Chapter 19 Seneca
Chapter nineteen
Seneca
Freedom stung. Literally, the sun was a bastard, and the deputies at the front gate didn’t let you pause for sunglasses. They pushed you out into the light like a dog after a bath, everything dripping and awkward, every eye on the yard pretending not to watch you walk out.
Thirty days wasn’t long enough to forget the outside, but it was long enough to start missing shit you swore you’d never miss like air that didn’t smell like antiseptic, coffee with actual grit, even the faint, comforting rot of cigarettes in my own jacket.
The county lockup wasn’t hell, but it was purgatory with state funding, and when the outer door banged behind me, I just stood there, blinking, waiting for the next step to be explained.
The next step, apparently, was Catherine Bellini and Jenna Smart, waiting for me on the far side of the chain-link.
Both of them looked out of place on the curb, like runway models cast for a PSA about bad life decisions.
Catherine in black, tailored casual, hair down for once, sunglasses that cost more than my first bike.
Jenna wore a dress the color of a blood orange, cut just sharp enough to look like an apology for the last time we’d seen each other.
I took my time because I wanted to see if they’d crack first, but neither moved. They just leaned on the trunk, arms folded, sharing a single cigarette and the kind of mutual suspicion only women could perfect.
I crossed the blacktop, feeling every bruise and old injury reactivate under the gravity of their stares.
I probably looked like a zombie; thirty days on a cinderblock mattress will do that.
Still, when I got close enough, I could see the twitch at the corner of Catherine’s mouth, the way Jenna’s hands shook when she flicked the lighter.
“Judge,” I said.
Catherine arched a brow. “You look like shit.”
“Jail’s not supposed to improve your complexion,” I said. “Jenna. You here for a cross-exam?”
She smiled, tight and a little mean. “I’m here for the main event.”
Catherine stepped forward first. She wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me so hard I nearly bit my own tongue.
It was the kind of kiss that says everything you shouldn’t say in public, the kind you give a man when you’re not sure he’ll make it back out.
She tasted like salt and cigarettes and the faintest trace of vanilla.
Her tongue pressed against mine with the same certainty she used to wield in a courtroom.
When she finally let go, Jenna was right there, not waiting for a prompt.
She shoved Catherine aside, grabbed the front of my shirt, and pulled me in.
Her mouth was softer, slower, but the hunger was right there at the surface.
I felt her smile against my lips, then she bit down, just enough to let me know who was in charge, for now.
When I opened my eyes, both women were watching me, and I realized I was grinning like a dumb animal. I didn’t try to hide it.
“Miss us?” Jenna said, voice low.
“Like thirty days of blue balls,” I said.
Catherine snorted. “We were counting the hours. Even took bets on how long you’d last before you shanked someone for a cigarette.”
“I owed you two cartons,” I said, “but the commissary is a racket.”
Jenna leaned in, pressed her mouth to my ear. “You can pay in flesh later.”
I looked at them, and something in my chest let go. The tension, the anger, the old loyalty to pain, all of it dissolved under the sun and their touch.
“What’s next?” I asked.
Catherine produced a set of keys and dangled them. “You’re supposed to check in with Damron. He said it’s urgent.”
“Club business?” I said, already half-turned toward the curb.
She nodded. “He wants you at the clubhouse, then the airport. We have a flight to catch.”
“Where to?” I asked, but the answer was obvious.
Jenna grinned, all teeth. “You ever been to Fiji?”
I started laughing, really laughing, the sound wild and a little crazy. Catherine smiled, then rolled her eyes, but I could see the relief in her shoulders.
I took the keys, wrapped my arm around Catherine’s waist, and pulled Jenna in with the other. “You two coming with, or am I supposed to ride solo?”
Catherine pressed her hip against mine. “We’ll see you at the airport.”
Jenna swatted my ass. “Don’t be late.”
They slid into the sedan, doors closing with expensive, solid thuds, and I watched them pull away, the two of them already bickering about music or directions or who got to sit shotgun.
The dust from the tires curled up in the sun, and I stood there, keys in hand, feeling the world shift beneath me.
I was free.
***
The first thing that hit me wasn’t the sound. It was the smell—a mix of motor oil, leather, and the kind of beer that could strip rust from an engine block. The Bloody Scythes clubhouse had a particular reek, an olfactory brand that said you belonged, or you didn’t.
I rolled up on the Triumph Catherine had left for me in the jail lot, the engine still warm, her scent lingering on the grips.
The patchwork parking area was a graveyard of half-built choppers and trucks with more Duct Tape than metal.
The bikes all faced the door like they were waiting for a last call.
Inside, nothing had changed. Nitro was cussing at a prospect for screwing up the tap line.
Another club girl, this one in a shirt that had never met a sleeve, played pool with the precision of a sniper.
The jukebox was busted as usual, stuck on a playlist that hadn’t been updated since ‘95.
I felt eyes on me before I heard the first shout.
“Well, look what the system spat out,” someone barked. A second later, I was half-tackled by a man who smelled like burned rubber. “Jesus, Seneca, we thought you’d grown tits in there.”
“Disappointed?” I said, breaking his grip and delivering a knuckle jab to his ribs.
He laughed, then handed me a can of something called “Hot Shit,” which I’d learned to never question.
Around us, the other Scythes circled in.
Hands slapped my back, voices shouted variations of “welcome home” and “don’t drop the soap.
” I soaked it in, every insult a handshake, every insult a prayer that I’d made it out alive.
After the first round of abuse, Nitro cut the crowd with a shrieked, “Make way, assholes.” He grabbed me by the shirt, steered me past the bar, then through a set of battered double doors.
We called it church, a room with a massive oak table and a wall of polaroids that documented every fuck up and success the club had ever made.
Damron was waiting, arms folded, eyes on a ledger. He looked up, and for a second, something almost like a smile pulled at the scar on his cheek.
“You miss us?” he said.
“Like a rash,” I replied. “But it’s good to see you, boss.”
He gestured at the battered seat across from him, and I sat. Nitro vanished, shutting the doors behind him.
Damron didn’t say anything for a minute. He just studied me, weighing the difference between the man he’d sent into lockup and the one who’d come back out. Finally, he spoke.
“You holding up?” The question was heavier than it sounded.
I shrugged. “Better now. Jail was easy compared to the last year.”
He nodded, like he knew the truth of it. “You got plans?”
“Sort of,” I said. “Supposed to fly out tonight. Catherine and Jenna are waiting.”
A flicker of amusement crossed his face. “You bringing both?”
I nodded, not bothering to lie.
He whistled, low and slow. “That’ll be a first for this club.”
“Somebody’s gotta pioneer new territory,” I said.
Damron leaned back, the chair creaking. “You sure you’re not walking into more trouble?”
“I’d rather that than stagnate.”
He grinned, all teeth and malice. “You always did chase the most dangerous thing in the room.”
We sat in silence for a stretch, the two of us listening to the muted chaos outside the door. Finally, he spoke again. “Everything’s quiet here. We handled the Martini fuckers. Any heat coming your way is from your own family now.”
I nodded, knowing he meant it. “What about the club?”
He shrugged. “Nothing you need to worry about. Not for the next ten days, anyway.”
“That’s when I’ll be back,” I said.
He looked at me, dead serious. “Take your time, Seneca. You’ve earned it.”
I waited, thinking he might have more to say, but instead he reached into the desk, pulled out a dusty bottle of club whiskey, and poured two shots. He slid one across the table.
“To survival,” he said.
I picked up the glass. “To loyalty.”
We clinked and drank. The burn was perfect, and the aftertaste better than any freedom I’d ever known.
Damron stood, walked around the table, and pulled me into a bear hug. “Don’t die out there,” he growled into my ear.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said.
He let go, patted my back once, then shoved me toward the door. “Now get the fuck out before I start thinking you’ve gone soft.”
I laughed and walked out, the voices of my brothers following me all the way to the parking lot.
The bike waited, chrome still hot. I started the engine, let it settle into the old heartbeat rhythm, and thought about where I’d been and where I was going. The club was in good hands. I was in good hands, too.
I took a last look at the building, and then I kicked it into gear and aimed for the airport, the wind at my back and the next bad decision waiting just over the horizon.
***
It was dusk by the time I hit the old county airstrip.
The Triumph idled as I coasted up to the chain-link, and for a second, I just sat there, letting the last fumes of the club whiskey bleed out through my skin.
Thirty days inside and not a single dream of this, of freedom, of motion, of the kind of recklessness you only got when you’d survived every other option.