“If Drummer’s approached in the right way, he might come around to our way of thinking. Give us sanction to go on as we are without bringing the other chapters in on it,” I offer. “We’re assuming the worst.” I’ve never met him, there are good reasons for that, but it means I don’t know the measure of the man. Snatcher seems to respect him.
Pip drops his head into his hands. When he looks up, he’s got that expression which normally means he’s made a decision. When he speaks, he doesn’t disappoint.
“I’m not happy killing a brother for just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. So that option’s off the table except as a last resort. Neither can we send him back to Drummer without explanation, in which case I’d soon be expecting a visit from the mother chapter prez wanting to know what the fuck is going on.” He pauses, grimaces, then continues, “I don’t see that we’ve got a choice. We bring Road in on our operation, show him the ropes and then see how the land lies. If he still wants to run back to Drummer, then we’ll have to revisit option A.”
“What’s he got to offer us apart from muscle?” Stormy looks annoyed. “Cleanest way out of this is a bullet to the head.”
“What he might be able to bring to the table is for us to discover.” Pip’s glare at Stormy would have any other man quivering, but Stormy shrugs it off. “And I’d be careful in your fuckin’ shoes, Stormy. If I were you, I wouldn’t be giving me ideas about bullets to heads.”
Pip’s words are usually carefully considered, so maybe I was wrong about Stormy keeping his patch. It sounds like if he fucks up again, he could lose much more than the cut off his back.
Stormy is a sniper, an excellent one who hardly ever misses his shot. He’s a loner, though, and not a team player. Up to now, he’s been useful. His high IQ, his technical skills and the way he can make data jump through hoops, as well as his ability to think outside the box and react to ever-changing situations, makes him ideal to work out in the field on his own without backup. But his intelligence also leads him to becoming easily bored, and the way he’d sort out scenarios were perhaps to cause him amusement, rather than taking the direct route which would work just as well. Having scant regard for other people, he tends to use them as toys. Instead of providing the whole picture, he’d drop clues and then watch them sweat and squirm as they figured them out.
Once, perhaps, he could be forgiven for swooping in and taking the kill that our brothers in Colorado were lusting for when he’d killed Major, their enemy, right in front of their eyes. But then he’d played with the San Diego club, leading them around by their dicks, literally getting his job done for him. Which probably in itself was a good call, he was just one man after all. But then, when the prize of the man the club and he were after was captured, he’d once again taken that fatal shot which meant Alder was dead with questions left unanswered. Lost had been furious, and he and Demon will have compared notes, that’s for certain. Drummer would have been fully briefed. What I can’t work out was how any trail led to Utah.
Stormy’s fuckups were what Pip hadn’t forgiven him for, and that’s why he’s back sat around this table. He’s as frustrated as hell and intent on making us all suffer for the instruction that saw him brought home.
Instead of withering under the weight of Pip’s threat, Stormy sits back sullenly and folds his arms. “Then make him fuckin’ prospect for us.”
Pip raises his chin and shows he’ll give credit where it’s due, whatever direction it’s come from. “Stormy’s made a suggestion. It’s got merit. Has it got legs?”
“Fuck that,” Duty says. “I presume he’s already done that shit. I can’t see him agreeing to that.”
I raise my hand. “Road patched in two years back after doing his full prospecting time.”
“But only twelve months for Tucson.” Duty acknowledges my comment with a nod. “Even so, he won’t want to prove himself all over again.”
“He’s not proved himself, not to our satisfaction,” Unusually, Honor offers an alternative view to Duty. “Our prospects work longer and harder.”
“Because they need extra skills.” Preacher looks down to the opposite end of the table. “Doesn’t mean he can’t show us what hidden talents he might be able to bring, or if he could be taught shit he doesn’t yet know. Why not team him up with Stormy?”
I snort. Loudly.
“We want him to learn skills, not how to piss people off.” Thor chortles at his own joke.
Pip raises his hand. “There have been some good points made. Let’s break them down. By the time we bring someone to the table, we know their strengths. They’ve learned how to work with us and can immediately contribute to getting what’s needed done. Road is an unknown, we know fuck all about him. He’s like Igor, halfway through his first year and just about having learned to ask how high when I say jump. Road will have the basics, but we don’t know what else he can bring to the game.”
“Probably got damn good riding skills. Could use him for chasing people down.”
“If he’s physically capable,” I jump in, correcting Piston. “We can’t judge him on how he can handle a bike while his leg is still healing.” Why the hell I’m feeling protective about the man, I don’t know.
Bolt raises his hand, then gently lowers it to the table. I thought for a moment he was going to slam his fist down, but I’m glad he didn’t. It cost a fucking fortune. He meets my eyes and grins sheepishly, then moves his head in the other direction and looks at Prez. “I don’t mind working with him, if you want to partner him up with someone.”
“Swift.”
Hearing my name, I turn sharply toward Pip, ready to do whatever he wants of me.
“You take Road under your wing.”
“Me? What? Why?” My brow furrows. It was the last thing I expected him to suggest and the last thing I bloody well want. “I don’t need a partner, Prez.”
“Doubt he’ll be a partner, more a fuckin’ liability.” Stormy smirks at me while my eyes narrow and promise him retribution later. He just opens his hands in a gimme gesture, telling me to bring it on. Oh yeah, he’ll get it. I’ve had enough of this. Later, I mouth at him, and his lips quirk. Guess both he and I could do with working out our frustration.
“You could do with teaming up with someone, Swift.” Pip won’t have missed Stormy and my non-verbal communication, but ignores that he’s got two members gearing up for a fight. “Like our brother at the end of the table, you like working alone too much.”
I bristle at the suggestion I’m not a team player. It’s not how I see myself. “I have your backs, Prez.”
“Of course, you do.” Pip smiles at me. “No one would deny that.”
What he leaves unsaid is that in a way I am like Stormy—I don’t trust anyone to see things in the same way as myself. It’s all the training I’ve got behind me which they’d never be able to imagine and probably wouldn’t survive. But his observation that I’m like the morose man sitting a few seats away from me pulls me up. Is that what I’ll end up like? Disgruntled and having no time for anyone else? Never feeling any emotion but anger? Nah, no way, I won’t be anything like that.
The thought that they could even think I’m another version of Stormy forces me to deny it in the only way I know how. “If you want someone to partner up with Road to see what he’s made of, then I’m up for it.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to grab them back. What the hell am I thinking?
I glare at Stormy, Just one fucking word, you wanker.
I might not have insulted him out loud, but he gets my meaning. I get his middle finger back.
Pip’s eye’s go first to Stormy, then back to me. He rolls his eyes. “Okay. Looks like we’ll have to move this to the ring later so Swift and Stormy can get their fists on each other.”
I see money changing hands between Honor and Duty and wonder which one has my back. Cowboy also hands Duty something. It doesn’t take a genius to work out they’re betting on the outcome of the upcoming match.
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My thoughts are confirmed when Snatcher barks a laugh. “I’ll have fifty on Swift.”
At least someone is in my corner.
Pip shakes his head and picks up the gavel. “Let’s wrap this up. My proposal is that we keep Road close for a few days. Incommunicado, right? No word gets back to Drummer, or only that which is carefully managed.” He thinks for a second. “Gears will have his phone and I’ll use it to send some texts to keep Drummer off the scent. We’ll see what Road is made of, whether he’ll fit in or not. If he looks likely, he’ll get to work with Swift. Swift, what I want from you is for you to assess whether he can transfer in and keep his patch or come on board and start from the bottom as a prospect, okay?”
I nod.
“If he’s not up to muster?” Thor asks.
“Then he’ll leave to go back to Tucson,” Pip declares. “Unfortunately, he won’t make it safely back.”
4
Road…
When Pip told the prospect to take me to the waiting room, I half envisaged it was a euphemism such as the term ‘storeroom’ we use in Tucson. It’s a place where activities such as questioning are undertaken, and Blade’s allowed to let his dark side out to play, eliciting responses by way of his unique methods of torture.
Relief floods through me when I find the room is exactly what the name would suggest, but not one normally found in a motorcycle club, one percenter or not. There’s a two-person couch and several comfortable high-back chairs surrounding a low coffee table. A magazine rack holds an assortment of periodicals and leaning against one wall is a hot drink dispenser. There is also a water cooler. The room’s clean, painted in a non-descript cream colour, and there are prints of landscape paintings on the wall.
I help myself to a plastic cup of water, then turn to the prospect. It’s not hard to miss he has a gun in a shoulder holster, and from the way he’s standing, upright and on guard, I don’t doubt his ability to draw and use it should he need to. I dismiss my first impulse to overpower him, run out to my bike and take off for the hills. Having assessed him, in my weakened condition and unarmed state, I doubt I could take him.
I turn and look out of the window instead. There, tauntingly close, just the other side of the glass, I can see my Harley.
What the fuck is going on here? I again look around me, but there’s nothing to give any clues.
That woman, she must be some kind of tech expert to have hacked into my medical records so fast. Yet everyone knows Utah doesn’t have anyone with such skills. Maybe she’s a new employee? Or, perhaps they hide her as no one would want to admit to relying on a woman. It still seems odd she was seated around that table and not dismissed from the room when Pip was asking me questions.
She was pretty enough, enough to draw my attention to her certainly. Not an airhead either, nor afraid to speak up in the roomful of men. There was some edginess to her, and the hardened look on her face makes me wonder if part of her services are provided on her back. If so, I suspect she’d garner a lot of interest. Pip, himself, seemed quite tolerant of her, perhaps she’s his? Though, I didn’t get that vibe. She’s somebody’s for certain, or maybe, hopefully, general club property. I won’t know until I see the patch on the back of her cut.
Let’s face it, the whole set up is strange, and I really don’t know what to make of it.
I turn back to the prospect. “What’s your name?”
For a second, I don’t think he’s going to answer, then with a shrug, he offers, “Gears.”
“You’ve already got a road name?” Ours aren’t usually given until a man’s been brought to the table. Though I shouldn’t be surprised, I’m also an exception. I joined the Satan’s Devils with mine, having been nicknamed Roadrunner as I was so fucking fast on my bike. Not fast enough, I grimace slightly, remembering. If I’d increased my lead by just half a second, I’d have been out of that asshole’s way.
Gears looks like he’s going to keep his mouth shut, but again, he surprises me. “Got my road name once I passed my initial probation.”
Deciding I might lure him into a false sense of security if I appear friendly, I place a smile on my face as I make the one-word a query, “Gears?”
“When I was learning to ride, I’d forget to change them. The brothers kept shouting at me, ‘gears’ to remind me.”
My brow creases. The implication is, he learned to ride here. Men wanting to join an MC usually already come equipped with the ability to ride a Harley, and with said bike as I know only too well.
“You the only prospect?” If I’m held against my will, it will be useful to know what I’m up against for any escape attempt to have a chance of succeeding. I saw eleven men in that meeting room, so how much other manpower have they got? I’m obviously discounting the woman.
“No.” But he doesn’t elaborate. Not even when I press him, leaving me in ignorance of just how many prospects they’ve got.
“So, Gears. How long have you been prospecting?”
Trying to get him to open up, I offer some information of my own. “I got my patch two years ago now.” I force a chuckle, though I’m not really in the mood. “Prospecting is hard. I remember it well. Man it was tough being run ragged all the time, and not able to touch the club girls. That the same here?”
But he’s clammed up. Gone stoic.
Having mentioned club girls reminds me of what I’ve left behind. Pussy, and Paige and Diva of course. Allie, now with Truck, is rightly not available anymore. But I’d double-teamed with Marvel a time or two before with one of the others. I wonder again whether the woman in the meeting doubles as a sweet butt. I might not have had much chance to examine her, but she had a pretty enough face, short dark hair and dark brown eyes. As my mind conjures up a vision of her, I realise it’s best to put her out of my mind. In the event she is club property, I’m unlikely to get a chance to put her through her paces as I’ll either be dead, or, and my preferred, but probably optimistic option, I’ll be on my way back home and handing this conundrum over to Drummer.
But my thoughts keep circling back to her. Even her voice had been sexy, her accent reminiscent of Sophie, the VP’s old lady back in Tucson. The thought sends a pang of homesickness through me. When I left on Drummer’s errand, it had seemed simple. Now I admit, there’s a chance I won’t make it back.
I’d walked into a chapter of the Satan’s Devils expecting to receive a warm welcome. Instead, the men who should be my brothers as we wear the same patch are probably discussing how to dispose of me right now.
One thing I know is that you do not lie to the president of the mother chapter, nor hide the truth from him. It seems that they’ve been stringing Drummer along for quite a while, but for the life of me I can’t understand why. Nor why Snatcher is not the prez. He looks the part, and while Drummer had concerns, I’m sure there were none about the man himself. He even told me he thought Snatcher was straight as an arrow.
Pip, now, he would look out of place sitting with Drummer, Lost, Demon and Red. Could it be as simple as Snatcher’s face is a better fit, so he sends his VP instead? Surely not, and if so, why all the secrecy, and why not tell me straight? Drummer certainly wouldn’t be pleased at having been fooled all this time, but a suitable explanation might sort out this mess. A mess that I’m now stuck right in the thick of.
My leg aches. I limp to the couch and sit on it, draining the last of my water from the cup. I crumple it in one hand, throw it at the trash can and score a direct hit. My lips curve slightly at the small triumph.
How long are they going to take to decide what my future holds, and whether it will be long or short?
Time ticks by. Massaging the muscles on my thigh, I regret not strapping my leg today. A tight binding helps my knee stay in place and my leg better able to hold me up. But it makes my leg rigid and cumbersome and doesn’t help the previously torn muscles heal. I need to build up the strength there so they can do their intended work and support my knee by themselves.
Stra
nge how your life can change so fast. Had I not been knocked off my bike, I might not be here now. Drummer would have asked someone else to come, but I can’t see them acting any differently than I have. They’d have ended up suffering the same unknown fate as myself.
Maybe they would have approached things differently, not having let the prospect’s lack of respect rile them for a start. I never pretended to be clever, proven by my lack of foresight leading to the predicament I’m in.
But if it had turned out the same way for anyone who’d come calling, maybe it is better that I’m here and not one of the brothers with an old lady and kids. At least I have no one who would miss me. There are some benefits to being a free spirit.
Or, on the other hand, not. The thought that I’ve no family to leave behind and that no one, apart from my Satan’s Devils’ brothers would notice I wasn’t there anymore, is something I don’t normally think about. Strange how things come into your head when they’re out of your grasp. It’s not that I never want an old lady, just hadn’t come across someone I saw being a permanent fixture in my life. Now, though, I wonder whether it would be something I’d like to experience. Why now, when I might not get the chance?
My fingers tap on the arm of the chair while Gears stands watching me stoically. Not once has he moved his eyes from me, and I’m starting to feel like an exhibit being stared at in a zoo.
My thoughts churn. My worries deepen as the minutes tick by. It seems like forever until at last the door opens, and another man who I haven’t yet seen puts his head around the gap.
“He’s to go back in.” Having delivered his message, the man turns and I get a sight of the word ‘Prospect’ on his cut as well. I notice he hadn’t acknowledged me.
Feeling slighted, I pull my cane toward me and get awkwardly to my feet, making sure my knee is kept properly aligned. Then, Gears stands back and allows me first out of the door. Not as a mark of respect, I’m certain. No, he’s just making sure I don’t bolt and run. Or hobble, as is the case right now.
Road Tripped: Satan's Devils MC Utah #1 Page 4
