Chapter 1
Axle
Iwas twenty-four and working construction in North Dakota when I met Solomon Zucca. He was the same age as me, but we were total opposites. I was quiet, blonde, around six foot with blue eyes. Often referred to as the boy next door in looks.
He was dark. Dark hair, beard, eyes, covered in tattoos, and the life and soul of a party. He was also a huge nerd, and a massive Star Wars fan.
The day that changed our lives began the night he burst excitedly into the apartment we were subletting with a few other guys and persuaded me to prospect with him for the Saint’s Outlaws Motorcycle Club.
I’d been sceptical at first, but what did I have to lose?
The girl I wanted to spend my life with was in the wind, and I had no way of finding her.
I had no family left to speak of, and I was tired of travelling around the country working odd jobs.
I wanted to settle somewhere, and the Dakotas was as good a place as any.
Turned out to be the best decision I’d ever made. I loved being a brother, and that’s where I made my home.
I got the club name Axle when I was a prospect, working in the garage. It wasn’t for any particular reason—I just had an affinity for anything with an engine. Cars, bikes, trucks—it didn’t matter. If it ran, I was happy to tear it apart and put it back together.
I was twenty-eight when I was made manager of the garage, and that’s where I stayed. I was considered one of the older members of the club, even though at forty-six I didn’t feel all that old. But when your president is still in his thirties, I guess anyone over forty is considered ‘old.’
I was never one who wanted to climb the ranks. I was content being a member, surrounded by my brothers and their families. The club wasn’t just a patch on my back—it was my life, my home. I had nothing else.
Out of all my brothers, I was still closest to Solomon, who as a prospect had been given the name Roman.
His mother was from the Philippines and his father was Italian.
His name used to bother him and he’d never said why.
Not that the name bothered him anymore—hell, I think he’d grown into it and even liked it now.
When the club offered us the chance to build on their land, we took it without hesitation.
Having a house on club property just made sense.
It kept us close to the people who mattered most, and for guys like us with no families or the prospect of one, that kind of closeness was something we needed. It kept us sane.
Our club wasn’t like many of the other clubs. We had money, and by that I meant we had a lot. Legal money that is.
Maverick, our Pres’s family owned a fair amount of land that they’d used to ranch, but his grandfather had found oil on it. This meant that his family was wealthy.
That being said, his family was also wild, and owning legitimate businesses didn’t cut it for them. I guess once an outlaw, always an outlaw.
His grandfather had been part of a small motorcycle club that he’d started with a few of his military brothers after Vietnam.
They’d been a small one percent club, and when Maverick's father had taken over as President, he’d been the one to patch us over to the Saint’s Outlaws.
We’d grown over the years, and while we still had our finger in many legitimate businesses in Stonepoint including the garage I ran, it was our less than legal businesses that kept the brothers flush with cash.
A gnat couldn’t fart in Stonepoint without us knowing about it. It was our town. Owned by us and run by us.
On the outskirts of the town, we’d built a casino and hotel.
While on the surface this was a legitimate business, we used it to launder money for a fee.
We'd funded the casino to get it built on tribal land, but on paper, it was owned by Carnage, our Sergeant at Arms, who was also a member of the reservation.
The only business that we had that nobody but brothers knew about was run by Spook, our VP.
Ex-CIA, although that was kept under the radar. Only brothers knew what he’d been doing when he wasn’t home. He was a local boy and best friend to our president, Maverick.
Guns for hire wasn’t something we advertised, and we didn’t take all the jobs that came our way, only the ones that we knew needed to be done.
Mostly the brothers were kept out of it unless there was a danger to the club.
Since that had only happened once when a cartel boss had been taken out, we sometimes forgot about that particular business.
Spook had prospected with the club and been a full brother when he’d been headhunted. It always surprised me that the alphabet agencies didn’t seem to care that he was part of a one-percenter motorcycle club.
We were used to him disappearing for months at a time and hadn’t known he was seeing anyone. Not until a woman had arrived at our clubhouse one day and handed over two car seats to Maverick with a note for Luca Read and forms signing over his sons to him. They’d been six weeks old.
Hats off to him, he’d done what he’d had to and somehow extracted himself from the CIA and come home to be a father. Taking his place as VP. The boys were now two, and hell on wheels running around the clubhouse. I guess being brought up by a bunch of men that didn’t know any better would do that.
***
I’m broken from my memories when Roman connects with me over our Bluetooth. “Are you ready to stop for something to eat?”
Now that he’s mentioned stopping, I realise I’m starving. “Yeah, the diner’s up ahead. We’ll stop there.”
The two of us had taken a day off to go for a ride. It was something we did every now and then. If there was anything I loved more than dismantling a bike, it was riding it. It gave me time to think, or as today went… take a trip down memory lane.
We slow down as we enter the town an hour from Stonepoint, and park in front of the diner. Removing our helmets, we look around. We’ve been to this town a few times and never had any problems, but that didn’t mean we wouldn’t keep an eye out.
“Looks okay,” Roman mutters, swinging a leg over his ride. He stretches, and I grimace when I hear his back crack.
“Fuck sakes man, you should get that checked out. You crack more than crispies.”
“I know,” he chuckles, slapping my back as I stand next to him, “getting old is shit.”
“Not sure who you’re calling old,” I say, walking toward the door. “I’m a man in my prime.”
“Oh, I’ll say you are, honey,” Lala smirks at me as I turn around.
“Hey, Lala. How are you, gorgeous?” I buss a kiss to her cheek as I walk past.
“Enough of that you,” she grins and pats her white hair.
Lala is a fixture in this diner, has been for about fifty years.
She still wears bright blue eyeshadow from the seventies, and pink lipstick that I’m sure she wore as a teenager.
She and her husband have run this diner forever.
He passed away a few years ago, and Roman and I made a point of stopping in every few months to check on her.
“Everything been okay, darlin’?” Roman asks, sliding into the seat opposite me.
“Nothing new to report,” she smiles, filling up our coffee cups. “You boys want the special? It’s smothered pork chops, green beans, and mashed potatoes. There's pecan pie for dessert.”
“Sounds good to me,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee.
“I’ll let Les know, and bring them out when they’re ready.”
“Thanks La,” I reply.
She’s true to her word, delivering our food in short order. Roman and I are quiet as we eat. We finish it off with the pie, then pay and leave, making sure that Lala knows to call us if she needs anything.
I’m putting my helmet on when I swear I hear the echo of familiar laughter. Laughter I’ve not heard in twenty-eight years.
I let my hand holding the helmet fall to my side and I step away from my bike as I look around, but can’t see anything out of the ordinary. Certainly, no blonde hair.
“You okay, bud?” Roman asks.
“Yeah,” I mutter, unsettled, and return to my bike. “I thought I heard someone I knew once.”
His dark eyes meet mine. He knows my history, and a few years ago he’d encouraged me to hire a private investigator. I had, but he’d not been able to find anything on Angel. “You still look for her?”
“Not as much anymore but yeah, every now and then I still ask.”
“Check with Lala, you won’t rest easy until you do.”
“You reckon?”
“Axle, I know you. We’ve been friends for over twenty years. Go show her the picture.”
Tipping my chin in agreement, I turn and walk back into the diner.
Lala turns to look at me with surprise, “Did you forget something, sugar?”
Slipping my hand into my pocket, I take out the picture that I’ve carried near my heart for twenty-eight years.
It’s a picture of me and Angel at one of the many fairs our small town held.
We’re standing wrapped in each other’s arms with her curvy body held tight against me, and she’s laughing at the camera. A friend took it for us.
I hold it out to Lala. “Have you seen anyone that looks a little like her? She’d be forty-six, her name's Angel, or at least it was.”
Lala’s eyes flick from me to the photo and back again. “Is this you with her sugar?”
“Yeah, I’ve been looking for her for twenty-eight years,” I admit.
Lala looks up at me. “Someone that could have been her was in here a few days ago. She came in with two other women younger than her. They were going to look at a business a few towns over. They didn’t say which town or where. You want me to call you if they come in again? I can stall them.”
Hesitating, I take the photo back from her and look at it for a second. “Yeah, Lala, call me.”
“Twenty-eight years is a long-time, sugar. That's why you never got involved with anyone?”
“Yeah,” I nod my head. “I gave my heart away a long time ago. Just didn’t seem right, you know? To start up a relationship with anyone else. I find company when I feel the need, but they always know the score.”
“No need to explain,” she pats my arm. “I’ll call you if they come in again.”
“Thank you, Lala,” I say, kissing her cheek before I turn and walk out the door to my bike.
“Anything?” Roman asks.
“Not sure,” I reply. “Maybe. We’ll see.”
“Fair enough, let's get back. Pres has called church.”
Fastening my helmet, I start my bike and ride out of town towards Stonepoint.
For the first time in years, I feel a spark of hope.