Chapter Twelve
Hunter
I park my truck in the lot in front of The Noble Fir. Before coming here, I made the deliberate choice to leave my bike back at the house. To ride in here, sporting my old nomad cut, and on my bike might be too much. First impressions matter, and the last thing I want to do is make a bad one with the club that runs this town. No, better to be humble, and there are few things more humble than a twenty-something GMC Sierra. Beat-up, with faded paint, and a cargo bed that has just enough room for my bike, and no room at all for any ego. It shudders and spits a gout of steam as I kill the engine.
Yes, better to be humble , I think as I slam the door behind me. It’s a wonder this ride made it this far, and it’ll be good to be in with the TDMC and able to ride my Harley without risking their wrath, because I sure as hell don’t know how many more days this truck has left in it.
I go inside, passing through a modest crowd to find my way to the bar. The bar itself is like a nicer version of the old saloons that hearken back to the time when this part of the country was inhabited by fishermen, ranchers, and lumberjacks, except someone with a touch of class and money has made everything a little fresher and a lot less of a tetanus risk.
A woman with her red hair done up in some hard-edged hairstyle that reminds me of something out of one of those post- apocalyptic movies nods at me as I pull up a stool. “You’re new. What can I get you?”
“A beer. Something strong and not what strange people with annoying facial hair drink.”
I turn away from her, survey the crowd. In this packed bar, I want to know who’s a civilian, who’s a club member, and which one of them is the club president. In the blink of an eye, I spot several suspects and no definitive rank badges, and I then take a second to scout for exits, in case things take a wrong turn.
“Whatever it is, don’t even think about it.”
Her voice draws me around just as much as her tone; it’s nonchalant, almost disappointed, as if she knows exactly what I’m thinking and knows exactly how it will end.
“What do you mean?”
“You have that tired, desperate look about you, like you’re ready to try something incredibly stupid. Let me tell you, the only thing you’ll get out of whatever you’re planning is dismembered and dead.” She plops the beer on the bar in front of me. “That’ll be six dollars and fifty cents.”
“And if I want to start a tab?”
“It wouldn’t be smart of me to let you start a tab if you’re just going to die later, would it? Nope. Suicidal idiots pay up front.”
I put the cash on the bar, despite her attitude. “Not planning on dying tonight. I got a baby at home I have to look after, and I doubt he would take kindly to me not being there for him.”
Her voice softens and warms. “You have a baby?”
“His name’s Charlie.”
“Do you have any pictures?” In a second, she’s gone from sounding like she wouldn’t bat an eye at my funeral, to having the enthusiasm of a Labrador with the zoomies. “Can I see them?”
I nod and take out my phone and open up my photos app. There are about fifty or sixty photos of Charlie on there. What started initially as a desire to build a cover story as his parent — because what parent doesn’t have a few pictures of their kid — and in case I ever misplaced the boy, because I will be the first to admit I’m not the ‘responsible dad’ type, morphed into having a whole hell of a lot of pictures of the kid because he’s damned cute. I may be a ruthless ex-Army Ranger and mercenary nomad biker for hire, but a cute baby is a cute fucking baby.
“I’ve got some,” I say as I hand the phone over. She oohs as she swipes through the photo album.
“How old is he?”
“Four months.”
“So cute,” she says. “I just want to pinch his cheeks and blow raspberries into his tummy.”
“Sure he’d enjoy that. Charlie loves the attention.”
“I’m Molly,” she says, suddenly, as she hands the phone back to me.
“Hunter.”
“Real name or road name?”
“Road.”
“So why are you really here tonight, Hunter?”
“Because of him,” I say, tapping the phone. “He and I have been on the road for a while and we need a break. But I don’t want to stick around anywhere I’m not welcome.”
“It’s just you and Charlie? What about his mom?”
“She died.”
“Fuck, I’m so sorry.”
“So am I. It was sudden. Unexpected,” I say. Something softens, almost breaks, in Molly’s hard green eyes and I push on it, sensing a weak point and maybe a way in to whatever she’s trying to keep me away from. “I was out on a ride, and I came home thinking it would just be a nice family dinner. Except it didn’t work out that way. I found her dead on the living room floor and Charlie crying his lungs out in the other room. My entire world changed in that one moment, and I knew I had to get Charlie out of there — just too much darkness for a little one like him to be around. We’ve been on the road since, but it’s time we settle for a while. The road is hard on him. I’m no stranger to the life. I’ve ridden as a nomad for a long time. Worked in this life, did some occasional honest work as a welder when I needed to. All I want is somewhere for Charlie and I to recoup and the chance to do a few jobs and maybe earn some cash before we get back on the road. That’s all.”
She nods and pours me a second beer. “You did the smart thing in coming here first. To do what you want to do, you’ll need to talk to the MC’s president. His name is Rabid.”
I put a twenty on the bar and then raise the glass to Molly. “Thank you, Molly. You want to point out which one is Rabid, so I can go introduce myself?”
“I will not do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to deprive Charlie of his daddy.”
Briefly, I flirt with the idea of taking the money back, but only for half a second, and never seriously, because I’m a killer and a nomad biker, not a tip-stealing asshole. “What are you talking about?”
“The club’s involved in some business right now that makes them real suspicious of outsiders. And, even before the business started, Rabid was as suspicious as they come. You can walk right up to him, be polite, hold out your hand, and the only thing he’ll give you is the shovel for you to dig your own grave. Go home, Hunter.”
I think about Charlie, about how tired he looks, about how hard life has already been for him, about how I’m the only person he’s got left in this world, and about how, last night, for the first night in too fucking long, I finally got some fucking sleep; I like it here in Ironwood Falls, and I have been through too much shit just to walk out that door.
“I’m not leaving here empty-handed.”
“You’ll leave without hands if you don’t take my advice.”
“No. No way in hell I’m leaving here just to take Charlie back on the road again. It’ll break him. Whatever it takes, I have to try. So point me to this Rabid and let me handle the rest.”
“Not a chance,” she says. Just as I reach for the money — because, fuck it, if she’s going to send me packing, I’m going to need to keep every penny I’ve got — she grabs my hand. “You approach Rabid without anyone from the club to vouch for you, you’re as good as dead. But there might be a way.”
“What do I need to do?”
“I can think of two members who might need your help and might just be crazy enough to vouch for you in return. There’s one problem, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Dealing with these two… you might end up wishing you were dead.”