Fuck. “Can’t do that, veep.” He backed up, putting his back to the wall, protecting the colors on his vest. They didn’t want him. He swallowed hard, fighting back emotions. They don’t want me. “Won’t.” After everything Whitewall said today, and then they didn’t even want him anyhow. He crouched slightly, prepared for a fight. “Nuh-uh. No, sir. You want my colors, you’re gonna have to take ‘em from me.”
“What?” The barked question held laughter as Whitewall’s head swung his way. “No, son. Not like that.” He reached out and laid his hand on a piece of fabric George hadn’t noticed. A foot long, curving, ends arching upward, the letters sewn into the fabric spelled out Mother. The main chapter of the club was called the mother chapter, where the rest had been birthed from. Mother was an honor few men had, even the ones assigned here mostly had the city, or at most city and state, not the designation. “You feel you need a beat down before you sew this thing in place, well, hell yeah. That we can provide.” Laughter came from the men, who one at a time pushed to their feet. “But, that ain’t our intention, son.”
That night had seen a celebration in the clubhouse that rivaled anything Ollie ever thought to throw. Worn leather on his back held stiff by the unbroken bottom rocker, George accepted backslaps, shoulder punches, and gripping shakes that carried much more emotion than the few words uttered. Pussy falling over themselves to fall on his dick, he got sucked off twice before he even made it to bed with a third chick.
It all fell to shit the next morning. That third chick’d thought to work her way up the club, and abandoned the bed of the newest member for an available and willing officer as George slept. Then she walked out of Scot’s room and stumbled into the man’s ole lady.
Caterwauling and squalling the two women set at each other, rolling up and down the hallway. Members stood in the doors to their rooms, woken by the mess. Sleepy and pissed off, George stood watching until Whitewall shoved him in the back, sending him stumbling towards the women with a brusque, “Clean up your shit, brother.” Even with the swell of emotion the word gave him, he still eyed his duty with distaste. Snot and blood, nails flying everywhere, shirts ripped and showing skin—not how he’d wanted to spend the morning.
Gained his name at the end of it, when he’d had Scot’s ole lady suckin’ his dick while the man shoved his own cock down the party doll’s throat. Eyes closed, chin lifted, Scot had been steadily gagging the bitch when he abruptly stilled, looking at George. Watching his own ole lady’s head bobbing over George’s lap, Scot laughed aloud, the edges of his humor not resting easily in the room. Fingers still twined in the bitch’s hair, he asked, “How in the hell did we get here, George?”
“No fuckin’ idea, brother.” And he didn’t, not for sure, but something that could have been damaging had worked out not so badly for him.
“Twisted your way through the shit, came out the other side smelling like a rose.” Scot thrust once, twice, then snarled down at the woman, “Mind your fuckin’ teeth, bitch.” Looking back up at George, he said, “Twisted that shit, bent it around to where you needed it to be.” He gestured to his woman, “Got the good shit wrapped around your cock.” Fisting a hand in her hair, he pulled the bitch off him, shoving her around until George had to look at her. “Twisted your way away from this shitty piece of ass. You’re twisted in the right way, brother.”
Not the worst way it could have ended up, but he learned a harsh lesson that night. Separating the two women, neither of them mattering to him, he didn’t give a fuck who ended bloody. Neither was a bitch he wanted to be accountable for, and he’d determined right there that he would not be bringing pussy back to his room, to his bed, ever. Not ever again. And, he hadn’t since. He’d fuck ‘em in the party rooms in the front of the building, fuck ‘em outside in the yard of the compound, but his room was his, untainted by pussy. He wouldn’t ever be putting his patch brothers into a position to have to clear his shit with pussy, or with anything. He was determined at that moment to be the kind of brother they’d want at their backs. Want at their sides. Someone they deemed worth the effort, someone they understood would hold the line for them. Die for them.
Now sitting here with Po’Boy, he reckoned all the time and effort worth it. “Worth every penny of anything we have to pay,” he muttered.
“You know it, brother.” Po’Boy stood, stretching his arms over his head, reaching for the ceiling with every muscle tensed. There was a lot of mass to the man because he spent a fuckton of time in the backyard hauling on the makeshift weights they’d stashed there a few years ago. No time for a gym, even if there’d been money for it, so they made do to get what they needed. Honing their bodies for service to the club. “We goin’ to Trudette’s tonight, Twisted?”
A club favorite, Trudette’s was a local bar; biker-friendly, meaning they didn’t give you shit about wearing colors inside. Good food, cute barkeeps, rutted-as-hell dirt and gravel parking lot, but a decent place to spend a couple of hours. “Yeah, sounds good.”
Half a dozen brothers trailed them into the lot, and Twisted sat straight and proud on his bobber, leading the way as the ranking club member among them. Only five years in, and not an officer yet, but he and Papaw had talked about the next church being the right time for Scot to step down. His health wasn’t good; he was spending more time in the VA than at home with his ole lady, so SAA was a definite in Twisted’s future.
Another reason he spent hours working those weights, doing side-to-side pull-ups, hanging sit-ups, and ran five miles nearly every day. When his club needed him to stop trouble, it wouldn’t matter he wasn’t big and bulky like Papaw or Po’Boy because he had his shit together in a way that few men would mistake. It helped stop shit before it even started. When he put the SAA patch on his chest, he’d need that sway even more.
Backing his idling bike into a spot at the edge of the gravel lot, he scanned the patron’s vehicles and grinned. “Jimbo’s here,” he called to Po’Boy, getting a distracted nod in response as the man backed in next to him. Turning to see what his friend was looking at Twisted scowled. “Shit,” he muttered, recognizing the bitch’s car.
Sabrina hadn’t aged well and hadn’t gotten any sweeter than she was back in school. Twisted had dropped out his junior year, not seeing the need for a diploma in his future and having about a dozen more things to do in a day than he had time for with classes. Po’Boy had finished, which was good. Meant he had the head on him to help out with the various businesses the club dipped their toes into. Sabrina had gone to Tulane for secondary but never got past being tossed over for her younger sister. Trudette’s wasn’t her typical kind of watering hole, so just her being here gave Twisted a sour feeling in his stomach because the bitch held a mean grudge.
“Wanna leave, boss?” Po’Boy offered him an easy out, telling him his stare at her car had been noted, but Twisted shook his head.
“Jimbo’s here, need to talk to him anyway. We’ll just steer clear of the pussy.” Nods from the men already off their bikes and waiting. Twisted stood up, swinging his leg over the seat. “Pretty packed in there. Might need to vacate some tables.” More nods of understanding. If there weren’t enough seats for them around where Jimbo was holding court, they’d turn folks out of their chairs, dumping asses on the floor if need be.
He continued, “Gonna be colors in there. Watch your backs until we scope the club.” There were a dozen bikes at the other end of the lot, not ones he recognized, which meant not Incoherent and maybe not friendly. Or at least not a club near enough to have frequent contact. The only real rivals they had were still the Vicar’s Wrath, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t see shit from other bikers, even if they were ones just rolling through on a coastline ride. Shit happened. A man just had to be prepared to shovel as much shit back as got thrown at them, to keep things evened up.
Inside, the atmosphere was heavier than Twisted expected, but he ignored that and arrowed straight to where Jimbo sat with half a dozen Incoherent members in two
booths near the back corner. With a jerk of his head, Po’Boy started the process of clearing two tables in front of the booths while Twisted walked to his grandfather, arm out in greeting.
Hearing one word, “Son,” rocked him on his heels because his Papaw didn’t pull that out except in private, so him using it now meant there was family business to deal with on top of whatever club business had the other men seated with him looking mad as wet hornets.
“Freddy’s here, boy.” Twisted schooled his face to impassivity, not wanting to give his feelings away. Freddy had turned eighteen recently, celebrated in style in the cathouse from what Twisted had heard. Times had changed in the seven years he’d been with Papaw. Clientele had changed. Ollie had stroked out, was warehoused in an old folks’ home wearing diapers, which meant his Mama was in charge at the house now, and she didn’t have a mind to whose money she took. So that changing clientele meant trouble for her a lot of weekends, as the Mexican green river flowed their direction, sweet smoke and other things replacing the harsher cigarettes in the parlor. Stoned men led to soft dicks, which resulted in further pissed off. Stoned girls meant bad judgment calls. Freddy didn’t have it in him to be the enforcer the teenaged Twisted had been, and Mama’s latest fuck toy wouldn’t ever step up. It meant the girls weren’t covered, most of the time, which they didn’t like.
Discontent in the girls led to a turnover, which pissed off regulars. In the basic scheme of things, Mama was running the cathouse into the ground, riding that bitch down along the way. It sometimes made him sad to remember the opulence and splendor that Ollie offered, and see it brought low, women he remembered fondly turned into nothing better than two-bit whores.
Freddy being here wasn’t trouble by itself, but Papaw’s demeanor led him to believe that whoever Freddy was with might be. “Yeah?” He waited a beat, but nothing was forthcoming, so he asked, “So?”
“He’s with a catty bitch.” Twisted felt his mouth shift sideways, knowing what he’d see when he turned around. Sure enough, there was Freddy, in a booth near the door, sucking face with bitchy Sabrina. “Been goin’ at her in the booth, figure they’ll be headed out to get his hose siphoned soon. Hold your shit, brother.”
Sabrina had a knack for getting under his skin, but he could keep cool for his brothers and nodded firmly, reassuring Papaw that the message was received. Twisted’s arm was bumped from behind; he turned to see a draft beer, water dewing on the sides of the glass. With a muttered “Thanks,” he accepted the offering and turned to face Papaw, giving the room his back, knowing that every man wearing their club patch would watch out for him. Gaze trained on his grandfather, he asked, “Who else is here? Saw bikes on the lot. We got goodness or trouble?” The irritation flashing across Papaw’s face wasn’t reassuring.
“VW, but it’s an unannounced core from the 9th, not Leswayne’s crew, unknown.” So, Vicar’s Wrath had rolled into their territory without a call. The bikers weren’t from the Metairie chapter, which meant no immediate beef, but, even within the relatively small area within the bar, they hadn’t made an approach to offer respect, leaving their intentions unknown for now. “They roll out without recognition, I’ll place a call to Ragman, clear up any misunderstandings about boundaries.” Ragman was Leswayne’s son, someone Twisted hadn’t met yet, but heard stories about.
“Sounds like a plan,” he said, nodding. Twenty minutes passed, talk shifting around the group about upcoming runs and events, along with various kinds of other surface business. Out in the open like this was never the place for any essential club dealings, and every man knew it. They all worked at keeping the topics as light and cryptic as if they had ears under every chair.
“Watch your back, brother.” Po’Boy’s mutter came from beside him, and he turned to see an obviously drunk Freddy stumbling their direction, arm slung around Sabrina’s neck.
“Fuckin’ shit,” Twisted said, knowing his lip curled at the sight. “Why can’t shit just not hit the fan once in a while?”
“When the shit hits the fan, the fans start shitting.” Po’Boy laughed at his own quip. “When the fit hits the shan, the shine gets blurry.”
He turned to look at his friend, laughing. “What in the hell does that even mean, brother?”
“So, he’s your brother now?” These slurred words were a blow he hadn’t expected, the tone a whining echo of long ago days at Ollie’s. “Blood ain’t good enough for you?”
He let his eyes sink closed for a moment, then sucked in air through his nose, shifting to look at Freddy. They were about the same height, but Freddy carried more bulk than Twisted. Not a lot, Freddy wasn’t fat, not by a far reach, but he was thicker through the middle, his shirt fitting snug around his stomach rather than his chest.
“Hey, Fred.” Twisted offered this greeting quietly, not sure where his brother wanted to take this conversation, never sure anymore. Half the time they ended in silence and the other half there was shouting. He knew the club wouldn’t want trouble brought to their table, brother and grandson or not, so he was preparing to walk outside with his brother when the sounds started.
Heard over the pounding volume of the jukebox, they were distinctive. No one would mistake them for anything other than what they were.
Pop. Pop. Pop. Outside, from what sounded like a distance, gunfire raced up the road alongside the growing rumble of bikes headed towards the bar. Pop.
Hand to his back, he pulled his pistol out and let gravity draw it down alongside his thigh. A careful thumb pushed at the safety while his eyes scanned what he could see of the parking lot. Lights were glaring, shining up and across the front of the bar as forty or fifty bikes raced into the lot, dust flying up around them, swirling, and obscuring details. Half the headlights abruptly turned off, while half stayed shining, and he could see dark forms moving through the shadows and lights, approaching the bar at a run.
“Oh my God.” This scream came from the bar area and Twisted half turned, keeping an eye on the front entrance but looking towards the swinging doors leading to the kitchen. He was just in time to see the owner of the bar staggering through, hand to his neck, and a flood of red gushing between his fingers.
Before the batwing door could complete the return swing that would close it, the surface was hit from behind and shoved wide, three men pouring through. The leader wore a leather vest and had a machete in one hand, the signature weapon of the Vicar’s MC. The blade whirled around his wrist, held there by a leather strap. The bartender who had screamed ran towards the injured man, who had landed on the floor, flat on his back, blood in dark puddles surrounding his shoulders. A split second later, the big knife connected, sliding through flesh as if it were butter. A section of her face flew away, white bone exposed in its wake, teeth sheared off and broken, then all that empty filling with red as she landed on top of the body in the aisle behind the bar, her shriek cut brutally short.
With a cry of anger and outrage, Twisted leaped forwards, lifting the gun. Before he could fire, an explosive blast came from the front of the bar, the concussive wave taking many of the nearby men off their feet and throwing them onto the floor. Glass in two of the windows broke, shattering and scattering the width of the room, raining down on everyone. Bits of burning paper drifted through the air, adding to the acrid smell from the blast. Deafened and disoriented for a moment, Twisted dove for cover behind one of the overturned tables.
It was from that position that he saw his world torn apart; watched as blood and flesh were ripped from bodies of men he called brother, from family. Through it all, Fred stood and watched, fucking watched with a shocked expression as everything went down around him. Untouched by splatter or blowback, he stood there, arm around the neck of the woman beside him, a woman with a wicked smile on her face, one that said she had secret knowledge. One that showed she had no fear, even standing in the middle of a raging firefight.
Gun an extension of his arm, Twisted lifted and fired, then fired again. Lining up shot after shot, he worked to
take out the men from the kitchen first, then began targeting the crew now trying to beat a fast retreat.
Blood mixed with broken glass to cover the floor, making the black and white tile slick and treacherous. That uncertain surface taking the feet out from under a man who held a shotgun to his shoulder, the recoil from a blast causing a stumble that turned into a slip and fall, his skull bouncing off the floor while the gun landed near the door. Twisted climbed to his feet and, in a crouch, ran to the back wall, boots leaving a bloody path of footprints behind him. Ass to the floor, he got back down, propping his elbows on his bent knees, pulling the trigger until there was nothing left to fire with, or at.
Ringing silence settled onto the building, ears echoing the sounds that had so recently filled the air. That silence was broken by the barely-heard wheezing breaths of the injured, and the louder cries of shock and fear escaping from the citizens, men and women forced to watch. A burst of static, then the surreal sound of a rock anthem flung itself from the speakers on either end of the room, the words screaming through and between the people standing around in shock.
The grating scrape of a boot sole on the glass-strewn floor drew his attention, and he turned to see Fred staring at him. He was alone; Sabrina had fled in the chaos. “Go, Fred. Get out,” George shouted, seeing understanding dawn on his brother’s face. With a nod, Fred carefully walked towards the door, all the weaving drunk having left him, his steps now steady and straight, arrow-true as if he waltzed through the grocery store instead of pacing between the lakes and rivers of blood covering the floor.
“George.” He thought he heard Papaw, but the voice was tormented and hoarse, as unlike Papaw’s gruff warmth as anything he could imagine. At sixteen, he’d found the person he wanted to be, seeing it every time he watched as his grandfather dealt with anything. Problem or goodness, Papaw handled it all with care, the anger of his youth having burned out when he buried his wife and son. Turning, Twisted scanned the men still standing, seeing Po’Boy with a hand to his upper arm, blood running over his knuckles. “Son.”
Neither This Nor That Box Set 1 Page 6
