My Inked Neighbor (Summit Hill Vipers: Mayhem Makers)

Chapter 1 Bullseye

“ H ow’s Mags?” Cash asks as he flicks ash from his Marlboro Red, perched on the saddle of his bike like he’s ready for shit to go down any second. Since there’s no perceivable threat, it’s overkill. Try telling him that, though. His gaze keeps bouncing around the parking lot outside the hospital and out to the street. He’s feelin’ antsy, and I try not to focus on him as the fingers of his empty hand drum the top of his thigh.

“Stable enough,” I manage to reply, choking back the emotion that threatens to overwhelm and suffocate me. “But not out of the woods yet.”

“She’s a tough old bird,” Smoke remarks as if I need the reminder. He’s not being a dick. It’s just his way. He’s abrupt and brutally honest. Emotions don’t clog his point of view. He’s the most unshakable person I’ve ever met aside from our pres, Storm.

“Don’t let her hear you call her that,” Cash laughs.

No shit.

Smoke snorts. “I won’t.”

None of my club brothers were obliged to follow me to the hospital or wait for over five hours before I had news, but they did. My Aunt Mags is special to all of us, so when the hospital called and said she dialed 9-1-1 and she’d been taken into the ER, I dropped everything to go to her. She suffered several minor heart attacks, and her doctor had her admitted. From what I can tell, she’s not being a good patient. I’m bettin’ she wants to go home and be with her kitties. They won’t let her.

“She’s got an infection, and they’re trying to fix her up before she can go home,” I reply, repeating the plan her doctor shared with me. “She can’t leave with the infection. They said it’s serious.”

Smoke and Cash nod. My aunt has adopted all the club members since I patched in. Even Storm indulges her, but I think he’s got a soft spot for Mags. She knitted thick scarves for every guy in the club for Christmas to keep us warm. Mags even bakes cookies, bringing them by the clubhouse often. I’d say she’s an honorary mom to most of us. The sweetbutts respect her, too.

It’s usually Mags who gets things sorted if we run into a jam. She’s good at that. She even helped a few of the guys save their marriages and get custody of their kids back. Mags is fucking awesome.

“Sorry to hear it,” Smoke says.

Cash shakes his head. “She probably got the infection here. Hospitals are known for that shit.”

He’s not wrong. Maybe she did pick it up in the few days since arrived.

“Mags asked me to house-sit,” I add.

“For her cats?” Cash asks, blowing smoke rings as he laughs. “Don’t they hate you?”

“That was years ago.” Cats don’t keep grudges, right? “I haven’t been to her place in ages. Still got the key hooked on my ring, so I’m gonna swing by and pack a bag for her. There’s shit she wants me to bring back.” I don’t go into detail about her knitting needles or personal items.

Smoke ticks his chin. “Need us with you?”

“Naw. I’m good.”

“Storm wants us back at the clubhouse. Pres said to take care of your aunt. Ain’t nothing else important.”

“I will.”

“Catch you later, brother.”

There’s no need to thank them for sticking around. We’re family. That’s what we do, no questions asked.

I watch them ride off and start my bike, pulling away from the curb. It’s been years since I’ve come back to Mags’s house, but the neighborhood hasn’t changed much. It’s still a quiet suburban street with lots of kids and families. Fancy split-level houses. Nice cars. People move into this neighborhood and stay. The properties don’t go for sale often.

It’s a contrast to the places I frequent, like bars, the clubhouse, and strip clubs. Of course, the latter is mostly because we own the Show ‘N’ Tail. It doesn’t hurt that most of the girls there like to show their appreciation to the club members since we ensure their safety. It’s mutually beneficial.

Inside the house, I’m quick to grab what Mags needed. Once I’ve got it loaded into my saddlebags, I return to ensure her kitties have food and water. I’m even kind enough to open their wet food and give them an extra treat. I didn’t see any of her cats when I entered. That’s not a shock. They scatter when I walk through the door. That hasn’t changed. I still don’t know why they’re afraid. Cats are fucking snobs. Well, Mags’s cats are for sure. Unless we’re talking about her orange tabby, Moose. He’s fat as fuck and growls when he sees me. Legit, the fucking cat growls.

I’m hoping he stays hidden.

It’s a quick ride back to the hospital, and I drop off Mags’s bag, still unable to visit her. I’ll have to come back tomorrow during visiting hours. When I exit the hospital for the second time today, I see a row of bikes on the far end of the lot. They’re facing the entrance but not close enough to be a threat. It looks to me like the intention is to intimidate. If it’s me they’re tryin’ to taunt, they’re wasting their time.

I sit on my Harley, make a show of pulling on my gloves and helmet, and start the engine. I’ve got no issue leading these assholes straight to the Grid Iron. Our clubhouse isn’t far. In less than fifteen minutes, I’ll reach the gates. Once I do, over a dozen of my club brothers are ready to lend a hand.

This is nothing but a show. The Crimson Heretics have been rivals with the Vipers for as long as I can remember. The feud started years ago and originated with the first president back in 1975. Our club was a new charter then and lookin’ to put down roots. We found a place to dig in here in Summit Hill. No Crimson Heretic is changing that.

I ride from the lot and turn right, noting the bikes that follow. It’s interesting they’re choosing me at this moment to make a point. It seems odd. I don’t have a beef with any of their members in particular, I just don’t like their club or the criminal records most of them carry. Sure, we’re no saints. The Vipers have rap sheets, too. But the Heretics have rape and sodomy convictions. Quite a few are sex offenders. That worries me in a town as charming as Summit Hill. We’re far enough away from the big cities like Columbus not to be tainted by the shit that goes down. Crime is low. People are happy.

That’s why I don’t want to start shit with the Crimson Heretics. I’ll try to keep it peaceful, but if they come at me, I’ll be the one to end it.

When I reach a busy intersection, I glide to a stop at the red light. A motorcycle rolls up beside me. I notice who’s ridin’ and shake my head. Murder, the club’s V.P., is a fucking dick. He’s one of those guys that always likes to flex and tries to make sure everyone knows he’s got the biggest dick. Men like him must suffer from small-dick syndrome.

I can’t think of a single reason why he decides to pull up on me like this, and I ignore him. He’s not worth the dirt on the bottom of my boot. My head doesn’t swivel his way, and I don’t react. I simply ignore his dumbass because I can. Fuck him and his club.

They don’t follow when the light turns green, and I glide away, giving them my back. It’s hard, but I resist flipping Murder off. He’s just enough of a prick to make it an issue. I don’t need the headache.

When I arrive at the Grid Iron, one of the prospects opens the gate. He’s young, maybe twenty, and too fucking skinny. Somebody needs to tell him to eat. He busts his ass around here and probably needs more calories than most of us.

I ride by him as I enter the lot, parking my ride in my spot. There’s a hierarchy to the row of bikes and the order in which we park. Each officer has their place in the line. The patched members have their own system behind us. Someday, the prospects will add their bikes, but not until they’ve earned a full patch.

I locate Storm as soon as I enter the clubhouse, ignoring the sweetbutts that try to grab my attention. I’m not interested in sex right now, and when I am, I’ll bring one to my room. Right now, I need to tell Storm about the Heretics. Murder was acting suspiciously, and it didn’t sit right with me.

I don’t stop moving through the bar until I sit on the empty stool beside him.

“How’s Mags? Anything new?”

“No. Nothing yet.” I already filled him in on her condition before I packed her bag.

“What’s on your mind?”

“The Heretics. Mostly, Murder.”

Storm swishes the whiskey in his glass as he listens. “You have any trouble?”

I tell him about the six Crimson Heretics who followed me and Murder riding up on me at the traffic light. It’s bold and confrontational. Murder had a reason for trying to provoke me.

“He’s cocky,” Storm observes. “Play it cool. I’ll bring it up in church, but we won’t be the ones to start shit.”

“Just to finish it,” I concur.

“Stay sharp. If Murder, his pres, or the Heretics want a fight, we won’t rise to the bait. But if it’s war, they better come prepared.”

One of the sweetbutts, Chrissy, passes a shot my way. I pick up the glass, toss down the whiskey, and swallow. The burn hits my stomach, and I nod. “I’m with you, Pres.”

“I’ve never doubted it.”