Chapter 3
Sarge
She’s a bright flame in a sea of dark.
Same bar, different day. The guys and I come here every weekend, unless work or a club event pulls us away.
We like it here because not only do we know the owner, but he allows kuttes to be worn inside.
Most bars in town don’t, and we don’t appreciate being asked to remove our colors.
It’s not only clothing—it’s history. Kuttes go back to WWII.
Airmen had patches sewn onto their flight jackets, and that tradition carried over to denim vests when they came home and took to riding.
For us, The Saints of Hell, the vest is a sign of commitment. To the club. To each other. It’s family. And family comes first, no questions asked.
Another perk? We can carry inside. The bouncers don’t bother us, and we don’t bother them. We don’t start shit, but we’ll help finish it if things get out of hand. Keeps the peace in and the police out.
As much as I enjoy the freedom here, I want more out of life. My accident still leaves me restricted. My arm is healing more slowly than I’d like. I hate feeling like a cripple. But damn, does it feel good to be back on my bike.
The club helped raise money for an aftermarket clutch, since shifting isn’t what it used to be. But one thing I knew, even in the hospital: nothing was keeping me off two wheels. I’d ride again. No doubt.
Today was my first day back on my bike after months, and where am I? Sitting in the same damn bar I’ve sat in every weekend. After nine surgeries, skin grafts, physical therapy, and a fuckton of pain, I want the open road.
The guys were out front smoking when I pulled up. Don’t care to join since I’m not a smoker, so I headed inside. Grabbing my usual Jack and Coke from Rose, I walk the floor. At this point, I know almost every face that comes in here. Rarely ever anyone new. Mostly regulars.
Since we’re not very close to the UofA, it’s not crawling with college kids. However, sometimes a few brave ones wander in for their “dive bar experience.” It doesn’t usually last.
“Hey, Sam. How’s the wife?” I ask as I near a table.
Sam takes a long pull from his Guinness and grips my hand in a firm shake. He used to run with some serious skinheads, and even though he’s older now, he still looks like the human equivalent of a bulldog.
“She’s good, man. Would’ve been here tonight, but her mom’s in town. When you gonna find yourself an old lady, huh?” he asks, lifting his beer again.
I shake my head. “Don’t know if that’s in the cards for me, man. Not everyone gets lucky like you.”
Sam and his wife met twenty-two years ago, and married after two months. Not conventional, but it worked for them. I don’t see that happening for me.
Especially not now. I’ve got one good arm and one with maybe twenty-five percent function. With PT, maybe I’ll get more back. Maybe not. No one’s able to give me a straight answer.
I glance down at my arm, the scarred mess of skin that reminds me daily of what I lost—permanent disfigurement.
That’s what the doc called it, like I’m some broken-down machine instead of a man.
As much as it stings, I know it’s true. I can’t ever promise someone that I’ll be “whole” again, and it’s a lot to bring a handicap into someone’s life.
As I scan the room, I spot a familiar face. Martin, one of the hangarounds. Looks like he’s got himself a new flavor of the week.
I take a pull from my drink. Hope she knows what she’s in for with him.
She’s facing away and I take in how her long brown hair falls low on her back, tan legs up to shorts that look painted on.
Those shorts don’t stand a chance at hiding her curves, and the thought of anyone else noticing twists something hot and ugly in my chest.
I drag my eyes away, forcing them back to my drink, but it doesn’t last long. She’s magnetic. She doesn’t belong here—not in this dusty little dive where everyone knows everyone, and definitely not with fuckboy Martin. She’s too bright, like a spark in the middle of a burned-out field.
Martin leans close to her, too close, his hand resting on her lower back like he owns it. It’s not unlike him to always bring someone new around, but this time it bugs me. Seeing her with him.
I tell myself it’s none of my business. She’s just another girl he’ll charm for a night, maybe a week if she’s lucky.
But something in me stiffens, a coil twisting with every second I watch him stand there like she’s his. Because even though she’s not mine, I can’t shake the jealousy taking over.
I don’t deserve her; not with this busted arm, not with the shit I’ve done in my past. But wanting doesn’t care about logic. And right now, I want nothing more than to peel Martin’s hand off her and plant her ass on the back of my bike where she belongs.
What the hell am I thinking? I don’t even know her name. Still, the thought won’t quit: she doesn’t belong here, and I’m the only one she should be leaving with.
Forcing my feet over to our usual table, I drop into my weathered seat, eyes sweeping the room. Cataloging faces, reading body language. It’s automatic after years in the service. Helps in places like this.
Most folks around here know us and respect the line we draw. Only one club can’t seem to get with the program: the Scorpions. Motherfuckers seem to find a twisted enjoyment in pushing our buttons, but I’m not seeing any of them tonight. The majority of faces are regulars.
Funny, guess that’s what I am at this point, too. A fuckin’ regular.
I love my brothers and this club, but lately I’ve been wanting more.
The guys are content coming here to shoot the shit, drink one too many, and decompress from the week.
Don’t get me wrong—it’s fine for what it is.
But I’d be more than happy coming here once or twice a month instead of every damn weekend.
I’m ready for something outside of these four walls.
Being the president, I know I need to be the one to make that change. It’s been hard lately with my recovery.
Up until recently, I needed a ride to every damn place I went. Haven’t really been in a position to dictate our outings since I’m the one who’s been at everyone else’s mercy.
The bike is my only mode of transportation, and it’s been in the shop getting the new clutch installed. Hell, even before that, I couldn’t ride the thing regardless of the parts. It’s pathetic how I’m only now regaining my freedom at thirty-three years old.
It’s not that I couldn’t do what I wanted when I wanted. But needing a chauffeur has been a humbling experience to say the least.
Movement catches my eye to the left. Martin saunters from the pool tables; arm draped over a blonde I don’t recognize. She’s laughing, leaning into him like he owns the room.
So if he’s with her... where the hell did the brunette go?
I rotate in my seat to get a better view of the room to the right of me. There she is, waiting for drinks. She looks calm but alert. Aware. Scanning the crowd, subtle but deliberate.
I know a calculated survey when I see one. It’s instinct, most likely a habit that keeps her safe.
I file it away. Makes me want to know more.
I settle deeper into my chair, boots planted firm, keeping my angle on the room. The rest of the club is busy in their own respect. Half chasing tail, the other half testing their strength on that damn boxing arcade machine behind me. Good for morale, I guess.
Me? I’d rather sit back. Easier to keep eyes on the room without noise in my ear or someone hanging off my arm. Not interested in showing off. Too exhausting to keep up an act. I’m simple. I like my space. My line of sight. My control.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the brunette strutting back from the bar, scanning for Martin. The bastard most likely slipped out with a new flavor for the night, of the blonde variety. The green-eyed brunette doesn’t appear to know that yet.