Ace: Devil’s Nightmare MC

by Bourne, Lena

  “I shouldn’t have bothered worrying. Obviously you’re done with me anyway.” I add and leave it at that. My chest is heaving, my whispering voice got too shrill, and I already said too much.

  His face and his eyes are far from the hard nothingness now, but just as difficult to read. They’re alive with a whirlwind of emotions, swirling like clouds in a stormy sky, but I can’t read any of them clearly. It’s probably just annoyance that I’m still talking to him. Saying he resents the way I just walked away from him this morning was probably just his excuse for tossing me aside. Some guys need that, they need to blame the woman for their walking away from her after a one-night-stand. It’s low. I didn’t expect it from him, but I’m not surprised either.

  I thought he’d save me from this half-life of fear, sadness and regret I’ve been wading through. But that was such a half-baked idea, such an obviously desperate wish, I almost laugh at my own stupidity over ever having it.

  “So, yeah, whatever,” I add lamely after he doesn’t respond in any way except that confusion shit on his face. I turn around and walk away from him before I start crying again. I never cry and in the space of two days this guy has brought tears to my eyes twice. What the fuck is that all about?

  Nothing good, that’s for sure. I’m better off on my own.

  He calls after me, but I ignore him. What’s the point of even talking to him anymore? He’s just like all the rest of them.

  No, he’s even worse.

  In the space of a day and a half, he’s managed to show me just how sad and lonely and broken I already am. Another month of this slavery shit and Horse will get his biggest wish.

  Did I really think a guy who fucked me twice in the first 48 hours after we met, would make my life good again?

  Crazy and pathetic. That’s what I’ve become.

  Why am I even still pretending my life isn’t already over?

  * * *

  Ace

  She shouldn’t’ve come after me. I shouldn’t’ve let her catch me. The things I said to her have been on my mind all day, but that doesn’t mean I was gonna say them to her. What she said back was the exact opposite of the things I feared she would. I needed more time to figure this shit out.

  Christ, I told her to get lost. That I don’t want anything to do with her anymore.

  The last thing I need before the meeting with the execs is worrying about this, but now I can’t fucking stop.

  The hallway of the clubhouse is lined with identical white doors, or doors that used to be white when they were new, but are now various shades of yellow. Satisfied grunts and moans coming from the rooms behind those funky doors, as I make my way down the hallway are mixing with completely random conversations and shrieks, which are supposed to be ecstasy, I guess, but just sound annoying. I pass Stormi’s door and keep going, hoping I’ll meet someone soon who can tell me where the showers are.

  I’m about to just open a random door and ask whoever’s inside for directions, when a door at the far end of the hallway opens and citrus scented shower mist wafts out.

  A club girl exits the room, wrapped in just a soft looking towel, her long wet hair dripping as she walks towards me with a serene half-smile on her face.

  “The shower’s free?” I grunt at here once she’s in earshot.

  “It is now, big guy,” she says and smiles coyly. “But I’m wishing I took a little longer rinsing out my hair. If I knew you were coming, I’d still be in there.”

  Good thing she didn’t. But I don’t say that. I just grunt again and stride the rest of the way to the bathroom, slam the door behind me when I reach it and lock it for good measure.

  I just made a complete fool of myself with Stormi, blabbering on about how hurt I was by the way she left me this morning. That’s what it boils down to. I was hurt because she smiled at Horse. Jesus fucking Christ, what is happening to me? No other woman has ever messed up my brain this bad before.

  The sink’s more brown than white, and on the wall of the shower stall there’s a patch of mold so black it looks like an opening straight into space. I’ve seen worse, but not lately.

  I keep the water cold, as freezing as I can stand, but it’s not helping my racing thoughts. I doubt even a long ride through the night would do it. The only thing that’s gonna help is talking to her. Or better yet, fucking her.

  Someone starts banging on the door just as I’m pulling on my jeans over still mostly wet skin.

  “In a minute!” I shout.

  “Ace, you in there?” Piston asks.

  “Yeah,” I mutter, wishing I’d taken the time to dry properly after my shower. But all I had to use was the blanket Stormi and me spent last night sleeping under. It still smells like her. What kinda fucking idiot forgets to pack a towel?

  “Come on, hurry up, they’re waiting for you in Griff’s office,” Piston says.

  There goes my chance to iron things out with Stormi before I have to go face what may very well be my execution. Attempted execution. But still.

  If I have to leave here in a hurry tonight, I’ll just grab her and take her with me. Then we’ll have all the time in the world for explanations.

  11

  Ace

  Piston waited for me outside the bathroom then brought me to the closed door of Griff’s office and told me to wait until they called me in. The air in this windowless hallway is motionless and hotter than the inside a sauna. I’ve been standing out here for more than fifteen minutes and my hair is still dripping wet, not just from the shower, but now from sweat too.

  The construction of this part of the complex is clearly a completely different beast than the bar and the rest of the clubhouse. I hear nothing through the door of Griff’s office, not a word, not a cough, not a creak of a chair. Neither the heat nor the wait is doing much to calm my nerves about this meeting. Absolutely anything could be waiting for me on the other side of that door, and I’m gonna be walking into it with my face flushed, sweat running down my cheeks and my mind full of the fuzz that always grows in there on hot summer days. If I’m walking into a bullet, no one outside the soundproof room will hear it.

  I want this meeting to be over. I want to give Cross that call, have him storm this place and be done with this charade. What are we? Killers or goddam detectives? Why is it so important to find out exactly who’s been snitching? Someone among the Sinners has. That should be enough. That’s always been enough for us.

  But even as I think it, I know I don’t mean it. I’ve had enough of blood and death. We all have. Cross, Tank, and most of the other execs have families to consider now, and killing a whole club that has ties with the feds is a bad idea. Stealth and precision is the only way to go here.

  The door opens while I’m in the middle of realizing that. The cool, fresher air that wafts out of Griff’s office is more welcome that any gust of cool wind on a hot summer day I’ve ever experienced. Griff curtly motions for me to come into the office, then retreats back inside to hold the door open for me.

  Four other guys are waiting in the room, their eyes all fixed on me as I enter. One of them is sitting on the edge of Griff’s desk, another one in the chair facing it, while the other two are leaning against the wall, one on each side of the single window that’s covered with some kind of matte black wrapping foil.

  They all look to be about Griff’s age, with grey hair in various stages of going away forever. Griff first introduces me to the short, barrel-chested, mostly bald guy standing to the left of the window. He’s the Spy—that’s what the patch on his cut reads, and his name doesn’t register, while I’m wondering, if he’s some old-school equivalent of what Hawk does for us, which is info gathering. The other guy by the window is the Vice President. His name is Mac, and he’s tall and lanky, his long dark grey hair seriously receding in the front but still quite busy in the ponytail down his back. Tats, the youngest of all of them, his blond hair mostly grey, is the Sargent at Arms. He gets off the side of Griff’s desk to look me up and down when Gri
ff introduces him. The treasurer, aptly named Coins, is the portliest of the lot, and also the oldest, his wispy hair pure white and fuzzy.

  “What’d you do, run here?” he asks from where he’s sitting in a chair by Griff’s desk.

  I shake my head and wipe the sweat off my brow with the back of my left hand.

  “I’m Ace,” I introduce myself to the room before Griff has a chance to do it for me. “Formerly of Satan’s Spawn MC and now a hunted man.”

  I hope that wasn’t too dramatic, and I keep my face as hard, as I can to offset it, just in case. I’m also doing my very best to keep my eyes off their Spy, whose piercing look I literally feel like a laser beam burning its way into my brain. Why’s he here? Do they know something?

  Hawk never fails to dig up anything and everything about anyone we want to know more about, but he does it with computers, not just with interviews, and I doubt this old guy can do much on a computer. It hasn’t been long enough for him to go around showing my picture and asking people if they’ve ever seen me with the Spawns. Has it?

  “I’m sorry about what happened to your MC,” the Treasurer says and sounds genuinely so. “I knew a couple of guys from that MC. Good guys, all of them. Especially old Popeye. We served together a long time ago. He deserved better, especially after how he got back from Nam.”

  There’s a test in this statement. An unspoken question. A checking if I really am who I claim to be. But the twisted luck that follows me everywhere is here with me now too. It’s never brilliant, never the happy kind of luck, always more dark than light. I killed this Popeye he’s talking about myself. The left half of his face was a crumpled mess of burnt flesh, his eyelid fused shut on that side. I got a good look at his face before life left him.

  I nod, hoping my face conveys repressed sadness. “He never let his burns get in the way of anything. I heard he died well. I heard he died cursing the Devils, telling them he’ll get his own back in Hell when he sees them next.”

  Those were more or less the exact words he spoke to me before he died. He wasn’t among the first to go, and we cornered him in a bikers’ pit stop in the middle of nowhere. He died kneeling in the dirt in front of it, but there were witnesses. We left them alive to carry the tale and the insults.

  The treasurer chuckles. “Yeah, that sounds like old Popeye. A warrior to his last breath.” He stands up and offers me his hand. “I’m sorry for your loss, son.”

  I shake the hand he’s offering and nod solemnly. I just passed his test. Thanks to my dark and twisted luck. There will be a price to pay.

  “Coins here seems convinced that what you say is true, but I’ll admit I have doubts,” the Vice-president says, peeling off the wall to glare at me. My heart is pounding, and I’m sure something’s showing on my face. Anger. I’m gonna go with anger.

  “You say you’re the last surviving member of Satan’s Spawn MC,” the VP continues, walking toward me slowly. “But everything I ever heard about Devil’s Nightmare MC tells me they never leave a job undone, and they’re saying they wiped out the Spawns, so how can that be?”

  The guy is one of those slow speakers, the ones that like to make you wait and listen closely when they speak. Those kinds of guys annoy me very much. But he is the Vice President around here and he expects respect. He’s standing less than a foot from me when he finally stops talking, his eyes fixed on mine, the sound of his wheezy breathing all I hear. That, and the ringing in my ears. It’s fucking tense in this room as all of them wait for my answer. Anger might not be my best option after all.

  “If that’s what they’re saying, it’s because they’re liars, and they want everyone to believe they’re as hard and infallible as they always say they’re are. It’s just marketing and they’re all a bunch of has-beens,” I say in a tight, clipped voice. “They’re still looking for me though, they know I’m alive. And while I’m alive none of them are safe. One day, I will get my revenge for what they did to my brothers. Even if I have to kill them all by myself.”

  More than ten years ago, when I was barely nineteen years old, I stood in a room a lot like this one, addressing a bunch of old bikers just like these, and saying more or less this same thing. That memory is coloring everything I see in front of me now, and I can’t shake it, no matter how hard I try to ignore it. The President and VP of the club I was asking for help back then were present that time too. They said no. Said they wouldn’t help me get my revenge. Said it wasn’t their business. That hurts every bit as much now as it did back then. But I did get my revenge back then. I got it with the help of Devil’s Nightmare MC.

  My proclamation that I’ll take the revenge myself earned a few chuckles from the old men in the room, but they faded fast before my black look, which I gave every one of them in turn.

  “I’ll be honest with you,” the Vice President says. “The Devils are the last club I would personally have us go against. You call them liars and has-beens, but they are the most ruthless and efficient killers I’ve ever known.”

  I shoot Griff a questioning look. He’s sitting in his chair, cleaning his fingernails with his pocket knife like he’s not even paying attention to what we’re talking about. He shoots me a pointed, loaded look though, but looks away right after. What the fuck is he trying to tell me now?

  “That’s not to say we’re not grateful you stepped in when those fuckers attacked Horse and Piston though,” the Sargent at Arms says. He’s a heavy set man, big all around, and he needs to pause to take a breath even after such a short sentence. “And we’d be happy to take out any Devil that dares to do that again. But offing them all? Going to war with them? That’s not something we can promise you.”

  What the fuck’s going on here? Is Griff using these guys to let me down easy as far as revenge against the Devils is concerned? Or do they really not know he already promised me my revenge in due course?

  “Griff—” I start to say, but he shoots me another loaded look, and this time I know it’s a warning. I should keep my mouth shut, and that early morning conversation between us a secret from these men.

  “This meeting was supposed to be for you to get a feel for the guy,” Griff says. “Not so we can discuss how afraid we are of the Devils with him.”

  “You know me, Griff,” the VP says, glaring at him. ”I hate lies and false pretenses.”

  “But we’re now sure he’s who he says he is, right?” Griff asks the room. But I don’t think that’s what the VP was talking about at all.

  All except the VP nod and grunt agreements, but the tension in the room keeps rising. Griff and the VP have their eyes locked, and the rest are eyeing the two of them and each other like dogs wary of a fight. Except the Spy, who’s trying to bore a hole straight into my brain with his laser eyes. I ignore him. Something’s up between Griff and his VP, and it’s more than just my arrival or the Devils.

  “If the Devils came after you once, they’ll come again,” I say into the tense silence. “I want to be here when they do. I want to help you defend yourselves. Any dead Devil gets me one step closer to my goal.”

  That was a clumsy way of making my offer, but I’ve personally never been a good speaker, and I doubt Ace the Spawn would be either.

  “I can’t say no to an offer like that. Especially not to a man who saved my sons’ lives,” Griff says. “I say we take him up on his offer. Do any of you disagree?”

  They all shake their heads, even the VP, though he does it more slowly and less convincingly than the rest.

  “Good, then,” Griff says and turns to me. “Go enjoy your night. I’ll call you when I need you.”

  I leave the room, my mind reeling with all the new questions this weird meeting raised. Why did Griff promise me all the Devils will be dealt with soon, yet none of his execs seemed to know anything about it? Did he lie? Or was it a slip up, and he’s trying to cover it up now? And why the hell was the atmosphere in there so tense?

  I got no answers for Cross, only more questions to untangle. The good ne
ws is, I’m now an honorary member confirmed by the MC execs. But I’m not at all sure if that means I’m any closer to ferreting out the snitch.

  12

  Ace

  The noise in the bar hits me in a whoosh of yells, harsh laughter of the men, shrill giggles of the women and bottles hitting the wooden tabletops, as I exit the eerily silent and airless hallway. It’s like I’ve regained hearing after going deaf.

  Piston materializes out of the crowd, blocking my view of Stormi’s back behind the bar.

  “So, did they give you a hard time?” he asks with a huge grin. “Or did they thank you properly, the way they should for what you did?”

  I grin and shrug. “They asked some questions. And I gave the right answers.”

  “They’re old men and they like doing things the old way,” Piston says. “Come meet a guy who’s just thankful to you. He won’t ask you any unnecessary questions.”

  Stormi still has her back to me, but I saw her glance at me over her shoulder from the corner of my eye, the look piercing me like a particularly bright ray of sunshine on a cloudy day. I’m sure she’s ignoring me on purpose. All I wanna do is go over to her, have another conversation, one that has nothing to do with the one we had earlier. This one won’t end with her ignoring me. It’ll end with her asleep in my arms, both of us spent but satisfied.

  But Piston puts his hand between my shoulder blades and starts pushing me towards the other end of the bar, where I can glimpse Horse sitting at a table every time the crowd between us and him shifts just right. The guy he’s sitting with has a thick, white bandage wrapped around his forehead and left eye. I recognize him as the guy Horse and Piston, and I for that matter, left behind when the Devils attacked them.