Chapter 26 – Grayson Hollingsworth
Chapter Twenty-Six
Grayson Hollingsworth
Kylie told me I couldn’t call the Jamaican man those bad names anymore. I know that his name is Renshaw Presley, but I don’t see why I owe him any dignity, especially if they’re gonna want me to kill the bastard down the line. I have to think long term.
There’s still blood on my lip from that incident.
My patch-in had better be worth taking this shit from a woman.
How was I supposed to know that I couldn’t go all the way?
Listen, I don’t believe in those words or racism or anything like that.
I just thought they might get under his skin.
I’m not a racist. Kylie left a good slap on my cheek after calling me that.
How can I be racist? She doesn’t know the kind of life I lead.
If she knew what I did out in the desert with Ruger and Zeb, she wouldn’t be calling me racist. We put all those Iron Frontier MC grunts on their knees and Zeb tested out, “I have a dream motherfucker,” before he shot the first one. It was fucking hilarious.
I don’t talk as much as the Blackwood boys so when it came my turn to drop a couple ICE agents, I didn’t bother with all of that.
Ruger told me that I should at least say a prayer, but I don’t think I’m going to be getting into heaven, no matter how hard I pray.
Best chance I stand is having a daughter who can’t possibly inherit my wild spirit.
Renshaw stinks up the trunk. I stop to check on him on the trip west. Oklahoma.
Cody promises if I get this done right, he’ll put a good word in for me to get patched-in.
Not like it’s just his word that counts – hence why I drove out from California to help the Blackwood boys put some Iron Frontier bikers in the ground.
When I open it up, he looks at me with wild, crazy fucking eyes. I have him tied up pretty good with duct tape across his mouth. Kylie told me he hurt a woman.
“You okay in there, buddy?”
His eyes nearly pop out of his head as he tries to scream the duct tape off.
“Enjoy the fresh air. I need a smoke.” I lean against the open trunk, catching a glimpse of my face in the mirror as I reach into my back pocket for a Marlboro.
I look terrible. My face hasn’t been the same since the accident.
I can finally grow my beard over the start of the large scar, but the rest of it scrapes clean across my cheek, over my eye and across my brow.
Coming from a family of stereotypically tempestuous redheads, I always wanted to stand out but not with a mug like this.
I’m lucky I still have a nose – even if it’s crooked now.
The nicotine couldn’t hit my blood faster.
I try to hold off as long as I can on the road without stopping but cigarettes are just about the only thing making it tolerable to transport cargo like this across state lines.
He tries wriggles around while I smoke until it pisses me off and I threaten to slam the trunk on him if he fucks with me like that again. I get on my way again after smoking, but I can’t shake a strange, uneasy feeling that I’m being followed. Can’t explain it, just an odd sense.
I don’t think that I’m doing anything important enough to be followed and I eventually shake the feeling for a couple hours right until I need my next smoke break.
My time-sensitive nicotine craving overpowers me, and I stop at one of the abandoned Shaw gas stations about fifty miles away from the Oklahoma border.
Can’t remember why this one went out of business – most likely got sold off to pay a gambling debt knowing the Shaw boys.
Mr. Presley knows that I stopped the car so he starts fussing around back there, and I pop the trunk open again.
“Quit rustling around or I’ll shut it again,” I warn him sternly. “Remember, you ain’t nothing to me but a problem.”
I hear an engine. That sense of being followed returns. I reach into my clean leather cut for my compact 9mm Sig Sauer P229. I bought my double-action semi-automatic baby girl at a gun show in Texas last year after the last fall club meeting.
“You hear that, Renshaw?” I mutter. “Looks like we’ve got company.”
There’s one road in, one road out. This particular gas station is enough of a distance off the exit that without a looming neon gas sign, there would be no reason to stop here other than knowing the property owners and needing a cigarette – unless of course, you were the sorry sucker following me.
In that case, you might have made the mistake of showing up here.
I toss my half-smoked Marlboro onto the concrete, crushing the sunset tip with the heel of my ostrich-skin Ariat boots.
A small, beat up Honda motorcycle putters to a stop in front of me.
Small man on that bike. I keep my hand on the gun but at this point, see no reason to overreact.
Who is this sorry sucker? The bike wobbles, barely in this guy’s control as he kicks the stand down.
Something strange about the way he kicks the stand down.
I keep the trunk open in case I have to get rid of my prisoner quickly.
I watch as the guy reaches for a weapon and comes running towards me swinging some Glock 19 wildly. I feel oddly calm.
The small man stops about ten feet away from me.
I keep a hand on my gun in case I need to make something happen quickly.
He takes his helmet off and I’ll be damned – that is not a man at all.
Those clothes aren’t exactly flattering but once she takes the helmet off, I see the angry, tawny-colored face of a black woman with hazel eyes.
“Put your hands up, asshole.” I don’t believe the Glock is loaded, honestly.
It might be a strange gamble, but I have an instinct about those kinds of things.
I’m not taking my hand off my weapon, that’s for sure.
Who is this woman? She doesn’t look like a biker – but she does look a bit like the man in my trunk.
“Are you here for Renshaw Presley?” I ask her calmly.
“Hands. Up,” she says, trembling slightly.
I grin. “Can’t we be civilized?”
Looking at this woman – I strongly doubt that we can.