Chapter 10 Vin
Vin
The roar of my bike's engine was a guttural hymn to the gods of asphalt as I thundered into Lexington, Brock not far behind. The city’s heartbeat pulsed against my boots, vibrating up through the chassis and into my bones.
This town didn't know it yet, but it was about to become ground zero for my comeback—a new chapter rising from the ashes of betrayal.
My eyes flicked from the shadowed alley to a neon-lit street, etching the lay of the land onto the back of my skull.
Gotta know your battlefield, right? Potential brothers in arms might've been lurking anywhere, but also threats, waiting to stick a knife where the sun doesn't shine.
You learn to read these signs when you've lived life like mine—on the edge of a blade.
I pulled up outside a dive that reeked of oil and spilled beer before even stepping inside—the kind of place where deals are made with a handshake or a fist. It was a biker bar all right, the kind that acted as a spider's web for the two-wheeled world, snaring all sorts of interesting flies.
I swung my leg over the bike, the leather of my jacket creaking in protest, or maybe anticipation.
Yeah, this was where I'd start stitching together my new brotherhood.
“Nice place,” Brock said. He chuckled and added, “Just where I want to be.” We stopped at the steps leading to the front entrance.
“Got a phone?” I asked and pulled the number from my pocket Jameson gave me. Brock pulled a phone from his saddle bag and tossed it to me.
“It’s a burner. Keep it.”
I punched in the number and waited, watching a few unsavory characters exit the bar. They watched us until they got on their bikes. One of the assholes pulled out his phone and made a call. I assumed the call was about us.
I introduced myself to the harsh voice on the other end of the phone, and the man gave me an address. He then ended the call. “Fuck. That was short and sweet.”
“Club address,” Brock said. He nodded toward the bar. “Jameson put out the word you were looking for a few good men. Most of those men are probably inside.”
“Then let's find a few good men,” I said.
The door to the bar swung open with a squeal that had seen better days, announcing my entrance like some Walmart greeter.
Heads turned, conversations stuttered to a halt, and the jukebox crooned something about hard times and bad women.
Fitting. The smell of greasy burgers and fries hit my senses right after the scent of alcohol and bikers.
Under watchful eyes, we headed to the bar.
"Whiskey, straight up," I told the bartender, sliding onto a stool with the ease of a man who's claimed more bar tops than beds. She was a tough-looking broad with eyes that said she'd heard every line twice and wasn't impressed by any of 'em.
"New in town?" she asked, voice sexy but also tinged with cigarettes.
"Looking for talent," I replied, my tone cutting through the bullshit. "Got any names worth knowing?"
Brock turned on his stool and scanned the room. I kept my eyes on the bartender.
Her gaze narrowed, appraising me like I was one more mystery to solve. She glanced at Brock "Depends on what you're looking for."
"Guys who aren't afraid to ride hard into hell if that's where the road takes 'em," I said, tipping back the whiskey and letting it scorch a trail down my throat. I was a bit shocked at the burn in my throat. Was I dead or alive? If I was dead, that shit shouldn’t have burned.
"Got a few." She rattled off names, their owners' deeds attached like grimy badges of honor.
I listened, sifting through them like a gold panner in murky waters.
Some names were fools' gold, shiny but worthless; others, though, glinted with the real deal—loyalty, grit, and the kind of backbone you can't buy or fake.
"Thanks," I grunted, laying down bills that said we were square. The drink was shit, but the intel was top-shelf.
"Good luck," she called after me, but I was already looking away.
Brock nudged me and slipped off his stool.
The door to the back room creaked open with a groan that spoke of secrets and hushed deals.
We crossed the bar, eyes still on us, and stepped through the open doorway, my boots thudding against the worn wooden floor.
The dim light in the room’s center flickered.
“Jerimiah 'Canon' Carter,” the man closest to us said, his posture as steady as a fortress wall, eyes sharp enough to cut through the haze of cigarette smoke.
He was a kickass, take names later, kind of biker.
"Vin Reed," he acknowledged, not a question but a statement like he'd been expecting the ghost of my past to saunter in all along. Jameson wasn’t shitting me when he said he had eyes and ears everywhere.
"Canon." My response was terse, a nod to the respect I held for the man who could probably shoot a fly off a whiskey bottle at fifty paces. The Glock on his hip said as much.
"Word is you're building something new," he said, words slow-cooked in thought, each syllable measured and precise. He fits the type of brother Jameson would demand of the Lexington Chapter.
"Need a VP with a head for strategy. You in?" I kept it simple, no room for bullshit between men like us. I glanced at the other men and figured they were waiting their turn to offer services.
A shadow of a smile tugged at the corner of Canon's mouth. "You planning to shake up Lexington?"
"More like a fucking earthquake," I replied, feeling the familiar thrum of anticipation. “There’s an ex-President of the United States with a target on his forehead. I plan on pulling the trigger that hits said target.”
"Then consider me your Richter scale," he said, extending a hand scarred from battles I didn't need to ask about.
"Welcome aboard, Canon."
No sooner had our handshake sealed the deal than another biker stepped up. “Dak 'Moab' Williams,” he said. The man loomed like a mountain, his presence enough to fill any room with silent strength.
"Moab," I greeted, tipping my chin up in recognition of the loyalty that pulsed like a heartbeat within him.
"Vin." His voice rumbled, deep and unyielding. "Heard you were back in the game. Can’t wait to hear how the fuck you came back from the dead." He shook his head. “My grandmother was a gypsy who believed in a lot of weird shit. I thought she was full of shit. Not anymore.”
I nodded. I wasn’t ready to talk about my resurrection just yet because I didn’t understand it in the first place. "Need a sergeant-at-arms. Someone to keep the ranks tight and the threats out," I told him, cutting straight to the chase.
"Where you lead, I follow," Moab said, the commitment in his eyes unwavering as bedrock. "To hell if necessary."
"Let's aim for victory before we court the devil," I quipped, but there was a steel thread of seriousness beneath the jest. The devil may have been the one to spit me out of the afterlife.
"Always do," he replied, and with those two words, I knew I'd gained more than just muscle; I'd secured undying loyalty.
We parted with a clasp of hands, the kind that spoke volumes more than any contract drenched in legalese.
As I strode back into the night, the pulse of the city matched the rhythm of my heart—steadfast, ready.
With Canon's mind and Moab's might, we were a force forged in darkness, set to cast shadows over Lexington's underworld.
Canon handed me an address to a nearby bar. “Find a man name Shivs.”
I took the address and gave the two men the address to our new club. Brock and I left, heading to our next destination.
“Bartender had eyes for you,” Brock said. “She’d fucked you out back in a New York minute.”
The old Vin, the one before Raven, would have fucked her the rest of the night, giving time to each hole. But that wasn’t me anymore. She had my heart tucked neatly away in hers. There wasn’t any other woman and never would be.
“I know about Raven,” Brock said. “I get it. Spend all your youth fucking every piece of pussy you can get you dick in, and then the special one shows up.” He paused for a second, nodding and looking toward the sunset. “No fucking way Stansfield lets you have her.”
“That’s why I need the right men,” I said. “Though I understand it’s my problem. I can go it alone.”
Brock laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. “Nobody in the RBMC goes it alone. Problems are shared. Problems are solved together.” We climbed on our bikes and headed out.
The night was a living thing, wrapping around me like a lover as I throttled down the humid-laden backstreets leading to The Hole in the Wall, the kind of dive where trouble brewed like cheap coffee.
Our bikes cut through the silence, announcing our arrival long before Shivs could catch sight of us.
"Reed," he greeted, his voice as gravelly as the lot we stood in. He sat on a railing outside the bar.
"Shivs." I killed the engine and swung off the bike, boots crunching on the scattered stones. "Heard you're the best navigator this side of hell."
"Depends on who's asking—and why." His eyes were sharp, hawk-like, as they met mine.
"Name's Vin Reed. Lookin' to patch together somethin' new. A chapter that ain't afraid to ride into the storm," I said, the weight of every word heavy with purpose.
"Riding's one thing. Survivin' is another," Shivs remarked, his stance relaxed but alert, like a coiled spring.
"Surviving's for those who got something to lose. We? We're gonna be the damn storm," I shot back, the edge of my vision bordered with determination.
"Got a name for this hurricane?" Shivs quirked an eyebrow, his demeanor steady as bedrock.
"Let's just say it's personal. And speaking of personal... heard Charles E. Stansfield keeps his prize horses close. Near the Interstate?"
"Shit, yeah. Thinks his money makes him untouchable," Shivs spat, disdain lacing his words. “And let’s not forget the presidential guard he keeps around.”