Chapter 23 East
East
The garage is my sanctuary within the sanctuary. The familiar smell of motor oil, metal, and fresh coffee is comforting. It’s a place where problems are tangible, where a solution is as simple as finding the right wrench.
Kyle is hunched over a partially rebuilt carburetor on the workbench, his new patch stark and clean on the back of his cut. He’s earned his place, but he’s still green as hell.
“No, no, stop,” I say, wiping a smear of grease from my hand onto a nearby rag. “You’re torquing it too tight. You’ll strip the threads. Just… easy. Feel it. Let the tool do the work.”
“I don’t get it,” he mutters, frustration in his voice. “It’s just a bolt.”
“It’s not ‘just a bolt,’ kid. It’s the bolt that keeps the fuel from spraying all over a hot engine. You want to ride this thing, or you want to wear it as a funeral pyre?” I tap the wrench in his hand. “Again. Gentle this time.”
He sighs and gets back to it. I’d normally be more patient, but my focus is shot. I’m running on three hours of sleep, and my entire goddamn house has been declared a domestic warzone.
“I’m telling you, Kyle, she’s a menace,” I grumble, taking a sip of my coffee.
It’s bitter, but at least it’s not salty.
“I wake up, and my coffee is poisoned. I go to my record collection, and someone’s put Wicked in my Black Sabbath sleeve.
Show tunes, kid. In my house. And my bed?
She moved my entire bed. Two inches to the left. Who has the time? Who does that?”
Kyle looks up, a flicker of amusement in his eyes he’s trying to hide. “Sounds like she’s got you figured out, man.”
“She’s a chaos agent, is what she is. I can’t even trust my spice rack.”
The garage door groans open, and Malachi walks in. He doesn’t look like the president of an MC. He looks wrecked, his eyes shadowed and bloodshot.
He stops, just staring at us. “East. You know anything about wiring? Old intercom systems?”
“A little. Why?”
“Because I’m being haunted,” he says, his voice a low, serious growl. “By a goddamn ghost child. I keep hearing laughter in the vents of my apartment. This morning, my toothbrush was gone. Replaced by a pink, glittery one with a princess on it.”
Before I can even process the image of Malachi being haunted, Knox storms in, his face like a thundercloud. He’s practically vibrating with rage.
“Which one of you assholes,” he roars, his eyes scanning the garage, “put a goddamn clown in my truck? A red-nosed, smiling porcelain clown. Staring at me from the passenger seat.”
I look at Malachi’s ghost, Knox’s clown, and my own salty coffee. A slow, dawning realization clicks into place.
As if summoned, Nash wanders in, his expression unreadable, but his shoulders are tight. He just quietly asks, “You seen a possum anywhere?”
James is the last to arrive, looking genuinely confused. “Morning, boys. Does anyone know why my alarm clock is suddenly 17 minutes fast? Third time this week. I’m starting to think I’m losing it.”
The five of us stand there in the garage, a circle of confused, sleep-deprived, and psychologically tormented men. The silence stretches, thick with the smell of grease and the unreality of it all.
Kyle is the one who breaks it. He’s trying to hide it, his face all scrunched up, but a snort escapes him. Then a full-on laugh.
“Man,” he says, wiping a tear from his eye. “They really… they got y’all good.”
Four officers—me, Malachi, Knox, and Nash—all turn our heads in perfect, silent unison, and just stare at him. A dead, cold, unified glare.
Kyle’s laughter dies in his throat. He immediately schools his features into a mask of seriousness. “I mean… we gotta do something about this. This is… a threat to club morale. Sir.”
“Smart kid,” I mutter.
Knox, who is still twitching about the clown, points a finger at the clubhouse. “This is bullshit. We’re the goddamn Outsiders. We’re not getting taken down by glitter and a… a possum.”
Malachi, seeing his officers are spun up, gets his “President” face on. “He’s right. This requires a formal response.” He points to the clubhouse. “War room. Now.”
We all file into the war room, the mood a hilarious mix of genuine fury and grudging respect. Malachi tells Kyle to stand guard. “Watch the door. The last thing we need is for them to know we’re onto them.”
I pull Kyle aside for a second. “Okay, kid, this is vital. Top-level security. If one of them comes, you need a warning signal. Not a normal knock. Do the ‘shave and a haircut’ knock, but backward. And add a little salsa rhythm at the end. Got it?”
He just blinks at me, completely lost. “Uh… what?”
I clap him on the shoulder, grinning. “Just… just yell, kid. Yell loud. We’ll workshop the knock later.”
I shut the door, and the five of us take our seats at the table, treating this with hilarious, military-level seriousness.
“Status report,” Malachi says, his voice flat.
“I’m being terrorized by a clown doll that I’m pretty sure has followed me from my truck to the garage,” Knox grinds out.
“There is a small, nocturnal marsupial with a camera strapped to it loose in my apartment,” Nash states. His voice is low and dangerously monotone.
“I am currently fifty-one minutes ahead of schedule, and I no longer trust my sense of time,” James says, rubbing his temples.
“And my house is a funhouse of her making,” I finish. “Salt in the sugar. My vinyl has been defiled. She’s a menace.”
James leans back in his chair and lets out a low, appreciative chuckle. “You gotta hand it to ‘em. They’re not scared of us. Not even a little bit. That’s… impressive.”
I can’t help but grin. “She is a menace.”
“They want to play? Fine,” Malachi says. “We’ll play. But we do it our way. Surgical. Diabolical. Knox, you’re up.”
Knox lays out his two-pronged attack, his eyes gleaming with vengeance.
“For Sloane.” His voice is filled with pure satisfaction.
“First, we hit her supplies. ‘Ouchy-Stoppers’ for bandages, ‘Tears of Our Enemies’ for saline. Then, when she’s good and rattled, she’s getting a new patient in the med bay: a full-sized medical dummy.
.. dressed as a clown. With a note that says, ‘I have a boo-boo.’”
Malachi, stone-faced, nods. “Candace. She keeps messing with my head, I’m messing with her art.
” He lays out his plan: first, the “Baby Shark” notebook.
Second, the tiki bar. “Leis, inflatable parrots, and enough paper umbrellas to blind a man. When she comes in for her shift, we’re all just sitting there, and the only song on the jukebox is ‘Kokomo.’ On loop. For three hours.”
Nash, who has been silent, speaks up. “Jesus, Malachi. That’s not a prank. That’s a human rights violation. We’re gonna have to listen to it, too.”
“Collateral damage is acceptable for mission success,” Malachi replies, deadpan.
I just grin. “I told you I was going to get fruity drinks in this place somehow.”
Malachi turns to Nash. “What’s the plan for Ruby?”
Nash’s voice is a low, dangerous rumble.
“She lives for a reaction. So we’ll give her all of them.
Whiplash. One minute, we’re ‘Yes Men.’ We agree to everything.
No matter how insane. We’ll hand her the gasoline and compliment her form.
The next, she’s a ghost. We ignore her completely.
We’ll take turns. She’ll never know who’s going to say yes and who’s going to look right through her. It’ll drive her crazy.”
“Okay,” I say. “But what about Frankie? How do you prank someone who always seems to know what’s about to happen?”
“You can’t outsmart her,” Malachi says. “So you lean into it. We slowly replace her witchy decor with... preppy, pastel-colored shit. One item a day. A ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ sign instead of her raven skull. A photo of a kitten in a teacup where her tarot cards should be. It’s the long con.”
Knox smirks. “Or... we hire a fake psychic to come in as a ‘client’ and give her a reading. Warn her about a ‘tall, dark, and broody man’ who is ‘tired of her shit.’”
We all cut our eyes to Malachi, who just looks back at Knox, his expression unreadable. He gives a slow, deliberate nod. “Both. Both are solid plans. One for her shop, one for her head. Good thinking, Knox.”
James, who has been quiet, finally speaks. “Maggie’s the Club Mom. She keeps us all fed. For the next week, every time she cooks a meal, all of us are going to complain... that it’s not quite as good as our mothers’.”
We all wince. That’s a declaration of nuclear war.
“Alright, East,” Malachi says, turning to me. “You’re last. What’s the plan for your girl?”
I lean back, crossing my arms, and give them my most predatory grin.
“Her ‘prank’ was moving my bed two inches. Mine is replacing every single item of clothing in her closet with a rack of sequined, feathered, over-the-top Broadway costumes. And to get her real clothes back, she has to perform ‘A Bushel and a Peck’ for me. Or no deal.”
The plan is set. The guys are all grinning, their morale restored. Malachi raises his coffee mug. “To Operation: Payback.” Grim satisfaction fills his voice. “Let the games begin.”