Chapter 5 Axel #2
“Hey,” Chase called. “You ever, you know, want to chill? We hang behind the car wash. No bullshit.”
“Maybe,” I said, knowing I never would.
Back inside, the meeting room was empty, except for Vin. He was sitting at the head table, tracing circles into the scarred wood with his cigarette.
“Come in, Axel,” he said. “Sit.”
I did, across from him. The silence was heavy but not hostile.
“You handled yourself well tonight,” Vin said. “Red says you’re smart. I think you’re hiding something.”
“I’m not hiding,” I said. “Just waiting.”
He nodded. “That’s good. Most men talk themselves out of a patch before they even earn one.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “Listen. If you’re running from something, I don’t care. Just don’t run from me.”
“I won’t,” I said.
He smiled, real this time. “I believe you.”
As I stood to leave, he added, “Tomorrow, you ride with me. Collections run. Don’t be late.”
I left Church and made my way back up to the bunkroom.
The other prospects were already asleep, shoes on, arms folded tight to keep from getting rolled for cash or cigarettes.
I lay down and closed my eyes, letting the pain in my hands—the real pain, the kind that sinks in after days of bleach and scraping crust off urinals—remind me that I was still alive.
The club was a living organism, and I was just another cell learning its rules. I liked it better than I’d ever admit.
***
I showed up at sunrise, helmet in one hand and the other jammed in my jacket pocket to keep the blood circulating.
The parking lot was wet from a night’s worth of hard rain, and the Royal Bastards’ bikes gleamed in a lineup, each one ugly-beautiful in its own way.
Vin’s was up front, matte black, stripped of any logos or decals except for the RBMC logo on the tank, which looked like it’d been painted on with actual bone dust.
Vin was already out there, checking tire pressure and cleaning the mirrors. He gave me a nod, the kind that said, Don’t fuck up. I liked that about him—no drama, no need to perform.
“Gear up,” he said. “It’s not a parade.”
I pulled on my helmet, cinched it, and checked the piece I kept in my boot. Vin watched the move, then smirked. “Hope you’re better with a wrench than you are with that nine.”
“Depends on the target,” I said, swinging a leg over my ride.
He grinned, barely. “We got a collection at nine. That means we’re at the shop at nine, not rolling up hungover at nine-oh-five.”
We rode out in silence, engines loud enough to warn the next county.
I followed close, learning the way he cut traffic and ignored red lights.
The sun was just breaking through the smog when we pulled up to “Eddie’s Discount Electronics,” a concrete box wedged between a vape store and a check-cashing joint.
The security shutter was half-down, graffiti’d with a spray-painted “Suck my dick” that seemed aimed at the universe.
Vin killed his engine, dismounted, and stretched. He reached into his saddlebags, came out with a beat-up duffel, and tossed it to me. “Hold that.”
I caught it. It was heavier than it looked.
“Eddie’s a week late,” Vin said. “He’ll tell you business is slow. It’s not. He’s just hoping we’ll forget.”
I nodded. “You want me to take the lead?”
Vin’s smile was thin as a razor. “I want you to show me you understand how this works.”
We went in together. The place was a cave of yellow light, stacked floor to ceiling with old flat screens, tangled phone chargers, cheap Bluetooth speakers, and knock-off headphones.
The counter was a plastic coffin, and behind it sat “Buddy”—a soft, nervous man with eyes like a rabbit caught in headlights.
Vin spoke first. “Morning, Eddie.”
Buddy straightened his tie, but his hands trembled. “Mr. Vin. I was just—uh—”
“No stories,” Vin said. “You got it, or you don’t?”
Eddie swallowed. “I—I’m a little short. The—uh—shipment from China got stuck at customs. I called Shiv, I left a message—”
Vin looked at me. “Did you get a message, Axel?”
I shook my head. “Phones been out all week.”
Eddie laughed, weak and wet. “Ha! Well, it’s a bad week. Maybe if I could have a few more days—”
“Axel,” Vin said, “what happens if a man can’t pay what he owes?”
I set the duffel on the counter. “Depends on if he’s lying.”
Eddie flinched. “I’m not lying, I swear.”
I leaned across the counter, slow and easy, and grabbed his right hand. He tried to pull back, but I already had his wrist locked, thumb on the pressure point below his palm. I spread his fingers against the counter.
“Please,” he whispered.
I put my other hand on top, lined up his ring and pinky fingers, and with one clean motion, snapped them sideways. The sound was wet wood breaking. He screamed, high and sharp. Blood spattered the display of burner phones.
Vin never looked away. “That’s one for every week you’re late, Buddy. Next time, it’s your thumb.”
Eddie was sobbing, hugging his ruined hand to his chest.
Vin opened the register, took out a wad of cash, then went behind the counter to the safe, which Eddie was too shocked to protest. He turned, wiped the cash on Eddie’s polo, and shoved it in the duffel.
As we walked out, I heard Eddie moaning, “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” over and over, a human ringtone.
Vin tossed the keys in the air, caught them. “You got a steady hand, Axel.”
I flexed mine, still slick with the other man’s blood. “It’s all in the wrist.”
Vin laughed, a single bark. “You’re gonna fit in just fine.”
We mounted up, and Vin handed me the duffel without a word. I put it in my saddlebag, and we rode back to the club, two black dots in the flood of morning traffic.
At a red light, Vin looked over, visor up. “Ever regret it?” he asked.
I thought for a second. “Never. It’s just work.”
He nodded. “Good. Never let it be personal.”
We pulled up to the bar, bikes crackling as they cooled. Vin grabbed the duffel, clapped me on the shoulder. “Clean up, then see Red for your next task.”
Inside, the air was warm and smelled like bleach. I went straight to the sink, ran my hands under the hot water, and watched the blood swirl away.
There was no guilt, no rush. Just the echo of bone breaking and the certainty that, at least today, I’d done exactly what was expected.
***
I spent fifteen minutes working the blood out of my knuckles, picking clots from under my nails while the club’s ancient water heater coughed and threatened to die.
It never did. I scrubbed until the skin was raw and the only thing left was a stinging, bright pink that matched the first real sunrise I’d seen in weeks.
Red watched me from the doorway, one foot cocked against the frame, cigarette burning between her fingers.
She had a way of filling up a room without saying shit, just the barest arch of an eyebrow or the way her hips set the tempo for everyone else’s breathing.
She’d swapped out her work tank for a beat-up flannel, which did nothing to hide the bruises on her forearms or the fresh bite mark near her collarbone—my work, last night, though I doubted anyone but her would recognize it.
She took a drag, exhaled, and said, “You gonna have skin left by tomorrow?”
I turned the tap off, dried my hands on the same towel I’d been using all week. “Depends on what else Vin has planned.”
She stepped inside, offered me the cigarette. I took it, inhaled deep, then handed it back. She held it for a second, then stubbed it out in the sink.
“Drink?” she said, already reaching under the bar for the bottle.
“Fuck yes.”
She poured two whiskeys, neat. Set one in front of me, kept the other for herself.
We drank in silence for a minute. I watched the smoke curl around her face in the neon light, tracing the way it twisted and dissolved before it hit the greasy ceiling.
“You ever think about just… quitting?” she asked, not looking at me.
“Quitting what?”
She shrugged, ran a thumb along the rim of her glass. “All of it. The club. The rules. The people who treat you like disposable.”
I thought about it. Not for long. “No.”
She laughed, but it was soft, almost sad. “Didn’t peg you for a lifer.”
I knocked back the rest of the whiskey, relished the burn. “I’m not. But I’m not anything else, either. At least here, you know what you are. Even if it’s shit.”
She reached across the bar, took my hand. Her grip was rough, calloused, but there was a gentleness there I hadn’t seen before. She turned my hand over, traced the scars with her thumb.
“You ever had a clean slate?” she asked, voice low.
I pulled my hand back, not unkind but firm. “My slate’s a fuckin’ canvas, Red. And every mark is permanent.”
She smiled at that, a real one this time. “You got a way with words, Ax.”
“Don’t let Vin hear you say that,” I said.
Red’s eyes searched mine, like she was trying to see past the deflection. “You ever shoot anyone?”
I held her gaze. “Does it matter?”
She finished her drink, slammed the glass down. “Only if you want it to.”
That was the end of that. She slipped out the side door, her boots loud on the concrete. I stood there a long time, watching the spot where she’d been, feeling the weight of the question settle in the room like a second layer of dust.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The club was dead, most of the guys off chasing women or burning time at the 24-hour pool hall.
I wandered the floor, restless, the scars on my hands throbbing with each heartbeat.
I ended up by the back exit, propped against the door, cigarette in my mouth and eyes locked on the empty parking lot.
The club’s community board was right by the exit, a mess of old event flyers, ads for cheap tattoos, and the occasional “missing person” from a distant, better life.
Something new caught my eye. A bright blue flyer, crisp and unmolested, with a glossy photo of a white-steepled church and a headline in curly font:
“Fable Christian Church: Annual Christmas Market & Santa Claus Parade!”
There was a cartoon Santa below, fat and grinning, beard so white it glowed. Underneath, in smaller type: “All are welcome! Free cider & cookies! Dress festive!” There was also a young woman dressed as a Santa’s elf, a woman I wanted to see.
I stared at it, the contrast between the clean, hopeful paper and the wreck of my own hands making something dark inside me bubble up.
I tore the flyer from the board, held it in both hands.
For a second, I pictured myself in a Santa suit, the beard doing nothing to hide the scars or the broken knuckles.
I pictured the looks on the faces of every kid who’d been lied to, every parent who’d prayed I’d choke on a chicken bone before Christmas.
I pictured the taste of church cookies, the smell of pine needles and cheap candle wax, the way my own mother had once dragged me to Midnight Mass just to show the neighbors I hadn’t been kicked out of school that week.
I laughed, sharp and mean, and crumpled the flyer in my fist. It felt good. It felt like a challenge. Back in my room, I tacked the flyer to the wall, right above my mattress. I stared at it until my eyes burned.
Tomorrow, I decided, I’d pay the church a visit. Not for God. Not for the club. Just to see if anyone still believed in miracles, or if the only thing left was the echo of a cheap Santa laugh.
I slept better that night, dreaming of snow and broken promises, and the taste of whiskey on my tongue.