My shiny Penny, he thought, and at that moment she turned, scanning the area. He marked the instant when her gaze locked on him. Saw her lips part, knew what she whispered, heard it in his head as if he were lying beside her again. “Bell.”
Not yet. But soon. He cast the words towards her with the same intensity used two weeks before. “Told you, darlin’. Gave me something so sweet, a man would break his back to keep that. I plan on holding on.”
Chapter Eight
Twisted
“Brother,” Po’Boy began, but Twisted cut him off with a shake of his head. Mouth pulled to one side, Po’Boy ignored him, pushing forward, regardless. “I got a man goin’ like you wanted. Told him to trail to PA, turn his ass at the line because I ain’t hanging a brother out there for pussy.” Moving closer, Po’Boy looked over Twisted’s shoulder and out the front of the clubhouse, where he was staring at a nearly empty parking lot. “Brother, this, along with everything else we got rollin’? You gotta know, this stretched us.”
Nodding, Twisted didn’t turn, just kept glaring out the window. He knew. After the shit with the feds, they’d had a slice of their membership bail or ghost. Understandable, but a disappointment he hadn’t expected. Bringing in nearly twenty new members swelled their ranks, but still meant they were so fuckin’ thin you could see straight through them in places.
Every day presented another battle of some kind. It meant he kept his game face on twenty-four seven. Between him and his officers, they were always working at prospect herding and new member educating. That shit was exhausting. The never-ending cycle of getting people to where you needed them to be, then pushing them past that, so you could see where they might go next. Rinse and fucking repeat.
“Any early fan favorites?” Po’Boy kicked a chair away from the wall, dragging it around and sitting while he asked the question. Wood scuffed across the floor, and he knew Po’Boy was probably leaning back, chair kicked up on two legs.
Fuck, go away. He might want to, but no way could he say that, not to Po’Boy. Not to the man who’d been with him since the beginning. The one man he knew had his back, no matter what. Ride or die; they had the same phrase inked on the inside of their bicep. Not like a stupid-ass BFF thing, but a promise. Funniest shit had been the way the tattoo dude looked at him when he went in. Man didn’t say anything, but he’d had finished Po’Boy’s ink not two hours before Twisted sat in his chair, even though Po’Boy had not even been in the club at the time. Neither of the men had mentioned it to the other. It was just something they did because it showed how bone-deep their connection was. From seventh grade to now, they’d shared a lot of their life. Shared women all the time because none of the bitches meant shit to either man. But now, with Penny—he took a quick breath, imagining for a moment he tasted her on his tongue—with Penny, Twisted had something he didn’t want to share.
“You make sure that door’s shut?” Po’Boy reached out, rattled the knob and grunted. “Catfish and Mosser. Those two seem fuckin’ solid as shit. Hambone is another I’m likin’ the looks of. Wildman ain’t shit but thinks he is. Need to organize a backyard beat down for him, knock some real into his head, let him pull and push some iron with you, give him a fuckin’ goal.”
Twisted dragged his hand over his beard and in response, his cock started to fatten. Penny’s face flashed in his mind, the look of surprise and excitement as she experienced the rough titillation of his facefur dragging across her skin the first time. The taste of her suffused his tongue, a well-remembered treat, as was her squirming when he positioned her over his face. She’d been drenched for him, and he’d eaten his fill. Twisted had been using thoughts of her to jack off to for weeks, carefully edging along the blade of pleasure every time he took himself in hand.
Shaking his head to dislodge the memories, he continued, “Zoomer, Rowdy, Ruger, all of ‘em gonna be decent foot soldiers. We’ve picked up some good ones, keepers. I can’t see anything to kick yet. Catfish. That man’s brainy, think he could be a leader. We’ll have to watch and see where we need to bolster the ranks across the state, use him when we need him. Wildman, I’d say we keep him here for now. Attach him to your hip. Let him really learn the lay of the land, bond with you.”
“Quack, quack.” Po’Boy laughed. “Imprinting?”
“Fuck, yeah. If it’s what we need. There’s a certain power in educatin’ a man. You’ll play momma to the duckling for as long as it takes, brother.” Twisted turned finally, looking down at Po’Boy with a quick grin. “Momma duck, gonna sit on your hatchlings? Wiggle your ass in their faces?”
“Fuck you.” Pulling out a small metal case from his vest pocket, Po’Boy offered him a thin, hand-rolled smoke, but Twisted waved it off with a shake. Tilting his head to keep the smoke out of his eyes, Po’Boy lit the joint and drew on it delicately, his actions telling Twisted just how potent the contents must be. With a hiss, Po’Boy sucked the smoke in a little deeper and then asked on a slow exhale, “Sure?”
“Yeah, not feelin’ it.” And he wasn’t. Not for nearly three weeks now. Not feeling the booze, either. Addicted to pussy, he thought with a grimace, wondering where she was right now. “Fuck,” he growled, pulling out the chair at the head of the table and dropping into it. “I’m so fucked, brother.”
“No, man.” He looked up to see an indulgent grin on Po’Boy’s rapidly mellowing face. “Pussywhipped, maybe. Fucked? Not for weeks.”
“Jesus.” Tipping his head back, he watched as the sweet smoke curling from the slow-burning joint lifted, getting caught in the downdraft from the fan blades spinning overhead, dissipating to nothing. “I ain’t never been…fuck.” Eyes closed, he let thoughts of his last hour together with Penny flood through his mind.
“I’ve never…” Her voice trailed off, then picked back up, still soft and full of awe. “That wasn’t like anything I’ve ever experienced, Bell.”
He was facing the back wall of the bunk, turned away from her, hiding the devastation he felt. Penny had curled into his back, one arm draped over his waist, other hand up by his head, fingers idly playing with strands of his hair. She had thoughtfully moved it before resting her head on the pillow, showing again that she had experience with hair much longer than what covered her head now. Nearly every muscle in his body was locked in place, trying to deny the need to roll and hold her, pull her close, feel her pressing against him, cuddle puppy to the bone.
“Was good,” he responded quietly, downplaying that it meant every bit as much to him as it had her. Turning his face to the pillow a bit more, his lips contorted when he drove the first wedge in, knowing what his cruel words would do. “Thanks, honey.”
He hadn’t been prepared for her reaction, hadn’t expected it. In no way could he ever be ready for what she did next.
“Don’t do that.” Lifting up to an elbow, she leaned over him, close enough every breath brushed gently against his cheek. Eyes locked to his face, she repeated herself, attacking his actions head on. “Don’t do that. Don’t downplay what that was. And don’t try to tell me you didn’t feel the same, Bell. Don’t lie to me.”
Turning to his back, he asked a question he didn’t know if he really wanted the answer to. “How much of tonight you think wasn’t a lie, Penny? It’s all a lie, every breath I took in here with you, lies.”
“Your name. You caring for me, not just after, but all night. What we just shared. Not a lie there. Those things aren’t lies, Bell.” One corner of her lips quirked up, and her eyes sparkled in the limited light reaching where they lay. “You and me, right here. This isn’t a lie, either.”
“My name’s not—”
She cut him off. “People call you something else, I know. You think I don’t know what that means?” She pointed to his club tattoo, inked over his heart. “And that?” Fingertips trailed across the lines x’ed on the inside of his wrist. “And that?” She leaned in and kissed the names written across his ribs, Jimbo, and Scot, a dozen others. “I told you Bagger was in a club, Bel
l. I knew what I was letting in my cab before I opened the door. People might call you something else, but you are Bell.”
“Bell ain’t nothing but a memory.” He’d gritted out the words, teeth clenching through hopeful pain. If she got it, if she knew what I am and kept me here anyway, what could that mean for us? “Penny, I’m not the man you see. Not the man you slept with.”
“Yes, you are.” She smiled and leaned down, pressing her lips to his shoulder, his chest, his throat, tits pressed tightly to his side, soft and warm. Cuddle puppy. She moved to his jaw before murmuring, “Yes, you are.”
He pushed away, shoving to a seated position, pain tearing through his chest when he saw the hurt look on her face at his rejection of her words, her actions. I could take what she’s offering. He shifted that thought away far more violently than he had her. “No, Penny. I ain’t. I ain’t nothing you want in your life. Trust me on that. This was a…” He searched for a word, then settled on something that was inadequate, a poor explanation but at least carried some meaning. “…pleasant interlude in my day. Thanks.”
Rocking back on an elbow, she stared at him, frowning, still trying to break through a wall she would never topple. “I don’t sleep around, Bell, but you already know that. You figured out a lot. You might know me better than anyone ever has.” Moving abruptly to a seated position at the edge of the bunk, she ran impatient fingers through her hair before bending and picking up his clothes from the floor. “You want it this way? Well then, congratulations, I can’t do anything about it. You gave me the illusion of control in here, I know. So you want to keep everything your way? Your way or the highway? Okay, there you go. Fine. Have it your way. I’m surprised, though. You don’t seem like a coward.” She set the bundle on the edge of the bunk, separated her shirt from the pile and pulled it on. “Your way, then. It’s a shame because even with as little as I know,”—she shook her head, not looking at him—“even I know this wasn’t just pleasant, Bell.”
Without another word, she picked up the rest of her clothing, dressed and then stood. Turning to look down at him one final time, she shook her head before parting the curtains and crawling up into the passenger seat. Pulling the divider closed, shutting him in darkness, leaving only a narrow strip of light shining through, she told him, “You don’t know anything, Bell. But we’ll do this your way. Just get dressed and go.”
He had done that. Had given her that. Given her more than she knew, by not staying. Broke something inside him, but he’d walked away.
Now he wished like hell he’d stayed.
***
“Again,” Po’Boy shouted from the pull-up bar, yelling at Wildman, who was on the incline bench. “Do it the fuck again, fucktard.” Not even winded, Po’Boy hadn’t stopped doing his reps, eyes locked on the man struggling to continue with a new set of sit-ups.
With a shouted, “Fuck you,” Wildman did just that, digging deep and pulling another full set of reps out of somewhere. From where he worked with dumbbells nearby, Twisted heard him grunt another faint, “Fuck you,” as he finished.
Grinning, Twisted shouted across the yard, drawing everyone’s attention when he told Po’Boy, “I like this one. He’s sassy.”
“Fuck. You. Too.” These grunts came from the general direction of the incline bench where Wildman was now stretched out flat, breathing hard. “Prez.”
The honorific was late coming, but it came, and that made Po’Boy whistle and shout with laughter, “Brown-noser. Need a scrub pad to get that stain off, brother. Nose deep in that stink.”
“Fuck you harder.” Wildman gripped his ankles, sitting up and glaring across the yard at Po’Boy, who had just dropped lightly to his feet, shaking out his hands and arms.
“See? Sassy!” Twisted bent and let the iron fall to the mat, feeling the ground underfoot tremble as it landed. “Not much on the vocab side, but he’s playful. I like that shit.” Footsteps crunched through the grass behind him, and Twisted turned to see Chip approaching.
Twisted straightened, smiling. This was something he counted as a win. They’d redeemed a brother, the general membership never knowing anything other than what they’d been fed. That story being Chip was targeted because of a shithead ole lady, her bein’ scorned and pissed off, and mouthing off to the wrong people. Truth to that point and a lesson to every member that pillow talk could cost dear. The skim was that Chip’d brought it to the table immediately. The real continued with the knowledge that the feds had eyes on them, focused on him, but Incoherent was using those eyes to blind the feds in other places.
Chip lifted his head, raised one hand in a half wave at Po’Boy and looked at Twisted. “A word, Prez.” With a shift of his body and tilt of his head, Twisted agreed, and they walked towards the double doors of one of the club’s back rooms. Pulling the door open, Twisted reached out and hit the switch on the inside wall, turning on the overhead lights.
“Sup, brother?” As often as Twisted had offered the word since everything went down, he could see it still hit Chip hard, and did every time the word came his way. See first the denial, and then a grateful acceptance of the trust, belief, and honor that moved through the man. Twisted hated it had come to a point where all that was nearly stripped away, and loved that they’d made it back here with everybody breathing.
“Got some word. Heard from one of the boys. We got eyes on Dane’s truck.” He knew his sudden alert attention wasn’t lost on Chip, and it made him anxious when the man pulled a face. That expression told Twisted this wouldn’t be news he was gonna want to hear. “She’s back in the region, but she ain’t alone, Twisted.” He swallowed hard before continuing. “Picked up a man somewhere north. Ain’t got a name. Still working that angle, but he isn’t a driver. He doesn’t leave the passenger seat unless…” Trailing off a moment, Chip cleared his throat and seemed to select his words carefully, moving into dangerous territory warily. “Unless it’s bunk time, boss.”
Twisted froze, then asked, hearing the rage tearing his whispering voice to shreds, “Come again?”
“Prez.” Just the one word, that single word meaning Chip didn’t have to repeat himself. Unless it’s bunk time. After a moment of silence, Twisted finally gave a short, sharp shake of his head. Chip took a breath, was gonna try to say something to make it better. Easier to bear. The man had lost his wife and family, yet he was looking to quieten Twisted’s soul.
“Get the fuck out.” Eyes to the floor, he was glad he didn’t have to repeat himself, Chip gently closing the door behind him. Unless it’s bunk time.
“FUCK!”
Chapter Nine
Penny, age twenty-five
Four years ago, Penny Dane had laughingly accepted her uncle’s invitation to ride cross-country with him, jumping at the chance to learn the ropes of driving a truck from a master. Bagger had been driving all his life, was old school, not giving two shits about log books or DOT regulations when it came to getting his loads where they were meant to go and making damn sure they got there on time. Steady and dependable, he’d been with the same company for twenty years, and was one of their top performing drivers. So she climbed up in the truck, and in the process found a profession she could love, so she stayed. The independence of the job was attractive, and it didn’t hurt she enjoyed spending time with her uncle.
Then a year ago, he’d gotten sick, and she’d taken on the lion’s share of the work, keeping the truck going as if there were two drivers even when he was out, sick at home, or at the VA doing his chemo. He couldn’t afford for the truck to sit idle, and if she didn’t run it, no one would.
Penny was thankful she’d reached an age she could test for the license, and Bagger was the only person not surprised that she’d passed the exam on her first try. But then again, he’d taught her to drive. Taught her to ride a motorcycle, too, so she added that endorsement to her license.
When good weather weekends found them home in Baton Rouge, she and her uncle would roll out, riding the coast for as far as he had
the energy to ride. Sometimes just the two of them, but often they’d ride with the men he called brothers. Members of the Caddo Hobos, the club he had helped found decades before she was born. The CoBos, as they were informally known, were nearly a half-century old. Many of the members were the second generation, raised in the life by their fathers, the club a true family. It was a heritage she’d grown up knowing and loving, that love profound and genuine, nurtured in her every time she saw Bagger’s pride in what he’d wrought.
Then Bagger was killed. Two to the head while he sat in his car at the pharmacy, waiting for drugs that wouldn’t be of any use to the wounds he took. He’d been sick, the tumors eating up his insides, caught too late to do much more than treat the painful symptoms, but even those last months’ worth of breath stolen from him by a coward.
Penny heard the chatter at the wake. She’d been crouched behind the bar, hooking up a new keg when she overheard a conversation between Ace, the man who had been Bagger’s lieutenant in Vietnam and then his president back in the states, and Peanut, a member who stepped into Bagger’s old role of vice-president. What they had to say literally took her legs from under her, seeming to suck all the air from the room, stealing her ability to think, speak, or breathe. “Club business.” And “Cartel.” Finally, a name she recognized, something she could hold onto with both hands. “Fiddler.”
She glanced in her mirrors, checking the lane beside her as she turned on her blinker in preparation of moving over. A small car pulling a larger-than-the-car moving trailer passed her, traveling about twenty miles an hour above what the trailer was rated for and she watched it sway from side-to-side as it entered the slipstream of wind ahead of her bumper. Changing lanes quickly, something Bagger liked to say wasn’t aggressive, just driving with authority, she mashed the accelerator harder, pulling another two miles per hour from the laboring engine.
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