Chapter 5
Diablo
I make my way downstairs to the main room of the clubhouse, and I stop at the wall of our fallen brothers. Their photos are a reminder of what we’ve lost as a club, as a family. Pouring out a shot of whiskey from the bottles we keep alongside them, I take my time looking them each in the eyes.
Some were lost to road collisions or accidents, others were killed in the line of work; running guns and drugs isn’t the profession for you if you’re hoping for a long life. The rest were lost to murder, whether during fights with other clubs, or at the hands of law enforcement.
Our relationship with the local police still isn’t a good one, they don’t believe we’ve gone legit and still watch us like hawks, especially when we’re on rides.
You’d think they’d have better things to do than watch a group of mechanics ride around on motorcycles, but no.
Then again, I suppose I can’t blame them, they lost people too.
The main door opens, and El Jefe enters, also heading straight for the wall. He pours out a shot of tequila and clinks his glass against mine before we both down our shots .
“Never again,” he says, his eyes only looking at one of the photos.
I nod. “Never again.”
It became our motto after Frank went to prison and we gradually transitioned to more legit business.
We were tired of seeing people go to prison, or worse, burying people we loved.
El Jefe lost his brother during an altercation with another club.
It changed him, but as a result, it changed the values of the club for the better.
The others have already started drinking and we’ve even got some ex-members here tonight. There are no hard feelings and anytime they’re in the area they always come back around to catch up and have some fun with the girls.
I quickly check my phone before anyone greets me, opening my chat with Elizabeth.
You didn’t answer my question.
You ignoring me?
She still hasn’t hit me back, even though I messaged her yesterday and then again today; I hate that she’s left me on read. I’m not used to this, I don’t remember the last time I text a girl, and the fact that I messaged her but she’s ignoring me is pissing me off.
“Diablo!” A couple of the ex-members shout when they spot me and I make my way over.
“Hey,” I say, shaking each of their hands.
“Looking good, life treating you well?”
“No complaints here,” I say.
“And how’s your old man? Anything he needs?”
“Uh, fine the last I heard, doesn’t need anything.”
Not that I know, I haven’t spoken to Frank in nearly a year, and don’t plan to, choosing to keep contact to an absolute minimum.
“Good, that’s good,” one replies, before they both get distracted when Destiny and Daniela walk by.
I use it as a chance to escape and head to the table where the guys are sitting, listening in as they finish their conversation about a difficult customer we’ve got at the moment.
“I swear to god,” Pretty Boy says, “if he asks me for one more change to the design after I’ve finished this latest paint job, I’m gonna fucking kill him.”
“Fuck the paint,” Tank says, “I just wish he’d stop asking me to order all these random parts he finds online, which are actually shit and won’t help the bike in any way.”
Slim slams his drink down onto the table. “Fucking civilians, they watch one TV drama about a motorcycle club and think they know their shit, pisses me off.”
He rarely speaks, but when he does, it’s usually to make an angry comment about civilians. Being ex-military, he doesn’t trust people outside of that world, unless they’ve had his back in some way. We’ve all been through some pretty serious shit with him so we’re in the inner circle.
Ana and Imogen approach the table. I don’t make eye contact with either of them, so they opt to sit on the laps of Tank and Pretty Boy instead, but I can sense Imogen’s eyes on me.
I know they must have noticed and talked about the fact that I haven’t spent any time with them since before Donovan’s leaving party.
Shit, it’s been nearly two weeks since I’ve gotten laid, which is unusual for me.
I don’t know why I’ve let Elizabeth fuck with my head like this…
“Hello, earth to Diablo,” Ana says, waving her hand in front of my face .
“Sorry, what did you say?” I ask.
“I said, how is Donovan getting on at Winbrook?”
“Good, I think, he’s sent me a couple of messages, but I haven’t heard much.”
“We should call him,” Imogen says.
“Not a bad idea,” I say, taking my phone out of my pocket, noticing that there are also no new messages from someone else either.
I phone Donovan and put it on speaker, placing my phone in the center of the table, it only takes a few rings for him to answer. Dance music blares through, accompanied by the sound of what’s clearly a party. Donovan’s voice is muffled.
“Give me a moment D, just heading outside where it’s quiet.”
“Partying already?” Pretty Boy says, “I thought he was out there for some special study program for smart people?”
“He is,” I say, hoping he’s taking this opportunity seriously.
“Give him a break,” Ana says, “it’s Saturday night.”
The music coming through the speaker lessens and Donovan’s voice comes through clearly.
“Hey D, what’s up?”
“Hey, little bro,” I say, “we’re just hanging out, you’ve got the guys, Ana, and Imogen, on speaker.”
They shout their greetings down the phone, and he laughs.
“Hey everyone, I would say I’m missing you, but as you can probably hear, I’m having a blast.”
“Sounds like it,” I say, “as long as you’re using that brain of yours for work too.”
“Yeah,” Pretty Boy says, “not just to impress college chicks at parties.”
“Come on, you know me, I’m working too, I promise,” Donovan says, “wait, is Beth not there?”
The mention of her name makes my chest constrict.
“No, why?” I ask.
Donovan sighs. “I made her promise that she’d go to the clubhouse when she was invited, I don’t want her being by herself at home all weekend. I thought you invited her, Ana?”
“I did,” Ana says, “I told you I messaged her earlier.”
If Elizabeth was invited, why isn’t she here? And she hasn’t replied to my messages either. Shit, what if something bad has happened to her? I knew I shouldn’t have left her in that shady apartment complex on her own.
Fuck.
“Did she give you a reason why she couldn’t come?” Donovan asks.
“Um…” Ana says, glancing up at me, “yeah, she, uh… she said something about needing to get laid and going to the bar instead?”
Tank and Pretty Boy cheer at her words, but I’m frozen.
The thought of her in a bar by herself, picking up some random guy who could turn out to be a fucking serial killer makes me panic.
But the vision of another man kissing her and touching her makes me see red; I’m probably leaving bruises on my legs with how hard I’m digging my hands into them.
I need to fucking punch something… not to mention the fact that she replied to Ana’s message but not mine.
“Donovan,” Pretty Boy says, “which bar does she go to? If that’s the type of girl you can pick up there maybe we should go.”
I know Pretty Boy is joking, but the temptation to knock him on his ass right now is the highest it’s ever been.
“Fuck you!” Donovan says, “Seriously though, I hate the thought of her going out, especially when I’m not in town. If I’m there, she knows she can phone me if there are any issues. Maybe one of you should check in with her, she’ll be at Platinum.”
“I’ll go,” I say, “I haven’t drunk anything yet. Catch up soon, Donovan.”
I hang up before he even has a chance to reply, and without a word to anyone else I storm out of the clubhouse.
Platinum is definitely not the type of place I’d ever go.
I’m parked opposite, watching the customers sitting at their tables with their expensive cocktails and bottles of champagne.
The men are dressed in what I assume are designer suits and the women are in dresses, fancier than anything you’d ever see at the clubhouse, or any bar I’d go to that’s for sure.
So, these are the types of people Elizabeth spends her time with when she’s not with us, and she accuses me of not knowing shit about her when I call her a princess. A round in this place would probably buy ten drinks in the bars I go to.
There’s no way in hell they’ll let me in with my cut on, so reluctantly I take it off and store it in my bike’s lock box.
Luckily, I’m wearing a plain black button-up shirt with black jeans and boots, so I should be able to blend in fairly well.
Obviously, my neck tattoo is still on show, but there’s nothing I can do about that.
Striding to the entrance, I make my way in. Some kind of shitty jazz music is playing over the speakers, not the real stuff, something that’s sold as easy listening because it blends in and doesn’t offend anyone. If I spend too long here, I’ll feel like I’m stuck in a fucking elevator.
I scan the room, and it doesn’t take me long to spot Elizabeth, there’s not many people around with red hair like hers.
Tonight, she’s wearing it loose, cascading down her back in waves.
I’ve only ever seen it styled in that messy bun or braided like that night at the diner.
I hate that other men have had the chance to run their fingers through it.
She’s sitting on a stool at the main bar, and some pendejo is standing next to her. Like the other guys I’ve seen, he’s in a designer suit, and clearly goes to the gym. He’s bigger than me, about the same height, but he’s probably at least fifteen years older than her, maybe more.