Paranoia on Blacktop
VIKING
By the time we’re rolling up to the abandoned warehouse lot for the meet-up, my fuse is short, burnt through, leaving a trail of ash in its place and nothing but smoke on the breeze to show for it.
The decaying warehouse at the other side of the chained-in property has long been forgotten. Rusted through siding matches the busted-out windows, while nature slowly takes back over the spot with climbing weeds and piling dirt.
The wind cuts across the empty blacktop, dragging sand and tumbling trash across our path. The only light, besides the soft glow from the moon, comes from our bikes parked every which way to eliminate the possibility of surprise guests.
We’re sitting ducks. I need to keep sharp, and yet my mind is elsewhere. All day I’ve been calling and texting Josie.
All. Fucking. Day.
After the first hour, I caved and texted Pierce, told him to have Lexi reach out. Within minutes, I had the same answer Harlow gave me. A lovely load of horse shit, dumped at my feet like a present.
Logically, I know she could’ve gone into the salon on her day off. She’s done it before, squeezing in a last-minute client or staying late because someone’s sob story reels her in. That bleeding heart of hers she likes to pretend doesn’t exist is one of the reasons I love her so fucking much.
That’s my Josie. Always fixing everyone else.
But the salon’s security system, which I insisted we install, and she knows I have access to, said otherwise. I checked it twice, just in case it was frozen or lagging. It wasn’t. The salon was closed, just as I expected.
Instead, our home cameras showed her SUV sitting pretty in the driveway.
The dog on the porch, tail wagging at nothing.
Henry, in his pen, chasing the chickens, bleating away.
There was no glass from broken windows. No doors hanging off their hinges.
Everything looked normal, and that’s what has me itching to get tonight over with.
I’m tempted to leave the guys and hit the road before morning because she still won’t answer me.
I could be overreacting. I know that. Maybe she’s pissed about something and decided to let me stew. God knows I’ve given her reasons before, but what the hell happened since yesterday when her tone was light, and she left me with images of her sexy as sin body spread out on our bed?
I know I’m not exactly easy to be married to. But icing me out like this? No heads-up. No “I need space” or “I’m fine.” I don’t do well with deliberate silence, and she damn well knows that. Plus, my woman usually loves a good fight when she gets to point out the shit I did wrong.
I’ve already made the call. We’re heading out first thing in the morning. A day early, and the guys are pissed. They muttered about missing out on one last night to party, logistics, and how we don’t cut trips short without reason.
I don’t give a shit, and as president, what I say here goes. I don’t care if I have to back track and make some shit up about the warehouse getting broken into.
I need to see her. Need to look her in the eyes and figure out what the hell this is. If she’s angry, fine. We’ll deal with it. If she’s hurt—
My stomach twists. No, I refuse to believe that’s it. She’s right there on the cameras. Well, at least her car is.
Then why the fuck won’t she answer?
“You might want to fix your face before the other clubs arrive,” Si says, stepping up beside me at the head of our group.
I don’t look at him. I don’t need to. I can feel his heavy stare glued to the side of my face. Observing and calculating what’s behind the pissed-off glare in my eye.
“It’s the only one I got right now,” I mutter. “So it better not be a fucking problem because I’m not in the mood tonight.”
He studies me for another second. “Whoa, everythi—”
There’s no disguising the steady roar of engines, cutting across the blacktop like thunder rolling through the night sky. It cuts him off and leaves his questioning for another time—or hopefully, after this meeting, never.
Our Tallahassee and Covington chapters roll closer, filling the empty lot with more bodies than it’s probably seen in the last twenty years. Their headlights flare, catching tiny night bugs excited by the spark of extra light.
Si checked in earlier after I flew out of the diner, like I had somewhere important to be.
In reality, I ended up pacing the stained carpet in my motel room until I wore a clear path from the front door to the bed.
He let me know everything with Patch was squashed and that it shouldn’t be an issue tonight.
I don’t believe for a second that Silas wouldn’t gut the guy if he made another move toward Harlow, but tonight isn’t about the ego of a single member. It’s about the survival of our chapter.
I clock every face as they dismount, hooking helmets on their bars and grouping up to cover their Pres’s backs. I don’t miss the way Patch’s gaze flicks toward Si, but his reaction’s tucked tight behind a sheet of indifference.
At least the distraction isn’t here to stir shit up tonight. I made sure of it.
The night fills with low voices, the scrape of lighters after a ride, and the rough thud of boots against pavement.
I shove my hands into my pockets to keep them from curling into fists for no reason. Si’s right, I need to get myself in check, or they’re going to pick up on my unrelated anger.
“Steel.” I step forward and hold my hand out to the newest president in our ranks.
He’s younger than me, but not green. He took over last year when his old man died of a heart attack behind the wheel.
I still remember the call. The disbelief and anger rearing from the depths after everything we’d been through a couple of years back.
A man like him, with good years still ahead, isn’t supposed to go out like that.
“Hey, man. Good to see you.”
“Yeah, you too. How are things settling in back home?” I ask, genuinely curious about how he’s holding up after being thrust into the hot seat, just like I was.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Adjusting.”
I bet. Running a club after your father—or the man who was like a father to you—dies isn’t just paperwork and votes.
It’s his ghosts hanging around, passing judgment over every decision.
It’s a legacy to uphold. It’s expectations hanging heavy around your neck like a noose, waiting for the right moment to pull taut.
Patch joins us, his grin thin and his second at his side. The burly bastard looks like someone pissed in his Cheerios, and he’s still working on getting them down.
“Kept the Mrs. at home tonight?” Patch greets the group.
I tense, waiting for an explosion of heated words or someone to swing.
My eyes flick to Silas. His jaw tightens, but that’s it.
He lets the dig slide, knowing damn well we’re the ones here looking for an assist. I’m grateful for his restraint, because I don’t have the bandwidth for the same fight tonight.
“Alright,” he says, cutting through the bullshit tension. “You called this meeting. What’s up, Vik?”
Here the fuck we go. “Rosenfeld is heating up,” I tell Steel, since Patch has already heard the spiel. “We’re not looking so off-grid anymore. Eyes are lingering longer than I like. We’ve decided it’s time we redistribute some weight. Either of you got the men or space to help us out with that?”
My words are calm, but inside, I’m calculating the risk for keeping things as they’ve always been versus taking a silent-partner stance on our goods.
Patch’s thoughts on handing shit over and dipping out of the club aren’t a fucking option. My men sure as hell wouldn’t like it. But he’s quiet tonight, no smart ass comments as his eyes sweep the lot, probably taking in our numbers. Doing his own assessment of what we might have up for grabs.
Each chapter is into its own thing. We never discuss specifics unless a partnership’s on the table, and that’s exactly what tonight is about.
“We just took on something big,” he finally says. “And we’re further away. I don’t think I can help you this time, brother.”
Swapping operations across state lines is a pain in the dick, but he’s right, closer is better.
It’s much easier, logistically, to move this much product a few hundred miles into Louisiana than all the way out to Tallahassee.
I was just desperate enough to take either option, because if we don’t get Rosenfeld’s PD off our asses, we might as well run headfirst into one of Pierce’s chemical drums and call it a day.
“Steel, how about you, man?” I ask.
“What are we talking about?” he questions. “What exactly are you looking to offload?”
The hum of conversation swells around us, the majority of our men not paying us any attention. Laughter from someone in the back filters through to our little circle.
I don’t like this many unknown variables. I’ve seen clubs burned from the inside. All it takes is one rat with a phone and a deal from the ATF.
Si steps forward, nodding his head to the side for Steel to follow. They create enough distance for specifics to be discussed away from prying ears.
“We good here?” Patch asks, his tone casual, but his eyes shift like he’s waiting for something.
“Yeah, man,” I say. “We’re good. Catch ya next year, yeah?”
He gives me a chin lift and heads back to his bike. His second shadowing in his wake.
As the crowd thins with their departure, the night feels slightly calmer. The wind off the beach whistles through the barren bones of the warehouse, cooling my skin from the still thick humidity.
My phone feels like a hundred pounds, weighing down my pocket. I should wait until we’re done here, but Si’s still chatting with Steel, giving me too much space for my mind to revert back to obsessing over her silence.
I draw it out slowly, letting the screen light from the movement. Not a goddamn thing. The useless thing creaks against my tightening fist.
What are you doing, Josie?
There’s a lot of nodding between Si and Steel, ending with a firm handshake. They walk back, Steel catching my attention before he asks, “When do you need an answer by?”
“I can give you a week,” I say. “Let you and the guys get back to Louisiana and discuss.”
“That works. I’ll let you know.”
Another handshake is all it takes to end this meeting. It’s not a yes. But it’s not a no, and right now, that sliver of possibility takes a fraction of the stress weighing on me.
Engines start up again, one by one. Then Steel’s group peels out in staggered waves, tail lights disappearing down the long-forgotten access road.
My guys look to me for the unspoken cue.
“We roll at five,” I say. “No stops, we don’t need. Pack up and get some sleep.”
There’s no argument. They see it on my face. This isn’t negotiable. As I swing my leg over my bike, I pull my phone out one more time. Still nothing.
I type anyway, ignoring the last twenty unanswered texts.
Call me. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out, mama. Please, I need to hear your voice.
I stare at the screen for a second, hoping this will be the one to break through, but my text just stares back at me tauntingly, before I’ve had enough and shove it back in my pocket.
By this time tomorrow, I’ll be standing in my own driveway, looking at my wife face-to-face. And if she’s icing me out? We’re going to melt that shit down until there’s nothing but a puddle left in its wake.