Two kicks later, his bike roared, and he shoved his toe on top of the shifter, pressing down. Twisting the throttle hard, the bike skidded sideways on the street as he gave it too much gas, then settled down. Toe to the bottom of the shifter, lifting, he twisted the throttle again, lifting. Jamming the brakes on so he could angle around the corner as he downshifted, gaining blocks of distance between him and whatever the cops would be wanting to know.
Shit happened, I dealt, he thought and then barked laughter he could hardly hear over the sound of the wind. Coulda used Ralph today, but, he’ll be in tomorrow, as in in, and we’ll track this asshole down. Ride or die.
***
Princess
Face lifted to the star-riddled skies, the girl stepped in a small circle, toes of one foot planting near the arch of the other as she danced to the traditional music of the region. Zydeco music was raucous and lively, perfect for a distraction on a softly warm spring evening. The music was powering out of the windows of her uncle’s house, so loud that if she had looked up, she could have seen the fabric of the speakers moving with the sound being projected into the backyard.
Eyes closed, she continued to move in her circle, knowing every inch of the ground she trod, unafraid of falling. Her lips moved to the words, mouthing phrases that only people living in the bayous truly understood. A seafood file gumbo was boiling on a nearby gas ring, rich scents rising from the huge stainless pot filled to the brim with the savory dish. Poke salad would round out the meal; the weed, tender and tasty now, bitter when later in the season. There would be crisp bacon crumbles and minced onion greens to mix in with hot grease and vinegar to make a dressing designed to partially cook the greens on the diner’s plate. Wilted salad and file gumbo, she thought, pausing her movement for a moment as the cassette tape advanced to the next song, silence hissing through the speakers.
“Hey.” She heard a soft male voice nearby and opened her eyes to see a handsome boy, not much older than she was, standing at her side. Looking up, she watched as his smile hit his eyes, warming them and giving him an intense look she didn’t know how to take. “You eatin’ soon?”
Tipping her head to one side, she grinned at him. “Imma eatin’ gumbo, don’t know what soon is. Don’t sound too tasty.”
“Princess,” her mother called from a seat near the back of the house. “Mind your words.”
They’d known each other all their lives, and knowing how she would hate that correction the boy winced along with her. She flashed him a “thank you” smile before turning to answer her mother. “Yes, Mama.” Looking at the boy again, she repeated herself, slightly changed, “I’ll be eating gumbo. I’ve never heard of a dish called soon, but it doesn’t sound very good.”
He laughed aloud, and she took a breath as his face changed with the humor, a lock of hair falling over his forehead. Older than her by five years, he was turning off handsome, and when he smiled or laughed, she caught a glimpse of the man he would become. Don’t get stupid, gel. That age difference is huge, she thought, turning away when the music began. Eyes closed, she tilted her chin up, trying to lose herself in the movements again. Those efforts were stymied when he reached out and gripped her hand. Flashing an annoyed look at him, she tugged but he refused to release her, so she eased closer to him and hissed, “Hey, let me go.”
“Never,” he said so softly she nearly had to read his lips. “Like you here, honey.” At the affectionate words, she gave up her efforts to extricate her hand, allowing him to pull her even closer, his other hand going to her hip. Steering her with their joined hands, he used his fingers on her waist to maintain the small distance between them. A moment later, he pushed at her, and with a grin she flew backwards, twisting and turning at the end of his arm, twirling back in as he pulled, and they danced.
Too soon the music stopped, and she looked up into his face, smiling. “That was fun.” It was. He had made the dance relaxed and sweet, moving them away from weird and back to comfortable. Always my friend. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” he said, his voice low and rough. An expression swept across his features, another one she didn’t recognize, but it looked both pained and angry. Before she could ask the boy what was wrong, she heard her uncle calling her from across the yard, and she turned to look at him.
“Get your ass over here, gel. Want to talk to you about that covered monstrosity in my driveway.” She stuck out her tongue, knowing he was teasing. The classic sedan that had been parked in front of his garage as long as she could remember was his baby. He didn’t want to talk to her as much as he wanted an audience willing to listen to the stories about the car. Then, surprising her, lifting his eyes to the boy, her uncle spoke to her again, “Princess, I’m serious, hon. Get over here. You all need to learn when it’s time to move.”
“I’ll be right back,” she said, looking up at the boy.
“No, you won’t.” His quiet response was confusing, and she glanced at him over her shoulder, already on her way to where her uncle stood. He looked disappointed and gave her a half wave as he turned his back to her.
Then she was in the middle of the small knot of grown men standing near her uncle, each of them wearing a vest with the same patch on the back. For the next two hours, she bantered with them, listening to their stories and turning some of those stories back on them, drawing laughter with each quip. A favored child, the men in the club all treated her like glass, but lately she’d found she wanted more from them. She knew her uncle had shown her something she could never have because she was a girl. The club was all about brotherhood, and being there for the men who shared the patch with you. She could never be that, but she could at least have this, a natural kind of camaraderie with the men.
She looked for the boy after they’d eaten, but he was gone from where they’d stood. Grass all around the bonfire had been beaten flat with stamping feet, but he wasn’t dancing anymore, either. She scanned the crowd, still not seeing him.
A little while ago, she had seen her uncle talking to the boy across the yard, hand on the young man’s shoulder, and whatever their topic had been, the conversation had looked serious. Turning to her uncle, she asked, “Did you see where he went?”
“Need to learn when it’s time to leave things alone, honey.” He shook his head, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and turning her with him. Pacing towards the bonfire, he put her back into her spot from before. “Dance, hon. Don’t worry about him. Just dance. He’ll sort himself out.”
Glancing around the yard again, still not finding the boy, she looked up at her uncle and nodded. Eyes closed, she listened to the music and found they’d moved on from Zydeco to southern rock. I like this, too, she thought, feeling the cushioning give of soft earth under her feet when she stomped hard. I like a lotta things. The boy’s face flashed through her head, and then her next thought was, Eighteen isn’t a boy. He’s a man.
He’s a man, she thought. He’s a man, and he likes me. Her grin, this time, was small, private, and pleased. I could like him, too.
Chapter Four
Twisted, age twenty-three
Tossing his cards onto the pile of cash and markers on the table, Po’Boy laughed when he said, “I’m out, brother. You either got the best hand in the world, or the worst, and I can’t fuckin’ tell. Either way, I’m fucked, so I’m out.”
Twisted smirked, his head tipping back, teasingly flashing his cards. “Wanna see my hand, brother?”
“Fuck no.” Po’Boy pushed the pile of winnings across the table towards Twisted, laughing harder when some of the money and papers fluttered to the floor. “You’re a rat bastard, you know that?”
“Yeah,” Twisted said fondly, pausing in his efforts to scrape things together. “Ralph,” he said, hoping the other man understood the emotion behind his words, “fucking pleased you chose to come on this journey with me, brother.”
Ralph Lewis, Po’Boy, shook his head. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, George.”
Nearly
seven years ago, Papaw had come to the whorehouse and torn the blinders off George’s eyes, forcing him to see the layers of wrongness that surrounded him. How his mother didn’t take the part a parent should, not protecting him from anything. Loved him in her way, but her way was so far off the beaten track, sane folks couldn’t see her from where they stood.
He and his grandfather had tried several times to pull Freddy out of the mess at the whorehouse, but his younger brother was resistant. And, even from the outside, it was clear that his life was very different than what George had experienced. The favored son, Freddy had cars and flash to toss around, money earned by the women of the house on their knees and backs, and him uncaring. Using and spending, and going back to the well for more.
At eighteen, George had patched into the club as a prospect, proud as fuck of the emblem on his back from day one. It had taken him the two intervening years to convince his grandfather he knew what he wanted. Two years of listening to stories about the brotherhood until the desire to belong was like a living thing in his gut. Two years of seeing how each man supported the whole and wanting to have that even more than he wanted to breathe. Two years of preparing and training for that moment when he would finally belong.
Prospect patch pinned into place by Whitewall, his grandfather’s second and the vice-president of the club, George was warned from the get-go that his path would be harder than any other prospect because no member would be willing to give an inch just because of who he was. It had been a fucking miserable ten months, but he’d done it. Done everything asked. Clubhouse cleanup after parties, scrubbing up puke and piss, and worse. Done to breed deep respect for the house, not tasked as punishment and he got that, an understanding that helped to lighten the load.
Each thing asked of him he approached the same way, twisting it in his head until he could see the good. He became whatever his brothers needed. If a member needed someone to ride in the back of a truck to help hold a bike upright, George was your man. In the rain. During a thunderstorm. With a leaky bucket of mudbugs beside his ass. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered, because George would be there. Doing it not to brown-nose, but because it showed he had that member’s back in anything. Wanting the brotherhood that came right alongside the responsibility to assist wherever possible.
Incoherent’s normal prospect period was a year and a day, with that last day promised to be hell on earth. Papaw pushed for the full time served, but his own officers overruled him, making it their choice to bring George into the fold early. George hadn’t understood what was up when Whitewall had called him into the big room behind the bar during what should have been an officers-only meeting.
The room was huge. Vaulted ceilings lifted overhead, no rooms above so less chance of listening ears. The high ceilings meant they had room to install fans in here, and had, George balancing at the top of a wobbly ladder while wielding an electric drill and screwdriver. Comfort for the people in the room meant they could spend less time thinking about the heat, and more time applied to solving problems and issues within the club. A willing service, from him to the patch holders, flesh dues paid eagerly.
Whitewall called him in, but didn’t give him a reason or a task, so George waited, standing alongside the door, shoulders to the wall, trying hard to ignore the arguments flowing back and forth across the table. Highest ranking members at the national level, the men were discussing the merits of raising their member dues. As someone voiced an especially lame argument for the increase, George couldn’t help the shifting expression on his face. Startled when his Papaw barked his name, he ripped his gaze from the floor in front of his boots to lock onto the old man’s face.
“George. You got somewhat to say, boy?”
“No, sir.” The honorific of brother didn’t sit right in his mouth when it was directed to his grandfather, not after the two years just past, where he’d found what an excellent mentor the man made. Wise and patient, his grandfather could show a person the way of things without saying a word, leading them from lesson to lesson and letting them drink their fill from each along the way. He was always willing to give a body time to consider, time to distill those lessons, letting them settle deep inside where the teachings could be found as needed, waves of wisdom washing over the shores of their soul.
“Spit it out, George.” Now every set of eyes in the room was trained on him, and sweat prickled along his shoulders, down his back, slicking his forehead.
Fuck. “With respect, Prez, I don’t have a place in this room for this discussion.” He could and did call Papaw by his title. Could and did call him Jimbo on occasion. Just couldn’t pull a brother out of himself for that man, because Papaw had come to mean so much more.
Lip lifted, Papaw slipped the national officer mantle into place, changing from easygoing older man to the most dangerous threat in the whole fucking room, and that room filled to the brim with intimidating men. The Incoherent MC national president stood, pushing up from the chair, palms flat on the battered table in front of him. “Brother,” this word growled deliberately, “you need to rethink what you believe respect is if you intend to give me a fucking non-answer to a fucking straight-on question. Now,”—he leaned forward, muscles in his arms bulging and rippling with the movement—“I asked you to spit out what you were thinking.” He straightened. “We were talking about a dues increase, and you have somewhat to say. Spit it out.”
“It’s a mistake,” George said straightaway. There was no more beating around the bush. That wasn’t respectful, not in the face of the demand laid upon him. “If we need more money, there are other ways to raise it. Ways to bring in flash without breakin’ our brothers’ backs. If we need money, raising dues by five or ten dollars each month won’t give us what we need. The amount we’d have to increase could push it to a decision time for some members. Men with wives and kids. Got school comin’ up and those families needing clothes and supplies, lunch money. Then there’s hurricane season upon us, and storms brewin’ every direction.” There were three named storms churning in the Atlantic and Gulf right then. “Men will be lookin’ to tide themselves over, not boost the club for unknown reasons.” None of the men tonight had mentioned why they needed more money, just talked about it as if it were a foregone conclusion.
“What other ways?” That was Scot, their sargent at arms.
George turned his head, scanning all the men in the room. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Other clubs have cash-heavy businesses.”
“Whorehouses,” his grandfather said derisively.
“Strip clubs, private casinos if they carry tribal under their cuts. Bars. Tattoo parlors. Pawn shops. Cash business is good for a lot of reasons.” George knew he was right, and this conviction gave him courage. “Doesn’t have to be skin, no way. But yeah, whorehouses can be lucrative to run, Prez.”
“Who’d run it?” Dropsie spoke up for the first time; he was Incoherent’s road captain.
Uncertain for a moment if the question was directed to him, George waited for a beat before responding. “T-Bone and Kodiak would be my choice. Both are smooth talkers, think fast on their feet, and they’ll do well with the necessary rub for the boys in blue. Pretty enough the women will be happy to have them around. And still badass enough to keep customers in line.” He mentioned two full members, not officers, but his reasoning was sound, and he knew it, no disrespect intended for any man in this room.
Whitewall scooted his chair back and stood, leaning over facing Papaw, fists knuckled into the table. “Still think I’m fulla shit, Prez?” That question didn’t make any sense unless Whitewall had already suggested the business route, but he hadn’t spoken up during any part of the discussion, so that was unlikely. Which meant his topic change wasn’t to do with that, but with what else he’d introduced to the room. Me.
“Sixty-two days ain’t much to wait, White.” Papaw didn’t look at George, just stared at Whitewall. Sixty-two days happened to be the time remaining on his prospect period if everything w
ent well and these men wanted him to share in their brotherhood. Shit.
“Is if it’s unneeded. Is if things are so right even a child can see the rightness.” Fuck. He knew he was one of the youngest prospects the Incoherent had patched, didn’t know Whitewall thought him a child. “Man standing in front of you is righteous. You know it, you’re just afeared of showing favoritism, and we love that. Love that you wanted shit to go hard for the boy. Prove the mettle you saw and told us about, making us all proud of him as if we were his fathers. Man don’t have a father. Let us give him brothers. Give him a family he needs. And we need him, Jimbo. Dju hear how he twisted that shit to show us the underlying strength of his ideas? Smart motherfucker, we need him at the table.”
Papaw made a noise at that, and Whitewall lifted one hand, patting the air. “I know, that ain’t for today. But let us put a foot forward. Begin as you intend to continue.” The emphasis on this phrase wasn’t lost on George, but he didn’t understand the significance until Whitewall went on, “Ain’t that what you said when you and I were stuck in-country, sitting in the heat, watching our toes start to rot from the wet and shit? Begin as you intend to continue, and you’ll right the boat every time.”
George watched as Whitewall stood silent, fists to hips, staring across the table at the man he’d known since they were young kids playing in the canal, teasing little girls on the playground. George had heard more than a handful of stories about their growing up together, signing up together, serving together, and then starting this club together. Brothers for life. Ride or die.
The room was silent, three men on their feet, the rest seated in various poses, attentively studying the actors in this scene. With a heavy sigh, Papaw nodded once, and Whitewall’s head came up, chin lifting in response. These men knew each other so well, words weren’t required. Without turning around, Whitewall spoke to George. “Take off your cut, George.”
Neither This Nor That Box Set 1 Page 5
