2. Gator #3
Every day I thought of Emma, I questioned my decision to have her move on a million times.
But in the end, I decided I was just being a selfish bastard.
The woman was eighteen years old; she didn’t need to put her life on hold for a motherfucking bastard in prison, possibly for the next twenty years.
She deserved the life she always wanted, complete with a yard full of kids.
Emma was raised in the suburbs and made straight A’s.
She was a member of the drama club and choir and never got into any real trouble a day in her life.
Even though Beaver didn’t raise her, Emma still had two generations of Heathen blood rushing through her veins.
The girl was so good for so long that she was going to snap.
She vibrated with the need to be free. When I first saw her, she looked like a scared mouse in the lion’s den, yet she still held her head high.
I could see the trepidation in her eyes, though. She was at war with herself.
But my pet flourished under my touch. She knew she could be wild with me, and I would keep her safe. The first time I pulled out a joint around her, I thought she was going to have a stroke. She exclaimed, “That’s drugs,” and I laughed so hard I cried.
Hell, one night we ran from the cops on my bike.
I had that bike wide open, full throttle, and that beautiful, crazy woman had her head leaned back, roaring with laughter, holding on to me, trusting me with everything she had, believing I was going to make sure she made it out okay.
When I looked back in the side mirror and saw her wide smile with those red and blues flashing behind us, I knew she was the one.
By the time we got away, she was so turned on I had to pull off a back road and fuck her over the side of my bike.
One thing about my pet is that no matter who she found to spend her life with, he needed to keep the wind in her hair, so to speak.
Emma has a secret rebel streak a mile long.
She was perfect for me. Good ol’ lady and momma material, and that did it for me.
She had one side the world saw and another that only I could ignite.
By the time I found out I was being charged with aggravated assault, not murder, it was too late.
While I was still locked up, Rock came in one day to break the news to me.
Emma was having a baby with someone else.
He learned from Beaver, who was bragging to Stud, that Beaver would someday love being a grandpa.
What a kick in the gut. While I was waiting to find out whether John was going to live or die, my pet wasted no time moving back to Little Rock with her mom and getting knocked up by the luckiest fuck in the world.
Even after being sentenced to only four years, I never reached out.
I can’t tell you how often I almost broke down and called her, but the thought of her being happy was enough to keep me away.
I did eighteen months, with time served after a generous donation to the Judge’s bank account.
With good behavior, I got out early, which seemed to be the only break I would be given.
I had an entirely different upbringing than my woman.
Something that should never have been the reason we worked, but it was.
She gave me that soft space, while I gave her the matches to burn the world.
I had a concept of what the MC was at a young age.
Especially in my teen years, not much was shielded from me.
I had been groomed to take over the gavel one day, just as my grandfather had groomed my father.
Truthfully, in my little mind growing up, the MC was filled with rowdy, bearded, goofy uncles who rode Harleys and had my back.
I idolized them. I loved them like they were my family, because they were.
It wasn’t until I was prospecting that I saw them for who they truly were, ruthless criminals.
My family has always been defined by loyalty, not by blood.
I only understood the true meaning of brotherhood and loyalty behind the patch as I grew older.
I began to grasp the magnitude and power of loyalty.
Simply put, it means always wanting the best for your brother, however that looks, and having his back to the end.
But loyalty is a fickle thing. It has the power to bring down even the strongest MCs.
What's that saying? A chain is only as strong as its weakest link.
Yeah, well, right now I feel like the weakest link.
My father has been shot, the love of my life is in someone else's bed, my head is a mess, and I’m expected to lead a nation of outlaws. Fuck.
I take a long, soothing drag from the cigarette pinched between my lips as smoke rolls into my eyes, making me squint as I add the final shading to Tiny’s reaper tattoo.
I dip the needle into the small cap of ink, the machine buzzing steadily in my hand as the black lines come to life on his skin.
With each pass, I wipe away the excess blood and ink, switching needles to shade in the details, making sure every line is sharp and clean.
The familiar rhythm of the gun in my hand calms my nerves, giving me a sense of purpose even as chaos swirls both inside and outside the room.
What started as me tattooing Tiny turned into an impromptu meeting with the council members.
“Allie was released this morning. She got home a few hours ago. We sat Cole down and told him a little about what’s going on.
No major details, just that Pop is in the hospital and we have a sister.
” Three nights ago, my father was shot in his ol’ lady’s boutique by a jealous club slut.
He was there to pick up Allie to buy a crib for their new baby.
Allie ended up shooting the bitch after Candy shot my dad.
The trauma sent Allie into preterm labor, so my new baby sister is now fighting for her life in the NICU as well.
She may not live, and even if she does, she may never meet our pop.
“They’re Heathens, brother. They’ll pull through,” Rock says. I nod, my hope masked as agreement. I lean back in my wheeled chair, stub out my cigarette in the nearby ashtray, then survey my work. I wipe away the blood and ink, then press the pedal to start the machine again.
“As you guys know, the club is packed right now. We have about forty members from other states on the compound. Some brought old ladies and kids. Some even brought a few RVs to stay in. More will be pouring in. Stud getting shot has been plastered all over the news. Everyone knows. The media finding out and airing it on every station has ensured that. Right now, the club is compromised by outsiders. Any other club may think this is the time to try to take our territory. We need to keep our heads on a swivel. Rock, make sure we have people running security and doing perimeter checks.”
“Already on it,” Rock says. “The club is locked down. No one not directly affiliated with the club is getting in. The ol’ ladies have stepped in to make sure everyone has what they need and a place to sleep.
The club is running like a well-oiled machine with no major hiccups.
The armory is also being cleaned and oiled.
Inventory has already been taken. All distribution has been rerouted, and other charters are helping until we get our boots up under us. ”
“Good. We can’t afford any surprises right now, but business still needs to continue. People still need to know we are operating. It needs to look as if we are operating as usual. All done, hoss; just let me get you cleaned up. You know the drill for your aftercare.”
Tiny nods in acknowledgment. “Sounds good, Boss.” He stands from the chair, stretching his arms wide and rolling his shoulders, easing the tension from hours of sitting still while I worked on his tattoo.
I watch as he shakes out his hands, flexing his fingers, the relief obvious in his movements.
The strain of holding himself steady during the session has clearly taken its toll, and as he straightens, he lets out a deep breath and rubs the back of his neck.
I cringe internally at him calling me Boss, careful not to let it show on my face, knowing the title carries a weight I don’t feel prepared for.
“I’m going to grab a shot, toke me some green, and get some shut-eye.
Call me if any of y'all need me.” The brothers nod.
They come over to inspect my work, slap me on the back, and file out.
I toss the used supplies and gloves in the trash and put my equipment away, stowing my tattoo machine in its case.
The muffled sounds of laughter and conversation filter in from the main hall, reminding me of the circus outside, but for a brief moment, the tattoo room feels like a sanctuary.
“Appreciate you still keeping our appointment tonight, man.” Tiny rumbles as he slides his shirt back on.
I shrug my Kutte over my shoulders, plop back into my chair, and fish out a joint from my pocket, already feeling the tension ease.
Tonight, with everything swirling outside, including club business, security worries, the pain of my father's shooting, and Emma’s memory clawing at my chest, I need this small moment of calm before I face the world again.
“No problem, brother. I appreciate you letting me clear my head a bit.” I light my joint, sucking the thick smoke down into my lungs, then offer it to Tiny, who gladly takes it after two hours in my chair.
Doing tattoos has always been therapeutic for me; it calms me.
After we finish the joint, I lock up my tattoo room, and we walk out into the main hall.
The atmosphere is more somber than usual, but it’s still crowded, with music still flowing through the speakers mounted to the ceiling.