by Hazel Parker
But this was different. This wasn’t the other kids picking on him and making his life hell. This was Kyle making life hell on himself. This was him trying to coerce me into being his date or girlfriend because I had offered to help him. He knew full well he was taking that statement far too literally to help himself.
“I’ll see you around, Kyle.”
Sure, it was an abrupt exit. Very abrupt, in fact. Two minutes ago, I was offended, but I would have found a way to keep talking.
But now? Now, I just needed to get the hell out. Kyle wouldn’t want to spend another moment with me, and if he was going to just mutter quietly to himself and not say anything worth having a conversation about, then I didn’t want to be around him any longer either.
I left the bar feeling a little gross for what had just transpired. I said that Jack was different than other guys, and in some ways, the same could be said for Kyle. He wasn’t the arrogant, condescending, man-splaining asshole that many New Yorkers were. He wasn’t a jerk that I had to roll my eyes at and speak on his level for him to get it.
But he was too far down the other end of the spectrum, and as I thought about how that had affected him, I began to realize that it was festering itself in a very ugly, insidious way.
Resentment.
I didn’t know much about the Savage Saints, and while there may have been an element of truth to what Kyle had said about them, it wasn’t hard to realize that he was bitterly resentful of what they had. Jack was someone who seemed to be in a very happy place; if the rest of the Saints were like that, or if they even just liked what they did more than Kyle, than it was all too easy to see why Kyle would hate them.
Was that also the case for his brothers? Were his brothers the assholes that he’d always made them out to be? Or had they just been a little brotherly, and Kyle had extrapolated it out in his mind? I could give him the bullies at school, but now, seeing him as he was, it was hard for me to give him anything else.
But that wasn’t something that I had to worry about any longer. He had his demons to fight, but I wouldn’t have to burn energy trying to fight them. I could just focus on Jack and my work.
And that was something I didn’t feel an obligation to do, and that made it all the much better.
Chapter 7: Biggie
It was one of the most awkward starts to a meeting I had ever been a part of.
It was late Saturday night, and none of us had so much as touched a drop of booze in the last twenty-four hours. All activities related to the club, outside of keeping operating hours on a Saturday, were shut down; this emergency meeting was done with two prospects guarding the office, and we all had guns on our hips.
That had nothing to do with the uncomfortable feeling pervading the room, though. Right now, Uncle wouldn’t look at anyone in the eye. Marcel and I had made our positions plenty clear after we’d left the warehouse, and things hadn’t gotten any better with the benefit of sleep and time. In fact, I would guess based on Uncle’s facial expression as he sat down that he had become only more resolute.
“Fitz, Niner,” Marcel said. “We brought you in here to discuss the next steps. The three of us tried to reach out to Kyle in person to handle our issues in a diplomatic manner. It did not go well.”
“Because you tried to appeal to a pussy cocksuck—”
“Uncle,” Marcel said, so angrily and so loudly that I jumped in surprise in my seat. “You already caused enough trouble last night. I am not going to have you interrupting this meeting. Do you understand?”
Finally, Uncle looked one of us in the eye. Unfortunately, it probably would have been better if Uncle had just kept his gaze to the ceiling or his lap.
“Do I understand?” he said, his voice condescending and dripping with sarcasm. “Do I understand that that brother of yours has been a real pain in our ass? Do I understand that Kyle has always been a dangerous little shit since you two couldn’t even spell your own names? What the fuck do you think? Do you really think I’m not trying to do what’s best for this club? For fuck’s sake, you guys are my family. You think I would let something so impulsive as my attitude affect how I treat the club?”
Yes. I didn’t articulate the thought.
“It may seem like I’m just some brash fool who can’t help how much he hates Kyle, but actually, you’re dead fucking wrong. I’m the smartest person in this goddamn room, and if you won’t give me that, I’m at the very least the wisest and the most experienced. I’ve dealt with shits like your brother, Marcel, and rest assured, that little shit would have constantly changed the terms of our deal. It would be a slow death instead of an instant one, and I don’t know about you, but when I go, I sure hope it’s instant and quick. So don’t ever again ask me if I understand. Because I damn well do.”
But you don’t, Uncle. You’re too blind to it. You’re too unaware of what could happen if we just tried to reach out.
Uncle either didn’t realize or didn’t value the idea that just because I wanted to reach out diplomatically with Kyle didn’t mean I was opposed to standing up to him. If he violated any deals we made or tried to renegotiate, that would be more than a reason enough for us to fight back. But this bullish attitude of just saying fuck him?
No. No, that wouldn’t work.
“With all respect to your point of view, Uncle,” Marcel said. “You violated a strict order from me. You ignored Biggie’s advice. And while we greatly value your input and your knowledge, once a decision gets made, it is expected by everyone in this club to abide by that. So consider this a warning not to disobey my decisions in the future.”
“Fucking stupid,” Uncle muttered, but he didn’t say another word.
Don’t you realize, Uncle? Kyle’ s already winning by splitting us from within. He may not be pushing for that, but if that’s the case, then we’re just helping him.
“Now then,” Marcel said. “It’s obvious that diplomatic measures, at least for the moment and the immediate future, have failed. We cannot expect that anything on that end is going to work. So the question becomes, do we strike first, or do we hold the fort and defend? There are obvious pros and cons to each.”
“We strike first,” Uncle said, practically spitting the words out. “If this is another stupid debate, I’m just going fucking home.”
Marcel went around the table, soliciting opinions. Fitz and I recommended that we hunker down and defend the fort. Niner went last.
“You’re talking about attacking a politician,” he said. “Even if said politician was Ted Bundy, you know the wrath of the entire government will come down. We wait and hunker down.”
“Fuck this,” Uncle said, slamming the table.
“Don’t you dare fucking leave, Uncle!”
“And let this club turn into a bunch of pussies who can’t fight their own enemies?”
“That’s an order, Uncle!”
“Call it conscientious objection, then,” Uncle sneered.
That caused Marcel to stand up and grab Uncle by the collar.
“Stay.”
“Are you fucking touching your uncle?”
“I said, stay.”
“Fucking tell me—”
“Enough!”
Niner’s voice rang through the madness. Even Uncle turned in surprise.
“Sit.”
Both of them did so. Marcel took a breath to calm himself and turned back to us.
“The vote is in. For now, we hunker down and defend ourselves. Make sure before you leave here that you have your weapons. The body armor should be arriving early next week. We just need to get through this weekend unscathed and we will have significant upgrades over what we had before.”
Mostly, I was just relieved to see that Uncle and Marcel had not come to blows. The last thing that this club needed was an all-out war within its ranks; actually, the last thing we really needed was someone going rogue and doing their own thing. That was a good way to ensure that someone would get killed.
But as I tho
ught about it, as the thoughts crossed my mind as I drove home on my bike, I couldn’t help but consider Uncle’s point. We didn’t have to strike first, no, but a purely passive and defensive stance meant we were going to inevitably suffer casualties. If we got lucky, said casualties would just be some wounds that would heal with time.
If we weren’t?
By the time we got home, I knew we needed further help. I knew that an official request from president to president was not going to work, especially since Richard and Marcel did not have the healthiest of relationships. But, just as I had reached out to Kyle and almost gotten something to work, perhaps something from me to the others could work.
When I got home, I found the document that contained the names and rankings of the club members of the Las Vegas and the Green Hills Savage Saints. As the vice president of the Brooklyn Savage Saints, I figured that it made the most sense to reach out to my counterparts in those respective clubs. And so, with a deep breath, I made my first call.
“This is Dom,” a voice said on the other end of the line.
“Dominick Browning?”
“The one and only,” Dom said.
He sounded mighty relaxed and at ease. I didn’t remember much from him or if he had even come down to the initial negotiations, but it was nice to hear someone who wasn’t worried about killing their nephew or niece at the first opportunity.
“Dom, this is Jack Stone from the Brooklyn Savage Saints. You can call me Biggie. How are you, man?”
“Ahh, our friends in Brooklyn!” Dom said with a grandiose chuckle as if announcing me to an audience. That was not ideal if so; I needed this to be a private conversation. “What’s going on? Are you guys looking for reservations when you come and gamble? Some girls? We can arrange that and more.”
“No, Dom, unfortunately, it’s a little different than that.”
I think he finally picked up on my tone because he didn’t respond with a light, casual remark. He didn’t respond at all.
“Dom, are you alone right now?”
“My girlfriend’s here, but she’s napping. No other club members.”
“OK, good, that’s all I needed to know. Dom, things are about to explode out here. I know Richard and Marcel have spoken, and you’ve got supplies en route, but it’s not going to be enough. There’s a rival gang out here, the Bloodhounds, and…”
I decided to tell a white lie.
“They put up some graffiti that included the name ‘Degenerate Sinners.’ I believe that you know that name?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Dom’s tone made it very clear he did not actually think I was kidding.
“No, I am not. I will send you the photo proof of it if you’d like. I think there’s a war coming here, Dom. And what’s worse, the club here is split on how to handle it. We’re on the verge of having a civil war. But if you all come and help, if the Green Hills Saints come and show up, then maybe we can push back. Maybe we can unite, prevent internal strife, and fight this battle that we need to fight. But without it, I don’t know what’s going to happen in battle. I do know, however, that people are going to die.”
Dom let out a very long sigh on the other end of the line.
“Brother, you’ve made a convincing case. But this isn’t just a matter of sneaking a few members over the Nevada-California border and helping you. This is a matter of flying out to New York and taking the battle to the streets. I can’t do anything without getting Richard involved. He’s going to notice if half of his club disappears to the East Coast—actually, he’ll notice if even fewer goes, considering how small we are.”
It was my worst fear come true. We were going to be on our own.
“I understand. And I’m not asking you to help me by undermining Richard. I’m just saying that whatever you can do to help, however you can try and convince Richard to come…I know he and Marcel don’t have a great partnership. I get it. But maybe you and I, as VPs of the club, can do something.”
“I hear you,” Dom said, and I really believed that he did. He didn’t sound like he was just giving lip service. “I’ll see what I can swing. But don’t get your hopes up, Biggie. Richard is slow to act on matters like this, and he’s going to argue pretty heavily in favor of just sending you the supplies and that being enough.”
Whatever you can do. We need whatever we can get.
We hung up shortly after. I looked at the VP of the Green Hills Saints and saw the name Splitter. I knew that the Las Vegas Saints were the ones with the money; they would be the ones to send people flying over. Meanwhile, the Green Hills Saints were ones that we had never met in person. Splitter could be anything from a stocky, short guy in his early twenties to a tall, lanky, quiet man in his late thirties. There was just no way to know.
But at this point, with few options that couldn’t be described as “desperate,” I decided to place the call.
“Hello?”
Splitter sounded groggy, as if he had just woken up. It was early evening on the West Coast, so perhaps a nap had come in.
“Hi, Splitter?”
“Yeah, sup?”
I smirked at his straightforward approach.
“My name is Jack Stone, but you can call me Biggie. I’m the VP of the Savage Saints in Brooklyn—”
“Holy shit, you guys!” he said, his voice suddenly lighting up with excitement. “I was wondering when the hell we’d get to talk to someone from the East Coast. Fuck, that’s nice!”
“Yeah, well—”
“Shit, I’ve been telling Trace all this time, man, we just needed to explore our options out east for expansion. And then it just worked out for us. Fuck, man, I love you guys!”
I could already tell Splitter was a lot more excitable and a lot more gregarious than Dom was. Splitter had a deeper voice, but it also swayed a lot more from moment to moment. I didn’t want to say I was going to take advantage of this, but it did seem like the kind of thing that would offer more promise.
“And we love you guys for being the original Savage Saints.”
“That’s what’s up, man. So what’s going on, dude?”
“Well, Splitter, I hate for this to be our first conversation, but we need help.”
Just as I had with Dom, I outlined all of the concerns I had and the request for help. Just as I had with Dom, I anticipated that not much would come, but I held out hope that something could happen.
“Shit, man, I’d love to, but I gotta get permission from Trace,” he said. “Let me speak to him some. He’s like a brother to me. Real chill dude.”
Well, it sounds more promising than Dom and Richard. Those two were like business partners; “like a brother to me” might yet get us what we need.
“Alright, well, if you can decide sooner rather than later, that would be great,” I said. “We’re facing a lot of conflict and battles over here.”
“I hear you, man, I get it, I totally get it. I’ll hit you back as soon as I can.”
I didn’t have much hope for that happening, though. It was going to take something heavy, maybe even something tragic, for that to happen. They may have had the best of intentions, but sometimes, the best of intentions only meant that a particular outcome was that much more frustrating.
At this point, with it being very late on a Saturday night, I had done all that I could. I had my weapons for protection, I had made all the back-channel talks that I could muster, and we had our marching orders from Marcel. The only thing that remained…
Was my date tomorrow with Lilly.
It felt so odd to shift gears in such a style, to go from dealing with the most serious of club business to the most casual of personal concerns, but I genuinely had given everything that I could have. If I spent any more time with the club, I was just going to stress myself out.
I’d done my part as vice president and as a member of the Stone family. Now, for at least one day tomorrow, for as long as I could, it was time to put that to the side and give myself a little
bit of a break.
It was time to see if I could find my girl, just as almost all the other officers had.
Chapter 8: Lilly
OK, let’s try this again.
It was Sunday evening at P.M. Coffee, and this time, I didn’t hold anything back in preparing for my date with Jack. I put on far more makeup than I had the prior date. I put on a low-cut red top. I wore jeans, but these were snugger than the ones I had worn before, showing off my curves.
I felt incredibly excited for this date, most especially to hear Jack’s cheerful laugh. The only thing that lingered was the question of what the Savage Saints were and how much Jack was involved; just because I had summarily dismissed Kyle as a boy who couldn’t get his way didn’t mean that his words didn’t carry any weight. I had done a little bit of research into the Savage Saints and read a few articles about the chaos they had caused, but I’d learned long ago that news reporting, especially with groups like these, preferred to vilify more than it did to understand.
But that was but one minor point amongst the many factors that could work in Jack’s favor.
Starting with the rumbling of the motorcycle outside my front door.
I had to admit; I felt a little silly for not anticipating this part of the date. He was, after all, part of a motorcycle club. But just because I hadn’t anticipated it didn’t mean that I wasn’t going to take full advantage of the offering.
I opened the front door and saw that bald, handsome man turning the engine off and turning his sunglasses-adorned face up to me, that beautiful, sexy smile plastered on his face. Already off to a better start than Kyle.
“Well, hello there,” he said, seemingly unable to remove the smile from his face. “I thought we could ride off in style. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” I said as I admired the bike. I walked over to him and embraced him in a hug, and I couldn’t lie: there was a sort of immediate temptation to kiss him. I almost thought it was going to happen, the way we looked at each other and slowly fell into each other’s arms, but thankfully, we weren’t that hurried into it. “It’s a beautiful ride you have.”
