Chapter Twenty-Two #2
Inside, the place smells like home. There’s a crisp apple scent in the air, one that invades my nostrils and makes my stomach growl hungrily.
This place is way too nice to be the home of a biker.
All over the walls are framed family pictures.
There’s a big worn couch in the center of the living room, and a bunch of toys piled in the corner.
Iris drags me straight there, where a cluster of dolls, plushies, and action figures lie in organized chaos.
She plucks up a doll and proudly holds it out. “This is Sophia. Do you like her name?”
“I do.”
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Eddie, and this is my friend Rich.”
She barely glances Rich’s way, a look of fear shines in her eyes.
“Don’t worry, he’s a nice guy.”
She peers around me, so he waves at her, which only terrifies her more.
“He’s scary looking,” she whispers. But before I can defend him, she starts up a different conversation. “Eddie is a funny name.”
“Yeah, I know, but you and Sophia both have beautiful names.”
Iris proudly holds up her doll for another inspection. “I know. I was named after a flower. And Sophia was named after one of my favorite cartoons, Sophia the First. Have you seen it?”
I shake my head. “We’ll have to watch it sometime.”
She nods. “Oh, Eddie, I forgot to show you something important.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
She holds up the doll’s tiny plastic arm.
Drawn on it with a purple marker is what looks like a flower and a tiny heart.
“Sophia got a tattoo! Just like me!” She yanks up the sleeve of her shirt to reveal a temporary tattoo on her own upper arm—the glittery butterfly that’s starting to peel at the edges.
“You got a tattoo, huh?”
She nods proudly. “It’s fake. But I’m gonna get a real one, one day, just like my mommy.” Her smile fades a little, like the mention of her mom dents her joy. “My mommy had lots of them. Pretty ones, too. I’ve seen pictures of them. She was pretty wasn’t she, daddy?”
“Your momma was very beautiful, Iris. Just like you. Now go back into the living room and watch your cartoons. Daddy has business to take care of.”
“Okay, Daddy,” she says, racing from the room to sit in front of the television.
Cipher watches her from the kitchen. There’s a flicker of loss and longing in his eye before he grabs a couple beers from the fridge and sets them on the island. “Here you go.”
He rakes a hand through his short hair and settles into one of the chairs. The guy looks worn out, like someone who’s walked through fire and still feels the pain.
Taking another swig from my beer, I set the bottle down and meet Cipher’s gaze head-on.
His eyes are sharp and unwavering, like he’s measuring every inch of my soul.
The man looks to be in his late thirties, with a lean build and skin weathered by sun and time.
His cut sits snug against his faded black tee, the leather worn and creased in places like it’s been through hell and back.
“You think that diamond patch makes you bulletproof?” Cipher asks, his voice low and steady. “That wearing it will make you somebody special?”
“It’s not about that,” I reply, even though I’m not sure if it’s true. “It’s about building something real. Something that lasts.”
Cipher leans forward, folding his arms on the granite countertop.
The veins in his forearms raise like roots beneath his skin.
“Let me tell you something, Eddie. That patch doesn’t make you real.
Pain and loss does. Having to bury a friend who got clipped just because he had the wrong ink on his back… that shit makes you real.”
“Damn,” is the only word my brain can come up with to say.
“So,” he says, fixing those steel-blue eyes on me, “tell me, why you want to start a one percent club?”
“The brotherhood,” I answer without hesitation.
He raises a brow. “You can have brotherhood without the patch and stigma.” His voice is calm, but you can tell he’s against the one percent lifestyle.
Maybe it’s because he’s a cop, or maybe it’s because he’s seen some shit.
Either way, his words have me wondering if I’m in way over my head?
He’s the second man to argue against it since the idea came into fruition.
Taking a swig from my beer, I lean back on the stool, the cold bottle sweating in my palm. “I don’t know how to explain it. It just feels like it means something more on the road.”
Cipher huffs, then sets his own bottle down with a heavy clink. “It does mean something. Just not what you think.”
Rich stays quiet, his elbows resting on the granite countertop. The silence stretches between us like the quiet before a storm.
Cipher glances out the open window. A rusted swing creaks in the breeze a few feet from the door. There are a few forgotten toys scattered in the sun-bleached grass. Beyond it, you can see the road, and I have a feeling that’s why he suddenly looks so sad.
“I rode with a one percent club once,” Cipher finally says. “A real one. Not these boys playing pretend with their weekend patches and weak colors. I earned mine, well sort of.” His voice is thick with remorse. “I left it and haven’t looked back.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What made you leave?”
He turns, slowly, and locks eyes with me. “Well, for one, they would’ve fucking killed me had I stayed any longer.”
I blink. “What?”
Cipher nods, his face calm and controlled.
“Those kinds of clubs don’t necessarily welcome cops with open arms. I was undercover, deep in the heart of it all.
The Devil’s Armada MC were under investigation for a sex trafficking ring and gun running, and they needed someone who could fit into that lifestyle and go undercover.
When I found out it was the same club my father was in, I laid on the sword willingly.
Those men rocked the one percent patch you desire so much, and besides a handful of them, most weren’t looking to clean up their act, quite the opposite.
They only wanted to dig deeper into it.”
A cold shiver slithers down my spine.
Rich looks like he’s swallowed a nail.
Cipher leans in. “You think brotherhood is patch-deep? That patch will get you killed quicker than it’ll get you respect. And don’t even get me started on how it will break up your family. Iris’s mom died because of how deep she got with the wrong person.”
“I didn’t know,” I mutter. “I’m sorry.”
He nods. “Of course you didn’t. No one talks about the burnouts, the paranoia, the way your life gets eaten up by someone else’s war.
You start a one percent club; you’re declaring open season for you, your club, and your family.
It’s like you’re saying, “come for me and prove I don’t deserve this patch”.
And they will. Every one percent club within a hundred-mile radius will have you in their radar before you set a single tire on the road. ”
He takes another sip, then gestures out the window where the sun dips lower, lighting the bikes out front in a fiery glow.
Four Harleys parked like sleeping dragons, gleam and glow in the twilight.
One of them has ape hangers and skull mirrors.
Another is a low-slung Dyna with matte black paint and red pin striping.
They look fast, loud, and angry. The kind of machines you fall in love with before they break your heart.
“I’m asking ten grand for the pair,” Cipher says before adding, “But if you buy them, buy them because you love to ride, not as a gateway to something you can’t walk away from. ”
I glance at the bikes, then back at him. “What made you walk away, and turn to a different patch?” I ask, gesturing to the Old English letters on his cut.
Cipher exhales before speaking with more sadness than pride in his voice.
“The LEMC lettering stands for, Law Enforcement Motorcycle Club. When I fled here, I started my own club, one that people can respect and admire for all the good they do. I just didn’t realize how hard we’d be hit for it, or the target these simple letters created.
You would think the other clubs would’ve left us alone, especially when we do nothing but toy drives, memorial rides, and community runs.
If I had known that wearing this patch, along with the badge we carry, would create such a target for my club and my family, I would’ve never created it.
We ride hard, and stay clean, while still forming a brotherhood.
We bleed loyalty, not create bloodshed.”
Rich finally speaks up. “And people disrespected you for it?”
“Most respect us, but others don’t. Especially those rocking that diamond one percent patch.
When I rode for the Devil’s Armada, I never knew what was lurking in the shadows, or who was waiting for me around the corner.
I was on constant alert, and always looking over my shoulder.
Iris’s mom got hooked on drugs and sold her body for money.
She got branded by the wrong person, one that made it his mission to destroy her.
And that’s what that kind of club can do…
destroy and demolish everything in its path.
I don’t have the heart to tell Iris, what her mother was truly about.
At least not yet. Not until she’s older and can full understand everything.
But I will say, riding for the Hands of Justice LEMC allows me to sleep better at night.
I go to bed knowing my daughter sleeps safer, and I don’t constantly jump when the phone rings. ”
I take another drink, slower this time. Cipher’s words dig deep, like gravel embedded in your skin after a crash.
“I just want to build something,” I say, quieter. “Something that feels like mine.”
“Then build it,” Cipher replies. “But build it smart. A club is what you make it. You don’t need the one percent to feel like a king. But if you wear that patch, you’d better be ready to bleed for it.”
His words hang heavy in the room, the hum of the old fridge is the only sound until Iris’s voice pipes up from the living room, singing along to some cartoon theme song in a voice so sweet it nearly hurts.
“You said you barely left alive, and I’ve heard stories about how those types of clubs feel about cops. How’d you get out?”
“I ran,” he said after taking a swig. “But not without help. If it weren’t for two men that I still consider my brothers, I’d probably be lying dead next to her mother. It gives me chills to think about where Iris would be had I not left when I did. Now, I can’t imagine my life without her.”
“I can’t believe they just let you go,” Rich exclaims in awe, both of us staring at Cipher like a war hero being welcomed home.
“Not all one percent clubs are bad. There are some amazing men that ride for them, but there are the others that give it a bad name. Those are the ones you have to be careful of. The ones that will slit your throat and stab you in the back at the same time.”
“My friends would never stab me in the back. Neither would my father.”
Cipher stands. “That’s good, but you never know who may ask to prospect, or what hell they’ll bring with them. I can’t live that kind of life anymore. That’s why I’m selling my bikes and only keeping two. One for me and one for my girl. All the rest need to go.”
“You sound like you’re running from this patch too,” I acknowledge, nodding toward the LEMC patch on his chest directly below the one that says President.
“Sometimes, Eddie, you gotta know when to hand over the gavel. I’ve served my time. I just want to serve the rest in peace with my family while I’m still breathing. Anyway, I’ll give you guys a minute to check out the bikes.”
We head outside. The sun’s dipping behind the trees, casting golden streaks across the lawn.
The bikes glint in the dying light. I move toward the Dyna, fingers brushing over the cool steel tank.
It’s like she’s calling to me, the hand painted flames speaking to my inner need to be reckless and ride on the side of danger.
Cipher comes outside, squinting as the sun hits his face.
“They’re beautiful machines.” He leans in closer again.
“You want brotherhood, Eddie? You can have it. But don’t mistake chaos for loyalty.
And don’t think for one second that patch won’t get someone you love killed. Because it fucking will.”
“Damn, you really don’t want me to buy your bikes, do you?”
“I’m not saying don’t ride,” Cipher argues. “I’m saying be smart about what you’re riding for. Don’t ride for a patch. Ride for you.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t. His words hit me too fucking hard.
Rich stands behind me, quietly watching my reaction. He’s waiting for me to okay this, both of us ready to start this journey like two hobbits searching for a purpose.
It’s hard to ignore the naysayers in my head. Amber’s voice is stronger than ever.
If you buy these bikes, I’m not going to be happy.
And then Cipher’s…
Don’t think for one second that patch won’t get someone you love killed.
I’m straddling Hell and loving every minute of it. Fuck, why do I crave danger like it’s a goddamn drug?
Rich doesn’t say anything right away until he clears his throat. “So?” he finally asks. “Which one you want?”
I look at the bikes. Then back at him. “I don’t know,” I say.
And I don’t because Cipher’s voice still echoes in my head.
“You’d better be ready to bleed for it.”
But as my fingers tickle the painted chrome of the Dyna, a sense of pride washes over me, one that not even Amber’s words of warning can cleanse.
“But I want to know what it’s like to bleed for something bigger than us.”
Rich nods, both of us knowing that whatever comes next, we’re not prepared for it, maybe never will be.
Cipher stands a few feet away, arms crossed, waiting for me to seal the deal. “Which one do you want?” he questions, knowing damn well I’m not backing down from this sale no matter how much he dissuades me.
“Fuck it. I’ll take them both.”