Chapter 3
Jasper
I don’t knock on the clubhouse door. Just shoulder the damn thing open like I own the place.
Because one day soon, I will. Heads snap up, gaping at me like I’m some kind of swamp creature.
A growl springs forth from the back of my throat, meant for no one in particular.
I stalk back to the club president’s office, angrier than I’ve been in a long fuckin’ time.
My old man looks up from behind his weathered desk, and for a half-second, the lines on his face deepen.
Not with concern for me so much as with worry about what is in our immediate vicinity that could mess up his strongest son this badly.
He knows it has to be something pretty damn bad, ‘cause I rarely take damage at the hands of our enemies.
His eyes roam over me. He takes in the blood soaking the upper part of my jeans, the dirt smeared on my face, the torn sleeve, the limp I’m trying to hide. Yeah, I look like a fuckin’ mess and I know it.
After that, he leans back, arms crossed over his chest. “You look like roadkill,” he says bluntly. “Ain’t seen you lookin’ this bad since you first started ridin’.”
“I’m fuckin’ fine,” I growl, dropping into the chair across from him, biting back the groan that wants to claw its way out of my throat. At this point, my thigh’s on fire and blood’s soaking through the denim. It’s high on my leg. Too damn near my balls for comfort.
“What the hell happened?” he demands.
“A three-man crew ran me off the fuckin’ road, near the scenic lookout on I-80. It was some Latino MC I’ve never seen before. They rode fast, maneuvered like they knew how to handle their motorcycles, and were highly fuckin’ aggressive.”
His eyes narrow on me and his hands ball into fists. He’s waiting for the piece of information that makes this whole situation make sense.
I don’t make him wait, because our club president is not a patient man. “The cuts said Hyenas MC. Bottom rocker read Cedar Falls.”
I can feel the blood runnin’ freely down my leg, so I press my hand over it to stem the bleeding.
My old man is reaching for the intercom button almost the second I do that.
“Get Stitch down here,” he says, tightly.
“Right now, Rob.” He has his own private prospect that does his bidding.
Always has, always will. My old man doesn’t like wastin’ time texting or calling people. He’s old school that way.
“They’re clearly not just passin’ through if they’ve got our fucking town name on the back of their cuts,” I tell him, statin’ the obvious. “They’re here to fight for our territory.”
My old man’s mouth presses into a flat line. “You sure their cuts said Cedar Falls and not Cedar Rapids or some such shit?”
“I’m sure. They were on me the minute I passed them.
They boxed me in and didn’t stop until they ran me off the road.
I thought they’d stop afterward to gloat or try to take my cut, but they took off.
” Pausing to give him a tired grin, I add, “Of course, that might have been because I flipped one of their bikes and they had a brother needin’ medical attention. ”
Snatching away my momentary glory, he shoots back, “It also might have been because they jumped into a fight without the approval of their Prez.”
I ease my leg down into a more comfortable position and keep on pressing down on the gash. “Yeah, maybe their club officers didn’t want us tipped off to their presence quite yet. If that’s the case, they fucked up badly.”
The door creaks open and in walks Stitch, our medic. He doesn’t talk or ask questions. He usually doesn’t speak unless he needs to. He sees the way I’ve got one bloody hand pushing down on my leg and kneels down beside me, unzipping the black duffel quickly and efficiently.
“Drop the jeans,” he says flatly. “I need to get to that wound.”
“Fuckin’ awesome,” I mutter, working my belt open and easing the denim down past my thigh.
My old man watches the whole thing like he can’t wait for me to get stitched up so we can get on with business. I don’t even blame him. This is some serious shit.
He rushes by asking, “Tell me everything you can remember.”
I think for a second before answering him. “They didn’t ride like newbies, that’s for damn sure. They rode in tight formation and seemed both coordinated and disciplined. One of them was carryin’ a P90.”
Rock’s brow lifts. “Military grade.”
“Yeah. It made me think they might be ex-military or have a history with the cartels.”
Stitch wipes away the blood and gives a low whistle.
“What’s the verdict? I feel like I lost a lot of blood.”
“It’s a clean tear. It’s close to your femoral artery. That means you’re gonna have to stay off your bike after I stitch this up and let it heal. If you tear open the femoral artery, you’ll bleed out in around three minutes flat.”
“I’m not stayin’ off my bike, shithead,” I grind out, hissing when he starts disinfecting the wound.
“Yes, you damn well are,” my old man snarls, clearly upset I just name-called one of my own club brothers. “Your bike will need repairs after a crash like this.”
I open my mouth to object, but he cuts me off. “Not another word, son.”
“Hold still,” Stitch mutters.
I grumble back, “Try havin’ someone dig next to your nuts with a fuckin’ needle and we’ll see how quiet you are.” I’m upset because literally nothing is going my way today.
My old man’s mouth twitches. “Got jabbed too close to the family jewels, did ya?”
“Hell, the fuck no, I did not,” I tell him indignantly. “It was a good two inches away.”
“Damn close call if you ask me,” he replies. “You should be more careful in the future. Your ma’s got her heart set on getting grandkids outta you and I know you don’t want to disappoint Queenie.”
“Fuckin’ hell, that’s the last thing I want.”
“Then today is your lucky day,” Stitch quips, as he begins gathering up his medical trash and pulling off his rubber gloves. “Your family jewels are just fine and as long as you stay off that leg for a week or two, you’ll be golden.”
He grabs his bag and comes to his feet to leave, with a bottle in his hands.
Take two pills every eight hours for pain, but only if you need it.
I’ll come back and check that wound in a few days.
In the meanwhile, change out your bandages every day and if it looks like it’s getting infected shoot me a text.
I immediately throw two pills in my mouth, standing there in my old man’s office with my pants still down around my ankles. As he turns to walk away, I say, “Sorry for callin’ you a shithead, when you are in fact one the smartest brothers I know.”
He gives me a good natured grin. “Pain can humble even the biggest and strongest of us.”
“Them are fighting words,” I tease, as I pull my jeans up and snap them into place.
He chuckles, “Lie to yourself if you like, but I know better.”
The moment the door closes behind him, I turn to my old man, “We need to get after these fuckers. Root them out before they have a chance to get comfortable in our town.”
“Agreed. As the club’s VP, you can get right on that by getting your brothers into the war room, right goddam now.”
I immediately pull out my phone and send them all a group alert to come right away.
My old man and I head back to wait on them.
I’m limping along behind him every step of the way.
I normally limp a little from an old war wound, so having a fresh would means that limp is even more pronounced.
I hate limping because I think it makes me look weak.
Slate, our Sergeant-at-Arms and my second-oldest brother arrives first. He’s built like a truck and is the only one of us with a fuckin’ buzz cut.
If it weren’t for that he’d still be noticeable because of the permanent scowl he wears all day long, every day.
Slate still thinks his fists can solve all his problems. Diplomatic, he is not.
Mica, the second youngest, shows up next. He crunches numbers in his head, like the rest of us do on a calculator. That’s why our old man made him the club’s treasurer. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, I sit up and pay attention. He’s the one with the poker face that even I can’t read.
Onyx arrives last. We’re used to him bringing up the rear. He’s the youngest and our club secretary, still sharp as glass despite looking like he rolled out of a tattoo shop and into a knife fight.
No one talks as they take their seats around the long, beat-to-hell table in the back of the war room.
It’s a small conference room behind our main meeting room that we use when the club officers want to talk privately.
Everyone knows when a sit-down gets called like this, it’s not over beer and bullshit.
Rock doesn’t sit. He stands at the head of the table silent and strong. His gaze moves over each of us before landing back on me.
“Tell ‘em what happened, Jasper.”
I stand, slow. My thigh throbs with every heartbeat but I ain’t taking no pain killers.
To keep my leg from shaking I plant my boots firmly on the floor before explaining what went down.
“I was on my way back from town,” I begin.
“Just past the gas station off I-80, I saw three bikes on the opposite side of the road.”
“From any club we know?” Slate asks, arms crossed.
I shake my head. “Hyenas MC. Never heard of them before. Bottom rocker said Cedar Falls.”
Onyx’s brows lift. “Well, they’ve got balls of solid brass to be riding around our territory with our town’s name on their fuckin’ cuts.”
“Yeah, that makes it obvious they didn’t come Cedar Falls on a sightseeing expedition.”
I tell them how they swarmed me on bikes that looked like they were cobbled together from trash, kicked at my tires, how I held the bike until I couldn’t. I don’t leave anything out, not even the way they sped off without finishing the job.
“That’s fine,” Slate growls. “They want to test us, we’ll pull ‘em off junky ass bikes and rub their faces in the mud.”