Chapter 50
CHAPTER FIFTY
BULLSEYE
Tapping my foot impatiently, I stand as I wait for Woody to complete his inspection of everyone’s bikes, asking if they’ve checked their tyre pressures, and whether their tanks are topped off.
I remind myself, he’s only being thorough, as a road captain should be — though I wouldn’t be surprised if he asks everyone to confirm that they’ve used the heads.
“You ever tried that comms shit?” Prowler asks at my side.
His voice makes me jump; I hadn't heard him approach. As I turn to answer, his eyes once again seem to flicker with that yellow glow. Deciding it must be a trick of the light, I answer him. “Nah, we’re old school, not a fuckin’ weekend riding MC.
And,” I tap the half hat on my head, “That shit only works with a full face lid with the visor down.” I’ve tried using an earbud connected to my phone, but the wind, road, and engine noise make it impossible to hear anything.
“And once we hit Arizona, there’s no need to wear lids. ”
“Yeah, you’re fuckin’ lucky. Law’s tighter in Nevada. And I agree, when we’re on the road, we’re out for a ride, not a fuckin’ chit chat.” We bump fists in our mutual agreement.
“All set, Prez.” Woody finally announces.
I nod my goodbye to Prowler, having already thanked him for his hospitality, then start my engine as Woody does the same next to me.
On shorter runs in familiar territory, I lead the pack, but on long trips like today, I defer to my road captain.
He’ll have researched and memorised the best routes, especially navigating around cities.
A last salute, then we’re out on the road, leaving the strangely unnerving Nevada club in our rearview.
What it is about them that unsettles me, I can’t name.
There’s no way I can criticise the welcome they extended to us, but something tells me I wouldn’t want to have a longer stay.
Their backs at mine if we were up against trouble?
That’s another matter. I reckon they’d be the support I wouldn’t want to turn down.
Once we’re out of Vegas, I settle in for the ride, letting the sense of freedom wash over me, and our wheels eat up the pavement.
Woody might have his faults, but he’s fucking good at his job, keeping us at a steady eighty on the highways and interstate, and knowing instinctively when we need to stop before Lancelot’s Sportster runs out of gas.
The air clears my head, riding on autopilot, I let my thoughts flow freely.
Last night had been a total surprise for me — I’d had no idea Rattler had such a voice on him.
As the miles tick by, an idea emerges. Freak’s been talking about getting male strippers to put on a show at Royals to bring more female customers in, why not pair that with Rattler singing?
He’s got a voice people would pay to hear.
I grin to myself, wondering what he would say if I pitched that idea to him.
I also start to wonder whether we’ve got any other talented members hidden away, recalling Words has mentioned playing guitar previously, which at the time had washed over me.
But what if we had the makings of a band to accompany Rat’s voice?
So far it’s been a good ride. Woody, our road captain, having planned the route carefully, his route through Phoenix had avoided most of the holdups as well as keeping us away from known haunts of the pigs.
While sometimes I wonder whether Woody has the sense he was born with, when it comes to planning our long runs, he knows his shit when it comes to reading maps and determining the best routes.
He also has an almost anal fixation on making sure all the brothers’ bikes have been readied for the road.
As usual, when we’re on a long journey, he’s riding beside me today. Behind us, in formation, ride the rest of the pack, and at the rear is Paint, our tail gunner, keeping an eye out for the rest of us.
As Prez, I take pride in the club. Taking one of my regular glances into my rearview, I relish the sight of them riding in a disciplined, staggered formation.
Tempest directly behind me on the left side of the lane, Stalker rides on the right, a second behind.
The other brothers fall into the same pattern.
When exiting the highway or going through town, we seamlessly fall into single file, every man knowing his place.
The strict discipline is vital to all of us staying safe, especially as Woody has kept us to a steady eighty on the freeway. One wrong move could see bikes go down, men injured or most likely dead.
Ahead of us now is a vintage Winnebago, trundling along at a speed much slower than us.
No problem. Overtaking is a simple manoeuvre for us.
Woody extends his left arm, swinging it forward, then flicks his indicator.
I look in my rearview to check that the brothers behind are preparing to change lanes, when suddenly I spy a bike coming up on us at speed.
With the outside lane blocked, my hand backs off the throttle, and like the brothers behind me, I’m forced to brake.
Fucking hell. Has that biker got a death wish or something? They’d have to be blind not to notice our Kings of Anarchy cuts, and no one passes a one-percenter club without making sure they’re doing it respectfully and safely. This asshole has already failed on both points.
Having controlled his own machine, my road captain glances at me, and I respond with a sharp nod.
Yeah, the boys can fucking play. While normally we can’t be assed with anyone overtaking us in formation, in this case it could have been fucking dangerous.
Woody pulls out, accelerating in front of the biker who’s already almost caught up.
Taking out his get-back whip, he starts flailing at the asshole.
Paint, our tail gunner, has come up from behind, and they’ve got the fucker stuck in between them.
They start to slow. The rest of us adjust our speed, spreading out over the road.
The Winnebago gets ahead, as Woody shifts his bike right and left, and I, Tempest, Stalker and Piston come up alongside, boxing the interloper in.
Gradually, we continue to brake, forcing the motherfucker over and onto the shoulder.
Woody’s first off his bike, his get-back whip still in his hand, rhythmically and menacingly hitting his thigh.
Paint’s right there, striding forward. I dismount my bike and approach the biker who’s locked in tight, with no escape route in sight.
Rattler, having pulled up the truck behind us, motions to Jayne to stay inside while he runs up to join us as we circle around the motherfucker.
They’re wearing a full helmet, and they lift the visor. “What the fuck you playing at? You could have killed me.” The voice is gravelly, as if they’ve smoked far too many cigarettes.
“Killed you?” I growl. “You fuckin’ disrespected us. You could have wiped us out. You saw we were going to have to overtake.”
“Are you blind?” Tempest snarls. “You see this patch on our backs? We’re Kings. You should know to respect us. Now get off your fuckin’ bike.”
Any man should be quaking in their boots when faced with a group of angry Kings. Instead, this asshole twists their throttle and tries to push past us. But Stalker, still on his ride, performs a sweet blocking manoeuvre fast.
One second later, if we’d been pulling out at the speed we were travelling, this idiot’s move could have taken a number of us out. I’m not inclined to be sympathetic, nor to let him continue without being taught a lesson he won’t forget.
“Get your ass off that bike,” I growl.
The rider waits for a moment, then unbuckles the strap and pulls off their helmet.
Well, fuck me.
The face staring at me is not cowed. Instead, it looks pissed off.
The hair that’s revealed is shorn short and frames a visage hardened by life but is not unattractive.
I suck in a breath as I realise that underneath the scowl that’s being directed at me, the features are definitely more delicate than a man’s. It’s a fucking woman.
“You fuckin’ assholes.” One hand, covered in ink, sweeps over her stubbly hair while the other is raised in front of her face.
Her attention is on her wristwatch, not on me.
“You’ve no idea what you’ve fuckin’ done.
” Her bravado seems to disappear as she slumps over the handlebars.
“I’ll be too late.” Then angry eyes come up to meet mine.
“Five fuckin’ years I’ve been waiting for this. Now you… You’ve…”
I expected a male rider to be scared. Hell, anyone disrespecting a one-percenter club would be wondering whether they’ll walk away alive or, at the least, be expecting serious injury. Her though? She’s more pissed than frightened. I hate to admit it, but her reaction impresses me.
“We’ve what?” I snap.
I’m watching so closely I see all emotion fade from her face as she finally deigns to answer me. “You’ve ruined everything. And if you want to give me a beatdown, go ahead.” She shrugs. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
What the fuck?
Around me, brothers are shifting awkwardly. We never take our fists to a woman. Whatever way she’d pay for her transgression, it wouldn’t be by violence.
Placing my foot on her fender, I lean over my knee. “And just where were you heading like a bat out of hell?”
Her cheeks puff out as she sucks in air, then tosses me a look of disdain. “Don’t you ever just want to push yourself and your bike for the sheer fun of it?”
Fun. Something tells me that word and this woman don’t go together, or haven’t for a very long time.