Chapter 30
Iowe a lot to this old man, more than I can ever repay. It wouldn’t be a simple monetary debt. He’d given me a place to stay and a reason to keep getting up every day. Sourcing parts for that bike had brought me into the path of the Wretched Soulz, and that, in turn, had led me to Chaz as well as vanquishing my enemy. If Harold hadn’t rescued me out of the goodness of his heart that day, I may not be breathing now, and definitely not be able to consider a future.
I’m stunned he ventured into the clubhouse to come to my rescue. I obviously had grown on him more than I thought. Venturing into the Wretched Soulz clubhouse is something no one would do lightly. In truth, though, I’m not too sure how much effect one old, unarmed man would have had should there truly have been reason to save me.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Helo? With them. Him.” He adds the last in a hiss, sending a sneering glance Chaz’s way.
“Long story, old—” I bark a laugh. “It’s a long story. Best heard with a beer in your hand.”
At my words, Chaz signals to Shitface who’s behind the bar. He reaches for a few bottles and starts to hand them out.
“I’d rather have one of those.” Harold, challenging Chaz with a glare, points to the whisky that’s hidden on the top shelf.
Chaz chuckles, but gestures agreement to the prospect, adding, “I’ll have a shot myself.”
Sticking with beer, I take a bottle in my hand, idly starting to pick at the label. Harold takes a sip of his whisky, then one more, before turning impatient eyes on me and raising a brow.
“It was Senator Netherton who was after me.”
Harold slams his glass down. “Netherton? What the fuck?” His eyes become slits and deep furrows appear on his brow. “The senator was all over the news this morning. Seems he committed suicide last night.”
“Ain’t it funny how things work out?” I say casually, while being unable to suppress a grin.
His mouth opens and shuts. He turns to survey the room, but I’m certain while there may be a few faces showing amusement, no one will be giving anything away. His shrewd eyes narrow again once he’s back looking at me. “So there isn’t anyone after you anymore?”
“Nope.” I pop the p. “I’m free.”
He continues to look suspicious as he examines my face. “You owe a debt to the Soulz, girlie?”
I laugh, as Chaz states firmly. “No debts to be repaid, old man.”
At his look of disbelief, I, too, reassure him, “Soulz and I are even, Harold. There’s no need to worry. I’m totally here of my own volition.”
“And him?” He shoots a wrathful glance at the man standing close to me.
Taking a moment to smile up at Chaz, I defuse the situation, putting it as plainly as I can. “I’m in his bed, willingly.” And just to make sure there’s no misunderstanding. “And his are the only sheets I’ll be lying between.”
For a second, Chaz rests his lips on the top of my head, his gentle, loving gesture, seems to speak volumes.
The tension visibly fades from Harold, and he drinks more of his whisky. “So you’re free.” He looks almost whimsical. “You can go anywhere you want now.” At my nod, he asks, hopefully, “You going to be coming home with me?”
Placing my hand over his gnarly one, I know I’m going to be letting him down. While he was always moaning, he clearly appreciated the company. “No, I’m going to be staying here.”
“With him?”
Smiling up at Chaz, I confirm, “With him.”
Chaz indicates that Shitface should top off Harold’s glass. Then he leans forward, placing his arm firmly around me.
“We’re going to get that bike of yours fixed up like new, MacPherson,” he states, while Harold’s eyes widen in confusion.
His lips purse. “Why the fuck should you do that?”
Chaz grins. “Because Queenie here will need something to keep her occupied.”
Harold frowns. I reach over and plant a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll be staying around, Harold. This is not the last of me.”
And it’s not. Weasel and Claw waste no time loading up the frame, engine, together with the other bits and pieces onto the crash truck and transporting them to the shop, some admittedly, returning to their original home. Of course, they can’t resist making snide remarks when I rummage to find parts.
I’ve now got the proper tools and access to source everything that I need. Harold’s son’s bike quickly starts taking shape. When it’s discovered I made no idle boast when I said I could fix anything with an engine, the Soulz put me to work, and gradually I start taking some of the maintenance and servicing workload off, allowing them to concentrate on the customisations which they most enjoy, and which bring in the most dollars.
That first night after Netherton’s demise, when I’d entered Chaz’s bedroom, I wondered how this would work, how I could find a place here living alongside outlaw bikers. But fitting in hasn’t been a chore. It seems to have happened naturally, with no real decisions being made. No surprise really given MCs are a draw to many discarded veterans, now I can certainly see why.
I’m Chaz’s old lady, but I’m treated like one of the guys and give back just as hard. It doesn’t take long for the members to become true friends, and in a short time, I know I wouldn’t want to give up my new life.
I learn new things about the man I’m starting to hold in high regard, such as his love of old cars. While I’d give anything to be able to drive myself, I live for the moments when I’m flying down the road on the back of Chaz’s bike, and get equal pleasure when we’re in his 1960s Ford Mustang convertible.
Unfortunately, not everything’s a fairy tale. When I finally finish Harold’s son’s bike it wasn’t the miracle cure that he’d been hoping for. Only a day after he was able to tell his son it was ready to ride, he’d succumbed to his injuries, and without coming out of his coma, had died.
I’d known from the start it had been a crazy delusion, a fantasy with no basis in reality. But I’d bought into the dream, partly to have a reason for staying with Harold, but also there was a part of me that hoped there was something more in this world, a spirit that would reward Harold’s efforts by bringing his son back to life.
Although Harold was obviously hit hard, the months spent restoring the bike had given him hope, a purpose, something to focus on and something to keep him alive. And after his initial foray into the clubhouse, impressed with his audacity and bravery, the brothers had invited him back, and respect had been earned on both sides.
When his son died, Harold found he wasn’t alone anymore. On the news, Chaz had dragged him away from his farm and plied him with enough whisky until he’d passed out. He spent the days before the funeral at the clubhouse, with Beard handling the details when it got too much. And on the day, the bikers supplied a guard of honour for his son’s coffin, respecting a kindred soul who’d lost his life on two wheels.
Of course, Harold, being the independent person he was, returned to the farm when he’d sobered up after the, admittedly, boisterous and drunken wake. But in the meantime, StoryTeller’s daughter, Maria, had adopted him as an honorary grandpa, and the kid’s sunny outlook had brought back his smile.
As he confided, one evening, on his now regular visit to the clubhouse, he might have lost one son, but he’d ended up with a club full of boys to keep in line. Or, at least, to try.
It’s strange how the universe works. Harold is no longer lonely, and I, a Night Stalker, am living the dream of an outlaw life.