Chapter 9 Vin
Vin
The rumble of my bike echoed through the sleepy town of Murray, Kentucky, as I rolled into the gas station.
Like Paradise Cemetery, the sun was lying low behind me.
Taking a deep breath, I tried to process the unbelievable shit that had just gone down.
Fucking resurrected, sent back to right some wrongs, and save a president’s daughter from himself, no doubt.
I laughed about the whole mess and tipped my helmet to the attendant who eyed me warily as if he were some kind of ghostbuster.
Yeah, because life wasn't fucked up enough already.
Parking my Harley next to a gas pump, I dismounted and stretched the kinks from my stiff muscles. The smell of gasoline and grease mingled with the scent of frying burgers from a bar across the street, reminded me it had been too damn long since my last meal. Could I even fucking eat?
I pushed open the station's bell-clanging door, grabbed a Snickers bar and a cold one from the fridge, and tossed a twenty at the cashier. "Keep the change, man," I said and headed back out. The attendant finished topping off my tank and I paid him. He gave me the side-eye. “Got something to say?”
“No, sir,” he said, but his eyes said otherwise. I’m not sure how he knew, but he did. Vin Reed was a walking dead-man.
Climbing back onto my bike, I couldn't shake the thought of her.
Raven Stansfield. Damn, just the sound of her name made the blood rush to my dick.
I'd daydreamed and fantasized about her, reliving every stolen moment we'd shared.
Those emerald eyes haunted my dreams, even in death.
Now, she was here, somehow alive, and in need of protection.
I crossed the street at the Barrel Tavern and climbed off my bike.
Two other bikes sat in the parking lot but mostly the vehicles were trucks.
One of the trucks had a set of metal bull’s balls hanging from the back hitch.
Men were always overcompensating. I pushed open the heavy wooden door of the bar, and the atmosphere shifted like a live wire had been dropped in water.
Every head turned, conversations died mid-sentence, and the air thickened with tension you could cut with a knife.
The familiar scent of stale beer and cigarette smoke hit me like an old friend. Fuck yeah!
I scanned the room, my eyes adjusting to the dim light.
A sea of wary faces stared back at me, some curious, others hostile.
I could feel their eyes on my colors and my scars, sizing me up.
Let 'em look. I've seen worse than this Podunk shithole.
Moving towards the bar with measured steps, I felt the weight of a dozen gazes on my back.
The bartender, a burly guy with more ink than skin, eyed me cautiously.
"Whiskey," I said, my voice rough from the road. Fuck, it felt good to be in a shitty bar with shitty people.
As he poured, my attention was drawn to the TV mounted above the bar.
The screen flickered, showing a face that made my blood boil.
It was Charles fucking Stansfield. That smug bastard was sitting next to some Louisiana senator, both of them looking like cats who'd just swallowed a whole damn aviary.
"...and we believe it's time to take decisive action against these motorcycle gangs," Stansfield was saying, his voice dripping with faux concern. "They're a menace to society, Senator. A cancer that needs to be cut out."
My fists clenched involuntarily, knuckles turning white. I could feel the rage building in my chest, threatening to explode. But I kept my face impassive, years of practice kicking in. Inside, though? I was ready to put my fist through that TV screen.
"Fuckin' politicians," the bartender muttered, sliding my drink over. "Think they know everything."
I knocked back the whiskey in one gulp, savoring the burn. "They don't know shit," I spat, my eyes still fixed on Stansfield's smug face. "But they're about to learn."
The bartender raised an eyebrow. "You got history with them types?"
I turned to face him, my eyes hard. "Let's just say I've got some lessons to teach.
" As I contemplated ordering another whiskey, a tall, broad-shouldered man approached.
His leather cut bore the familiar patch of the Royal Bastards MC, but from a chapter I didn't recognize.
He gave me a nod, his eyes flickering with recognition.
"You're Vin Reed, ain't ya?" he said, his voice hoarse from too much cigarette smoke. "Brock Reid, VP, St. Louis Chapter. Heard you might be rollin' through."
I sized him up, noting the weathered lines on his face and the hard glint in his eyes. This wasn't some prospect or weekend warrior. Brock had miles on him, just like me. He was also one big motherfucker.
"That's right," I replied, extending a hand. "What brings St. Louis to this shithole?"
Brock’s grip was firm as he shook my hand. "Same thing that brings most of us anywhere—trouble and pussy," he chuckled darkly. "Nah, truth is, I'm on a supply run. Got some... merchandise... to pick up for the club."
I nodded, understanding the unspoken details. We settled onto adjacent barstools, a silent camaraderie forming between us.
"Heard some wild shit about you, man," Brock continued, signaling for a beer. "That business in Arizona? Fucking legendary. Almost drove out there to see the fucking crater left in the ground."
I felt a twinge in my chest, memories of blood and betrayal flashing through my mind. "Yeah, well, legends have a way of getting people killed." I shrugged. “Sorry, a lot of shit on my mind.”
Brock leaned in closer, his voice low. "Word is, you've got some scores to settle. That why you're here in bumfuck Kentucky?"
I studied him for a moment, weighing how much to reveal. Something about Brock’s straightforward manner put me at ease. "Let's just say I'm looking for someone. Someone I thought was long gone."
He nodded, understanding in his eyes. "Ain't that always the way? Past has a way of crawling out of the grave, don't it?"
"You got no fucking idea," I replied, thinking of my own impossible resurrection.
The creak of the bar's door caught my attention, and I turned to see a group of college kids stumble in, their laughter too loud, their voices grating.
I looked around at the other patrons, most rough assholes but a few were also college students.
"Fuck me," I said, catching Brock’s eye.
"Looks like amateur hour just rolled in. "
Brock snorted, taking a long pull from his beer. "Ten bucks says one of those dipshits tries to play big man within five minutes, thinking his grape-sized balls are the size of baseballs. Shit happens every time I come through here. And every time, I got to set them straight."
I didn't take the bet. The way these trust fund babies were eyeing us, trouble was brewing faster than the piss-water they called beer in this joint.
"Hey, grandpa!" one of the punks called out, his khaki shorts and popped collar screaming 'daddy's money.' "Isn't it past your bedtime?"
I felt my jaw clench, but kept my cool. Brock tensed beside me, but I gave him a subtle shake of my head. Not yet.
"You lost, boy?" I asked, my voice tinged with just enough warning that it gave him pause. "Daycare's down the street."
The kid's face flushed red, his buddies snickering behind him. "You think you're tough, old man? Why don't you and your boyfriend there take your midlife crisis somewhere else?"
I could feel the familiar fire building in my gut, the itch in my knuckles begging to teach this prick a lesson. But I'd been around long enough to know when to pick my battles.
"Listen up, you entitled little shits," I growled, standing slowly.
The kid's bravado faltered as I towered over him.
"I've pissed tougher men than you off my boots.
So why don't you take your watered-down courage and fuck off before I decide to show you what real pain feels like?
" I could see the conflict in the kid's eyes.
The alcohol-fueled bravado warring with his survival instinct.
His friends shifted nervously, suddenly realizing they might have bitten off more than they could chew.
The kid's fist came out of nowhere, a sloppy haymaker aimed at my jaw. I ducked it easily, muscle memory kicking in as I pivoted and drove my elbow into his sternum. He let out a wheezing gasp and crumpled.
"Shit's on now," I muttered, as his buddies surged forward.
Brock was at my back in an instant, our movements fluid and synchronized like we'd ridden together for years. A bottle whistled past my ear and I caught a glimpse of Brock snatching it mid-air, smashing it across some frat boy's face. "Just like old times, eh?" he chuckled darkly.
I grunted, ducking under a wild swing and driving my fist into a soft gut.
"Less talking, more punching." The world narrowed to a blur of fists and bodies.
I felt alive, that familiar rush of adrenaline singing through my veins.
A kid tried to tackle me and I used his momentum to throw him over the bar, glasses shattering as he landed.
Brock and I moved like a well-oiled machine, covering each other's blind spots, tag-teaming the punks who thought they could take us. It wasn't just about winning the fight; it was about sending a message. We were brothers, forged in blood and gasoline, and you didn't fuck with that bond.
"Behind you!" Brock called out. I dropped low, feeling the whoosh of air as a pool cue sailed over my head. In one fluid motion, I swept the legs out from under the attacker, hearing the satisfying thud as he hit the floor.
As the last of the college boys stumbled away, clutching various body parts, I couldn't help but grin at Brock. "Not bad for a couple of old-timers, huh?"
He clapped me on the shoulder, his eyes gleaming with the same post-fight high I was feeling. "Damn straight. These punks don't know what real brotherhood looks like."