Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
SHORT
Four weeks can make a fuckload of difference, especially when you’ve got brothers like mine. Not only did the barn get converted to a gym in record time, after they’d installed all the equipment, but they ganged up on me. There always seems to be someone around to keep up my regime.
Pippa, somehow, had gotten in touch with a physiotherapist who’d advised her of an appropriate exercise plan, given her description of my injury.
Of course, if I weren’t a biker, I’d probably have had in-person visits with a qualified individual.
But I’m definitely in the DIY mindset, even when it comes to my health.
And it’s not as if doing it my own way isn’t showing a gradual improvement.
I still suffer breathlessness, often at the most inappropriate times, but I’m getting stronger each day.
My progress is such that I now feel optimistic.
While I might never completely regain my previous fitness, what I do achieve might not be that far off.
Perhaps exerting myself at high altitude might always be beyond me, but I never saw mountain climbing in my future.
At least, I won’t have to cart an oxygen tank around with me.
That ten-dollar lung-enhancing machine I bought myself? I won’t admit it to the others, but among all the expensive equipment they bought, it’s worth its weight in gold.
Best of all, I’m back to being able to ride my bike. On two wheels, I once again feel like the man I was, free and invincible. While I’ve had a few trial runs, today’s the day I’ve been waiting for.
I’ve missed out on so fucking much, having to stay at the clubhouse while almost everyone else set out to a meeting they’d arranged with Wrecker, the Mojave Devils’ Prez.
It was only supposed to be him, his VP, Candyman, his enforcer, Scarface, along with their sergeant-at-arms, the strangely named CF.
Representing our side were Prez, Saint, Tempest, and Freak.
But knowing we couldn’t trust the MDMC and suspecting he’d come heavy-handed, the rest of our crew, except for the prospects, me, Paint, and Winchester, accompanied our top officers.
I was left out because I simply wouldn’t be capable of holding my own in any fight that might ensue.
Winchester and Paint, having been injured alongside me, were advised to stay behind, in case they got too trigger-happy.
So, we’d had to sit, twiddling our thumbs, while first the uninvited participants headed out early to scope out the pre-arranged meeting place.
There, they were to get themselves into position in case things went south.
Two members’ roles were determined as vital.
Woody, in particular, our resident sniper, and Rattler, who could hold his own behind a long-range rifle.
At least, our resident asshole can occasionally come in useful for something.
A couple of hours later, the officers rolled out.
It hadn’t been easy waiting for news, knowing that going up against the MDMC was fraught with danger, even if the meeting was pre-arranged, and supposedly all participants would leave their weapons in their saddlebags.
It was a good two-hour journey to the rendezvous point and the same back, plus whatever time was needed for their parley. It was early evening before the throaty roar of motorcycle engines had been heard, and shortly after, tired and travel-weary brothers rolled in.
After a quick bite to eat and a few beers to wash the dust from their throats, Bullseye took pity on us non-combatants and called church to update us.
Bullseye hadn’t held back on the details, nor his satisfaction at what had gone down. I was initially disappointed there hadn’t been a massacre.
“Ugly fucker, that Wrecker,” he’d told us, leaning back in his chair and linking his hands behind his head.
Saint waggled his fingers, interrupting him. “None of them was anything to write home about. Talk about living off the fat of the land.” He barked a laugh. “They certainly didn’t look like they looked after themselves. Bulky? Fuck yeah. Muscles? Hell no.”
Prez nodded to agree with him. “On the surface intimidating, but to us?” He’d paused and looked at me, his mouth curving slightly. “Thanks to our new gym equipment, nowhere near competition for us.”
“Hey, don’t forget the pole.” Stalker chuckles. “You can get a real workout on that.”
Anxious as I was to hear the outcome, even I couldn’t help cracking a smile.
Yeah, it seemed it wasn’t only the sweet butts who like twirling their shit.
Most of the brothers had had a go trying their non-existent skills on the pole one drunken night, all falling flat on their faces.
Their antics had made me almost split my sides, and the pain it had caused was worth it.
But Stalker had seemed to get the hang of it, much to our amusement.
Apparently, mastering the moves was a good full-body workout.
Thereafter, it became normal to walk into the clubroom and see the treasurer working the pole, with the club girls complaining that he was monopolising it.
Prez banged his hand on the table to restore order.
“When I confronted him about his boys coming into our territory and causing trouble, Wrecker blustered that he had every right to be there as they were trying to track one of their old members. He kind of brushed over that they were flying colours without asking permission.” Bullseye broke off and couldn’t hide his grin.
“So, I outright asked why he wanted a man who’s obviously left his club to prospect in ours, and who’d appeared so damn flighty, that he’d abandoned us as well. ”
Saint couldn’t resist taking over. “I thought Wrecker was going to stroke out on the spot. You could see his brain working.” He shook his head.
“Again, he tried to convince us Skunk hadn’t joined us under false pretences, but it was a hard sell to try to keep up.
We all knew Skunk had been feeding info back to him, but he couldn’t admit that to us. ”
“Was that when one of his men went for his gun?” Woody asked. “I had him in my sights at that point.”
“Yeah, Scarface, their enforcer, got trigger-happy, but luckily, Wrecker at least had some sense and got him to stand down.”
“I think the red laser point on his forehead was the deciding factor,” Saint remarked, unable to hide his amusement. “And when it shifted to Wrecker, he was suddenly happy to listen to what Bullseye had to say.”
Prez sighed. “No one needed to admit we’d both brought a number of our men with us.
Wrecker guessed it at that point, and from the way his officers were making hand signals, it was obvious others of the MDMC were close by.
I pointed out that mutual destruction was to no man’s benefit.
And neither was them continuing to search for a man following where his dick led.
Of course, he suspected Skunk was already six feet underground, but he had no proof, and no evidence to prove it. ” He glanced at Saint.
Saint didn’t disappoint. “Wrecker’s already had problems with the Kings’ New Mexico and Texas chapters. We reminded him of our power and our strength, and the total number of the chapters we could call on. I strongly intimated his piss-poor club was no match for us.”
“How did he take that?” I asked.
Freak snorted. “Well, when we also brought his attention to the fact that he sent members of his club into our territory, injuring two men and almost killing a third, we questioned why we should leave any of them breathing. By then, he’d seen the fuckin’ light.
He actually offered a solution himself. He fuckin’ called up three of his men out of hiding, and offered them to us to beat up. ”
“He what?” Paint’s eyes were wide open. “He gave them up? Were they part of the crew that ambushed us?”
“Don’t know and don’t care,” Prez announced. “But let's say Freak, Saint, and Tempest beat the fuck out of the poor suckers.”
Ruefully rubbing his jaw, Tempest said, “Of course, I got the only one who could fight.”
“I helped.” Saint grinned. “After I cracked open the skull of mine.”
“I hope you gave them hell,” I growled. “A busted lung would have been nice.”
“Broken ribs do you?” Freak grinned at me. He started to count down on his fingers. “Think we left another one with such damage to his balls he’s unlikely to procreate, and added in a broken arm as well as payback for Paint.”
“And the rest of them just stood back and let it go down?” My eyes widened in incredulity.
Saint shrugged. “What could they say? It was a fair fight.” His expression was pure evil.
What could I do but nod? Blood for blood. Revenge served. Though part of me felt it wasn’t sufficient.
Bullseye had looked straight at me. “I know you’ve got the most skin in this game, Short, and I respect that.
The only reason it didn’t turn into a full firefight on both sides is that Wrecker still believes the info Skunk fed him is solid.
I’d place good money on he’s waiting to ambush us when we’re using that route.
Not that we’re going to be stupid to go that way again now it’s compromised.
” He shrugged. “For giving you an injury that will affect you for the rest of your days? I want a fuckin’ life.
Either we intercept them while they’re on their way to the border, or we could just leave it to the Feds, and let them take the whole fuckin’ club down.
” He’d looked up then. “Nobody fucks with the Kings.”
Seated at the bar, my lips curl as I remember how all the brothers had thumped the table and stomped their feet, the sound deafening. For now, at least, it was sufficient that some revenge had been taken, paid in the currency of blood. But vengeance? Well, that was still to come.
These brothers, this club, have rescued me more than once.
I glance around, seeing Stalker and Words playing pool, Saint and Pippa making out.
Freak playing on the games machine with his son, while other brothers played cards, darts, pool, or just milled around.
No X-rated shows with the sweet butts yet, in deference to Ace still being around, but the girls are strutting their stuff, waiting for their time to come.
I was so fuckin’ lucky to find this family of mine.
It makes up for the years that I spent with my blood relative.
The outer door opens, and a prospect walks in, winding his way through the throng. It starts to become obvious he’s heading for me.
“Short?” Heathen asks, hesitantly. “Are you expecting that nurse to come and see you? ‘Cause she’s here, and I thought you were all healed up.”
So did I. Doc had stopped his visits. There’s no reason for Bronwyn to come to the club. “She asked for me in particular?”
“Yeah,” Heathen confirms.
Why has she come to see me? I need no medical help. I’d told her I could be her friend, but that was before Bullseye had expressed keeping Doc onside was the club’s priority. That memory prevents me from telling Heathen to bring her straight in.
Pushing away from the bar, I tell him, “I’ll come and see what she wants.”
After the brightly lit clubhouse, the driveway seems dark, despite the overhead lights. As I walk alongside the prospect, I let my eyes adjust. At first, all I can see is the shape of a woman outside the gates, but as I draw closer, I can’t hold in my gasp.
“Fuck!” My immediate anger is launched toward Heathen, who gets my fist to his head. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
Staggering, placing his hand against his temple, he stammers out, “I just thought it was suss.”
Suss? It’s fucking inexcusable. I hasten my pace.
What I can see from here is bad enough, but as I get closer and demand Heathen to open the gate, my heart about breaks.
Bronwyn is sweet, good, and innocent. There’s no way she’s here, blood running freely from her nose and her mouth, nor should there be an open gash on her forehead.
No way on this earth should she be standing in front of me in pain or hurt.
My gut twists, and the time it takes Heathen to pull open the gates seems like a lifetime.
Without hesitation, once I can, I approach, my arms open, and though I want to hug her, I sense she’s too broken, and may not want human touch. But, oh, fuck. Sweet, innocent Bronwyn is covered in blood.
I can’t stop the words coming out of my mouth. “What the fuck, Bronwyn?”
And then I can’t resist resting my hand gently on her back, ostensibly to guide her into the clubhouse, but mostly to confirm to myself that she’s real.