Chapter Seven #2
He thought of Julie. They used to come down here, years back.
She’d laughed at the way he skipped rocks, said he threw like a drunk ballplayer.
He could still see her smile, feel her hand hooked in his back pocket, the warmth of her pressed against his side.
Then the image snapped, and the next memory came hard and clear: her car parked outside his buddy’s house.
The sound he heard when he walked in. Rage had taken over before thought could.
He’d left his friend bleeding on the floor, gone home, and called his brothers to help him move his stuff out.
Throttle, Diesel, and Smokey came without question.
By sundown, he was gone. New number. New rules. No looking back.
He worked through the hurt by keeping it shallow. Club girls, one-nighters, nothing that meant a damn thing. All the women since then were for pleasure only. No emotions, no drama. That was just the way he wanted it.
But then, there was Casey.
She’d somehow managed to slip through a crack in his self-imposed barricade without even trying.
There was something about her: those eyes that hid more than they said, the way she carried herself like someone who’d been hurt, too.
He could feel it, the same scar inside her that ran through him.
The way she pulled toward him then recoiled as if afraid made him wonder who had hurt her so deeply.
He bent, picked up a stone, and flicked it into the river.
It skipped once, twice, then disappeared beneath the surface.
He didn’t want to care. Didn’t want another woman invading the parts of him he’d sealed off for good.
But there she was, lodged in his thoughts no matter how hard he tried to shake her loose.
He watched the ripples fade, the water smoothing out like nothing had happened.
That’s how it was, no trace, no sign of what sank beneath the surface.
Rags blew out a breath, dragged a hand down his face, and forced the past back down.
Enough of that shit. He’d buried it once, and he sure as hell wasn’t digging it up now.
He turned from the river, the light catching on the patches stitched across his cut. The sound of voices carried from the clubhouse: laughter, a shout, the clink of bottles. Life went on, same as always.
By the time he reached the back door, his face was calm again, the past locked back where it belonged.
Rags stepped back inside, the heavy door shutting out the sound of the river.
The music and voices hit him first: rough laughter, the scrape of chairs, the thump of boots against the floor.
The smell of beer and smoke wrapped around him, familiar as breath.
Diesel spotted him and lifted his bottle. “You good, brother?”
“Yeah,” Rags said, sliding into a chair. “Just needed a minute.”
Throttle caught his gaze. “You buried that shit a long time ago, bro.”
“I did, and there’s no fuckin’ way I’m bringing it back.”
Throttle clasped his shoulder. “You know we got you.”
Rags nodded.
Throttle raised his beer bottle and tipped it toward Rags. “Fuck, we’re brothers to the end.”
Tank came over, grinning. “Tomorrow night starts the nails in their fuckin’ coffins.”
The men laughed, and Rags let their banter roll around him. He forced himself to listen, to nod at the right moments, to look like his head was back in the game. But under it all, the tug for Casey still lingered, the one he couldn’t drink, fight, or ride away from.
He took another long pull from his bottle, jaw set. Tomorrow was for business. Casey had to stay out of his thoughts.
* * *
The next day rolled in clear and sharp, the kind of fall afternoon where the air felt clean enough to bite. Rags, Diesel, Smokey, Puck, and Tank met out back by their cages. Since there were only five of them, they decided to take Smokey’s SUV which could fit them comfortably.
Diesel handed out burner phones, one to each of them. “Keep it short and clean,” he said. “No club names, no chatter.”
Puck zipped his hoodie and looked toward the open highway. “How far out’s Henderson?”
“Forty-five minutes if we keep it steady,” Rags said, opening the front passenger door. “We’ll stop about a half mile out, stash the cage between the trees, and walk in from there.”
Smokey jumped into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition. The engine roared, the sound rolling across the yard like thunder building under the sky. Hawk stepped out and walked toward them.
“You all set?” he said.
“Yep,” Smokey said. “We got kill switches, metal enough to rip three clubhouses, and I got my dagger.”
“I’m set with my bowie knife and Glock,” Rags added.
Hawk nodded. “If shit happens and you’re outnumbered, get the fuck outta there. We’ll regroup, go back, and air condition their fuckin’ ‘clubhouse’.”
Air conditioning a rival’s clubhouse meant riddling it with bullets. When someone crossed the line or showed the Insurgents great disrespect, they had no problem showing their strength.
“Remember, try to stay off the radar. The club girls aren’t part of this, so if shit happens, try not to hurt any of them, but if it’s a life-or-death situation and you can’t get away, do what you need to do.” Hawk lifted his fist in the air. Rags and the others followed suit.
Smokey pulled out of the lot, and soon they were on the back highway, driving through open stretches of pine and rock. As they got closer to Henderson, Smokey turned down a dirt road that narrowed between the trees. He pulled the cage in a small enclave of evergreens, then switched off the engine.
Rags scanned the horizon. “From here, we walk,” he said. “No colors, no noise. Let’s see what we’re dealin’ with.”
“I’m taking the grenades … just in case,” Tank said, stuffing them in his pocket.
They started toward the renegade clubhouse, sheltering themselves among the trees as they went.
The clubhouse came into view: an old repair shop on the edge of town, enclosed by a rusted chain-link fence and a half-dozen bikes parked out front.
Music drifted faintly through the trees, along with bursts of laughter.
Rags crouched near the tree line, studying the scene. “There could be more bikes out back and inside,” he muttered.
Diesel adjusted his binoculars. “Couple of girls in the yard. They look like they live there. Someone’s cooking, and it smells like shit, all grease and smoke.”
Smokey nodded. “Yeah, they’re settling in. Not just passing through.”
Rags narrowed his eyes, watching a man step out the door wearing a vest with Colorado stitched across the bottom rocker.
He felt the slow burn of anger in his chest. “They’re making a statement,” he said, voice low and rough. “And they sure as hell know what it means.”
The Insurgents stayed low, shifting positions through the trees to get a better angle. The place was busier than they’d expected: more bikes behind the building, a beat-up pickup, and a couple of tents strung along the back fence like someone was camping out there.
Diesel raised his binoculars again. “Seven, maybe eight guys total,” he said under his breath. “Two outside, smoking. The rest inside, I can’t see ’em, but can hear ’em.”
Rags listened. The music was old-school rock, the bass thumping steady. Then voices: muffled but sharp enough to catch pieces.
“…interest rate’s killin’ ’em…”
“…Colorado boys ain’t gonna like it…”
“…Don’t care. We ain’t bowin’ down to nobody…”
Tank glanced over, brow tight. “You hear that?”
“Yeah,” Rags said, jaw tightening. “They know exactly who they’re messing with.”
“Then they can’t say shit when we beat their asses and destroy their fuckin’ clubhouse,” Puck said.
A woman’s laugh drifted from inside: high, easy, unbothered. The door opened, letting out a wave of smoke, and the smell of weed mingled with fried meat. A man stepped out—tall, long dark hair pulled back, his cut marked Devil’s Reign MC.
Smokey whispered, “That’s their prez, right? Max something?”
Rags nodded. “Max Connors. Used to run with the Stoners out in Pueblo before they folded. Mean streak a mile wide.”
The brothers watched him talk to one of his men, his voice carrying just enough to make out the words.
“…fall festival next weekend… easy place to make noise… lotta folks, lotta cameras…”
The lines on Tank’s forehead deepened. “The fucker’s talking about our festival.”
“Yeah,” Rags muttered. “Sounds like he’s planning to show up.”
Max laughed then, sharp and loud. “Let ’em try and stop us. Ain’t their world anymore.”
That set Rags’s teeth on edge. He could feel the old anger pressing at the back of his skull.
Diesel looked at him. “I’m gonna enjoy teaching these arrogant sonsofbitches a lesson. We got what we need?”
“Yeah,” Rags said. “More than enough.”
They stayed another several minutes, watching until a pair of women walked out and sat on the porch steps, drinks in hand. One of them wore a Devil’s Reign tank top, bruises half-hidden by makeup.
Rags noticed it, eyes narrowing. “Club girls live there,” he said. “Some of them don’t look happy about it.”
Diesel nodded grimly. “Means they’re locked in. That place isn’t just a hangout, it’s home base.”
Rags took one last look, burned the scene into memory, then motioned for the others to move out. They hiked back up through the trees, silent until the SUV came into view again. The tension rode with them, heavy and real.
“Banger isn’t gonna like what we heard,” Puck said.
“No,” Rags agreed, climbing into the passenger seat. “Neither will Hawk. We definitely have a situation on our hands.”
* * *
The next morning, the brothers filed into the conference room. Boots thudded. Hawk leaned against the back wall, smoke coiling from his joint. Banger had a map of Colorado spread across the table.
Rags stood. “The fuckers are set up in Henderson, about fifteen miles out. More bikes than we thought. There’re club girls on site. And yeah, they’re wearing Colorado.”
Hawk stubbed the roach into a nearby ashtray, the ember flaring once before it died. “They armed?” he asked.
“Some sidearms in the open, probably more inside. They looked oblivious.” Rags let the words fall.
“They were too busy ruining their barbecue. The shit they were makin’ stunk like hell,” Diesel said.
Snickers ricocheted around the room.
Banger leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Numbers?”
“Seven, maybe eight patched. Could be more inside,” Diesel said. “They’re setting up roots. They got tents by the back fence. One of the girls looked roughed up. Don’t think she’s there by choice.”
Hawk’s jaw tightened. “So, they’re making money, playing club, and using women to keep it going. You know what that means.”
“They think they’re untouchable,” Banger said.
Rags hesitated, then added, “We heard talk about the Fall Festival. Sounded like they’re planning to show.”
“Sounded like they want to make some noise at the festival and draw attention,” Puck added.
Hawk let out a low growl. “They show up there, we’ll get rid of them real fast. No fuckin’ way they’re gonna start shit up.”
Banger slammed a fist to the table, then leaned forward.
“Damn straight. And no one flies Colorado but us. Not a damn soul. That bottom rocker means blood. It’s earned.
Those fuckers think they can stitch it on like a damn patch they bought online?
” He shook his head slowly. “That’s just not gonna happen. ”
Hawk stepped in, his voice rough with steel. “They wanna act like a club, they’ll learn what that costs.”
Banger pointed. “Rags, Diesel, Smokey, Puck, and Tank watch Henderson. We don’t move before the festival. After? All bets are off. Hawk says we’re down twenty percent from them undercutting our business.”
“We’re not letting that slide,” Hawk said. “We’ll remind them who owns this state and what happens when you disrespect the Insurgents.”
A roar of assent filled the room.
Banger lifted his fist. “Church dismissed.” The gavel came down hard.
Back in the main room, Rags flung back a shot of whiskey, the warm liquid burning its way down his throat to his belly.
He lifted his hand and Rusty, one of the prospects, rushed over and handed him a bottle of Coors.
The banter was easy, familiar. The brotherhood was stitched together by years of rides and blood.
But under it, every member felt that pulse of anger, steady and deep.
The Devil’s Reign were calling out everything their club stood for.
Diesel took a swig of beer, then glanced over. “You guys going to the Blue’s Belly on Saturday?”
“What’s goin’ on over there?” Tank asked.
Diesel shrugged. “Chas just told me to be there to support the band.”
“Throttle told me that Chas’s old lady knows a couple of the band members in the cover band playing there on Saturday,” Rags said. “According to Chas, they’re damn good. Old-school rock, no bubblegum or electronica shit.”
Puck grinned. “You talkin’ about The Hellraisers? I’ve heard they tear it up.”
“I think that’s the one,” Diesel said. “Could be a good night—music, beer, no drama.”
Tank chucked. “Only if you stay outta fights.”
Diesel smirked. “There’s no fuckin’ way I want my ass back in the pen. It’s hard as hell not to bash a fucker’s face in when he gives me lip or disrespects a citizen chick, but my parole won’t be done until next year.”
“Then watch out,” Smokey joked.
Rags half-listened, absently rolling the cold bottle between his palms. The idea of hanging out at Blue’s Belly with his brothers sounded fine, but his mind wasn’t on music or beer. It drifted back to Casey, something that had been happening more than he liked.
He’d thought about riding by the theatre, maybe catching her before she left.
Just to talk. Nothing heavy. Just see where her smile led.
But even thinking about it made his chest tighten.
He didn’t have time for that. Didn’t have room for it either.
He’d learned what happened when a woman got close, and how fast trust could turn into wreckage.
Still… Casey seemed different. Smart, calm, beautiful in that quiet way that sneaks up on a man.
And damn if he didn’t want to know what she felt like beneath him, what she sounded like when he brought her over the top.
Just one taste. That was all he’d let himself have.
One night to burn her out of his system.
Then it’d be back to the club girls: easy, forgettable, safe.
He drained the rest of his beer, jaw tight. Yeah, just one taste.