his other.
Pyro stood abruptly from the table, his chair crashing back against the floor. He balled his fists, his thick, tatted arm muscles flexing, veins like a road map. Pyro was one of those men who stared at you like he could see right into your soul. You knew when you looked at him that he was someone who didn’t fuck around or mince his words.
However, Honey Bear had never been one to back down either, no matter the size of his opponent, nor the experience. He stood too, slowly though, calmly. He crossed his tanned arms, dotted with faded tattoos, and he smirked. “Ya wanna dance, big boy?” He motioned toward a noticeable skin graft scar, the most distinct, that trailed from Pyro’s neck down to his chest. “I’ll burn the rest of you.”
Preach stood abruptly and yelled, “Can we have a little fuckin’ respect here,” so loud, and so hard, the room quieted in an instant. “We lost somebody important yesterday, if you happened to care.”
The room fell dead silent for an uncomfortable few moments.
“You gentlemen ain’t kids no more,” Preach finally continued, his jaw clenched, looking from one to the other. “We got a business to run, imminent threats within our community, and most importantly, we lost our fuckin’ leader!” He was nearly screaming, something Preach wasn’t known to do often. The vein in his forehead throbbed. His eyes looked black. “And you two are squabblin’ over a fuckin’ bike? Honey Bear, you need to calm your fuckin’ tits with this bike business. You never even ride your fuckin’ Softail. Now drop this shit with Dalton. And if you need to figure shit out between y’all, keep it that way. Don’t bring it the fuck in here again.” Preach jabbed a finger toward the 3SMC crest that Gregor had etched into the top of the table long ago. “This fuckin’ means somethin’ to me. Continuing the legacy Gregor and Jameson set forth for us fuckin’ means somethin’ to me. Don’t bring that shit in here again,” he repeated. “You hear me?”
HB nodded, sitting.
Pyro took his own seat, remaining silent.
“I said, do you fuckin’ hear me? I don’t think it’s askin’ too much to get a little verbal confirmation here. If I’m to be the president of this goddamn club, and if I’m sittin’ in that chair, then we honor Jameson’s wishes and that means keeping that petty shit out of this sacred fuckin’ room.”
Robbie cleared his throat then, as if Preach was missing something. “Who’s
to say you’re the one who will be sitting in that chair?” he asked smugly.
Preach turned his attention toward Robbie, grinning a little. “Doctrine written long before you joined, Robbie. I’m the VP. That means I’m next in line,” he said, returning to his seat.
“I think we’re at the point where we should put up a vote,” Robbie said. “We’re lagging right now. Our patch doesn’t mean what it once did on the streets and we need to change that. And I think we start that change at the top.”
There were mutterings of agreement around the room.
Preach eyed each of them, mentally noting the dissidents. “I don’t give a shit what you think needs to be done,” he said, a new fire to his tone. “This is not up for debate. It was put into writing for a reason. Succession processes were put in place for a fuckin’ reason.” Preach’s eyes flitted toward Jacoby. “Is this why you pulled this meeting together? You against me as well?”
Jacoby’s brows drew close and he shook his head. His tattoo-sleeved arms were crossed and he passed the room a concerned look. He hated being the bearer of bad news, always had, but he had been sitting on some for a couple days by that point, and it had nothing to do with the death of their president. “That’s not it at all, boss,” he said and then looked toward Pyro. “I told you that.”
Pyro shrugged. “I thought I passed it on.”
“So why did you call it then?” Preach asked.
“Well, it seems the good old general at Leonard Wood has found himself in a bit of hot water.” Jacoby said. “Quite a bit, actually.”
“Has he now?”
“He sure has.” Jacoby shook his head slightly, and his big round eyes, always exuding an innocence, looked down at the tabletop. “He seems to have slipped his cock into this chick’s DMs on Twitter and she outed him. The Army has yet to make a decision on him, but considering he’s married and the top brass at Leonard Wood, it doesn’t look good. Past instances of this with lesser-ranking generals has ended with early retirement or transfer.”
