2. Sly
Aweek passes before I hear from Nixon, and when I finally do, the text message simply holds an address and a time.
I’m more than aware that this could be some sort of setup, although I cannot imagine why he would set me up. Still, the thought crosses my mind, and as I pull up into the parking lot of a bar called Andromeda, I glance at my surroundings with slight trepidation.
The rumble of another motorcycle nears as I cut mine off, popping the kickstand down. As I climb off, another biker pulls up next to me, lowering his feet to the ground before his motorcycle comes to a stop.
Nixon smiles at me as he pulls off his helmet and hops off his bike. “You made it.”
“Sì.” My tone is cheerful, albeit forced.
The lot is full of cars and other motorcycles, but it is not yet dark. Evening sunlight in shades of oranges and pinks sparkles off the windshields as the clouds slowly hug tighter together.
Dropping his helmet onto the seat of his bike, Nixon nods toward the doors. “Since you’ve been in town a couple weeks now, you heard of Sinner”s Warlord yet?”
“Can’t say that I have,” I reply, shaking my head.
We start to walk, and he fills me in. “The Sinners are the local MC. We like to think of ourselves as Ridgewood’s very own vigilante group. Strict set of rules, but above all, we protect our women and children.” He pulls the door open, and I walk through it. Once he’s beside me again, he continues. “You don’t have to join if it’s not your thing, but you strike me as the type of man who likes to do good in his community.”
Looking around the bar, I find many people enjoying an afternoon drink, settling around tables as they laugh and enjoy the company of others. My eyes fall back on the man next to me, and I realized we’ve stopped walking. “Sì, I do.”
“We’ve got a spot to call our own upstairs, but the bar’s about to be under new ownership. Hopefully, the new fella holds up their end of the contract and lets us stay.”
“If there is a contract in place, they will have no choice, amico.”
“True, I guess. Anyway, I want you to meet the prez. He’s new to the Sinners, but a real good dude. I already vouched for you, so all you need to do is meet him and decide if you want to join us.”
My brows come together in confusion at his words. “Why would you vouch for me when we’ve met once?”
Nixon shrugs one shoulder. “I usually can get a pretty good read on people. You told me helping people is what you do best. Shitbags don’t typically like to help their community.”
Without another word, he walks away, giving me no choice but to follow. Leading me through the tables, we weave around the throng of people to the back of the bar, where a man sits at a high-top by himself.
I try to read him as I approach, gauging what I’m getting myself into. The man has brown hair pulled back into a bun on the crown of his head and a scruffy beard to match. There’s a deep-set scowl on his face, one that gives off a don’t fuck with me attitude. His clothing screams biker, from the dark blue jeans to the leather vest full of insignia over his t-shirt.
But what’s unsettling is his eyes.
Empty and hollow, they’re devoid of all emotion.
Like two empty pools of blue staring back at me, inadvertently telling the story of a man who has lost his reason for living.
It’s a look I have recently discovered behind my own as I look in the mirror.
This man faces the same emotional turmoil I face.
“Cain,” Nixon greets as he slides into the chair across from him. I don’t follow suit. Instead, I continue to stand and watch the man cautiously, waiting to see if he invites me to sit. “This is the prospect I told you about—Sly.”
Cain’s eyes bounce from Nixon over to me, and I watch as he sizes me up. He’s attempting to be intimidating, and perhaps to any other man he might be, but I have encountered far worse men than him in my lifetime.
“You sure you want to be a prospect, pretty boy?” His eyes narrow on me, and I easily sense his fear tactic.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I rub my fingers against my trimmed beard. “You want my honesty?”
“I don’t take lightly to liars,” he growls at me, placing his glass on the table with more gusto than necessary.
“Until five minutes ago, I was unaware of your motorcycle club, so no, amico, I am not sure I want to be a prospect. Nixon, however, thinks I’d be a good fit, so if you agree, then sure, I will join your club and see what Ridgewood”s vigilantes do for their city.”
For a long moment, Cain says nothing. His gaze pulls from me to Nixon, who I see shrug from beside me, then his eyes return to mine. He studies me, then after another moment, he says, “Sit.”
Begrudgingly, I pull out the chair beside Nixon and sit down.
“How long have you been here?” Cain asks, signaling for the waitress.
“Couple of weeks.”
“Why’d you come to Ridgewood?”
Nixon asked me that same question. This town isn’t so small where everyone knows each other, yet that has been a burning question for both men.
It strikes me as odd, but before I can answer, a waitress with bright pink hair approaches, and Cain reorders his drink.
“What can I get you boys?” she asks Nixon and me, turning her focus to us. She’s a younger woman, and has a piercing on either side of her lower lip that catches in the light as she smiles at me.
“Whiskey neat,” Nixon tells her, then her bright green eyes turn to mine.
I’m not particularly in the mood to drink, but I suspect if I do not order something, the motorcycle club president will only cast further judgment upon me.
“Bourbon, per favore.”
“You’ve got it,” she says, then leaves the three of us alone again.
The silence between us is heavy, and I can feel Cain’s heavy stare, waiting for my answer. Still, I make him wait as I look around at the bar. The music amplifies throughout the space, bouncing off the walls and mixing with the customer’s chatter.
What catches my curiosity is that the full wall adjacent to us is a mirror, which I suspect hides something behind it. Private rooms, perhaps, or maybe an office. Above, the ceiling sparkles as though it’s the night sky. The detailing in this space is really quite exquisite for a bar, especially one that houses a motorcycle club above it.
Once I feel I have proven my point to Cain that while he may be in charge, I answer to no one, I reply to his question. “I flipped a coin, and it landed on Ridgewood. Originally, I am from New York, but I have left for a fresh start on the West Coast.”
“Running from something?” he counters, leaning back in his chair.
Rubbing my thumb over a notch in the wood of the table, I nod slowly. “You could say that.”
He glances at Nixon briefly. “Woman or trouble?”
Annoyance prickles through my bloodstream, not particularly wanting to rehash my personal life with anyone, let alone a man who seems to be enjoying his newfound position of power.
Now, it’s my turn to narrow my gaze at him. “If you must know, amico, I left because the woman I love has another man’s ring on her finger, and I feared staying in New York would result in an extensive jail sentence after I killed the man with my bare hands. Due to that, and a not-so-pleasant conversation with a member of my family, I left immediately. I landed here, on the opposite side of the country, where my demons can be kept at bay. I did not ask to be introduced to you, nor have I asked to become a member of your club. Yet, here I am being interrogated as though I am up for a job position with the Secret Service. Nixon seems to think I’d fit right in with your vigilante group, and I harbor a deep passion for giving back to those who are in need, so I guess the choice is yours.”
As I finish, realizing that I said more than I intended, the words flowing like a waterfall from my mouth, the waitress returns with our drinks and sets them in front of us, respectively. Automatically, my hand wraps around the cool glass and I pull it closer, never taking my eyes off of Cain.
We continue to stare at each other, and I can feel his anger level rising.
He doesn’t like the way I am not backing down—not in fear of his demeanor or power. I can only assume that within moments, his men fall in line, recognizing his authority.
But not me.
I did not ask for this, and while I can recognize the benefits that being involved in a motorcycle club may have on my mental and social health, I can also stand and walk away from this table without any semblance of regret.
“You do understand what it means to be a part of a hierarchy, do you not?” Cain asks with a smirk before pulling his glass to his lips. He takes a swig then places it back onto the table. “The club answers to me. That going to be a problem, pretty boy?”
“Only if you do not cease calling me pretty boy.” Do I like having to act as though this man is my superior?
Absolutely not.
Will I play nice so I can rebuild my life in this small city?
Evidently.
Cain takes another swig of his drink, watching me closely as he does. After a few more moments, I see the edges of his eyes soften slightly.
“So, what did you do back in New York? You said you have a passion for giving back to the less fortunate.”
This is the moment I’ve been wanting to avoid since settling here weeks ago. The interest in setting up another clinic and helping the people of Ridgewood is non-existent—something I know in my heart I will not pursue.
Still, I could tell him about my medical background. Someone with my knowledge and skill set could be highly respected in an MC.
Yet every piece of me is internally screaming to lie.
To keep this to myself.
So that’s exactly what I do.
“My family is very wealthy. I had the privilege of doing some extended traveling after college, and when I returned to the city I pursued a relationship with a woman who I now understand did not share the same level of feelings.”
He nods once, dipping his head in a way that says he understands. “And now you’re here.”
For the first time since we sat, I see emotion flicker through his eyes. It adds depth to the hue of his irises, giving them more dimension, as though my words have brought him some sort of peace, if only the smallest of slivers.
I lean back in my chair, studying his features and wondering what his story is. I won’t ask him, though, not only out of respect but from compassion of knowing that some things are better left kept locked within the depths of your heart.
Should he decide one day to speak about his life, then I will listen.
I do not believe I will be best of friends with this man, but he is already becoming someone I feel I will respect, and that is more than a lot of people earn from me in such a short amount of time.
From my side, Nixon tosses back what’s left of his drink. I can feel his gaze bounce between his president and me, listening to the words we’re exchanging and likely wondering if this door is swinging wide open or slamming shut.
Extending my arm, I grip the back of his shoulder in a friendly gesture before nodding as I look at the man, who will ultimately decide if I get a seat at their table. “Sì, and now I’m here.”
“If you want a spot with the Sinners, then you must respect a key aspect that we live by.”
“And what is that, amico mio?”
“Blood doesn’t make you family, loyalty does.”