Tethered By The Sea (Saltbone Sinners MC #1)

Essential Tales

Illusion or imagination? For many years after my father was murdered, that was my life’s pivotal question.

That day, the one before I was to be immersed into heartbreaking darkness, was ironically illuminated by the sun and a happiness only this little boy could muster.

On the back of Dad’s Harley, warm sunrays shined down on me, possibly wanting to provide me strength for all that was to come.

Maybe that’s why it shined down on us all, including Dad’s brothers who followed him, in more ways than one.

No, they weren’t a blood family, but a brotherhood—a loyalty no amount of money could buy.

And now, for the very first time, on my tenth birthday, I was a part of that comradeship.

Dad had said it was an extremely special day for his son to finally be old enough to enter a part of his life where only a select few were invited.

I was honored beyond belief. Especially since it was with five of his MC officers—men who, until this day, I had only known as my uncles.

Right before I got onto Dad’s bike, bumping each fist eagerly, they each gave silent encouragement before my initiation into a world of leather, chrome, and adrenaline-fueled adventure.

Feeling the bike’s rumble underneath us, I peeked around Dad’s back and studied his right side-view mirror’s reflection.

In it was a line of four bikes. My happy-go-lucky ‘uncles’ now transformed.

Majestic, bold, powerful, and filled with pride, they rode with the wind whipping their clothes and leather as the sun’s intense glare bounced off the lenses of their sunglasses.

Tall in their saddles, they chased a freedom that could only be found on two wheels.

I swallowed with awe, hoping one day I would have my own Harley and ride with the same power and control. “One day you will,” my father had promised when I asked after breakfast.

“Best birthday ever,” I had announced before he ruffled my brown hair and secured my helmet.

My brand-new black leather Harley boots barely contained my eager toes as I stood on the pavement, watching my larger-than-life dad load onto his bike. Then, while he tied his yellow skullcap, aka skully, around his head, he gave me an encouraging lift of his chin.

It was finally time.

Without a pause, I settled behind him, heart pounding with raw joy. A motor’s rumble welcomed me as if he, too, had been waiting as long as I. Then more engines thundered, sounding eager to be a part of this day as wheels began to turn underneath us.

While traveling down a road with the four Harleys behind, another bike roared beside us to Dad’s right.

It was his vice president, Uncle Styx. Until today, I had believed Styx to be his real name.

Now I was learning it was his ‘road name’, although I hadn’t been told why.

I didn’t push for answers. I didn’t dare.

Not out of fear of these men, but from the feisty woman who meant the world to me.

Noma, my grandmother, had finally given me permission to get on the back of my father’s bike, and I didn’t want her to change her mind.

Even though Dad was the president of a deadly one-percenter motorcycle club, he never crossed the woman who had raised me for him.

I believe this was because of his respect for the fifty-five-year-old woman who had the wisdom and foresight of a person having been on Earth since the age of dinosaurs.

Her strict instructions were that there was to be no club business on this ride. Her nervous hands had wrung as she warned, “It’s too soon.” 1

Dad had promised she was wrong. That I’d be safe.

However, when you walk the edge of the illegal world, no guarantee can ever be fail-safe.

No promises keep anyone from harm’s razor-sharp and malice-filled ways.

I think Dad’s elderly vice president was immediately reminded of this when the sound of a gunshot sung out to us, like a melody full of ill fortune.

His long gray goatee blew in the wind as he peered over his left shoulder to get a view of our line of bikes for protection. A line that now felt far too short.

We were outnumbered, five to one.

Whoever was behind my uncles had already taken down one of them. When a bullet hit him in the back, it threw his upper body and his bike to the side. There was nothing I could do but watch over my right shoulder as his bike dragged him across that pavement and into a shallow ditch.

Witnessing my uncles yell for their brother, the pain, almost a collective howl, was felt in my bones as they rode on. There was no saving that life. Like hyenas sensing weakness, a group of enemy bikers headed straight for him with guns drawn. They were making sure he was dead.

“Goddammiiiit!” yelled Dad, at the horror that he couldn’t stop. I caught a slight tremble of his body as he gripped the handlebars. Emotions I could barely grasp swept through him with the intensity that flashed over both our bodies.

The single-lane roads weren’t busy, but the few cars present were screeching and U-turning as if they wanted to flee far away from the gore of the crimes that couldn’t be unseen.

It felt like slow motion, yet it was all happening with the speed of lightning. I don’t think I had a chance to inhale before more bullets rang out.

Clearly not needing the time I did to comprehend what was happening, Styx’s eyes raced to mine. They were full of love and… stifling fear. His sight rose to deliver a silent apology to my father.

The back of Dad’s tied skully flapped in the wind while he stared at Styx. So much more was being shared than what a young boy could understand.

My stomach tightened with terror as Styx slowed his bike to give my dad and me a head start.

Wait… Wait! My small hand reached out for him. “Uncle Styx!”

He didn’t stop, as unconditional love doesn’t know how.

Unable to look away, I watched Styx pull a gun from under his black leather vest. What I saw next could only be crudely described as Dad’s club being caught with their pants down.

Seconds earlier, these men had been happily celebrating me being on this earth for a decade—a distraction that would cost them—us… everything.

As soon as I saw Styx’s body jolt from a bullet hitting him, my face quickly pressed into Dad’s back. I cared too deeply for the man. Watching him die was beyond what my youthful mind could handle.

The bike under me bellowed as loud as Dad did. From under my arms, held tight around his waist just like I had promised Noma they would be, I could feel his scream of rage because he had to leave his chosen family to face a fight without him.

He had to save his son.

As another bullet eerily sang its fury from behind us and tears burned my innocent eyes, guilt chased me as hard as our enemy was chasing Dad and his brothers.

With a sense of the grim future no one had the power to change, my father gripped my hands in front of his waist, silently begging them to hold tight, then torqued his throttle even harder, speeding us toward the only hope we had.

Dad had recently bought an old run-down shopping strip that he was in the process of renovating to be his new clubhouse.

It proudly stood, even with chipped paint and broken windows, on a peninsula.

Dad dodged traffic, making fast turns until we were on the last road we needed.

The bike beelined toward a bridge—the only way to enter the almost-island by land.

Ears ringing with adrenaline, I barely heard Dad yelling into a cellphone, informing the rest of his men about the tragedy we had left behind.

I didn’t need my hearing abilities to see bikes pulling onto the road once we passed them.

Dad demanded his bike go even faster, and I knew they weren’t the MC brothers he was hoping to see.

Dangerously swerving around cars to get space between us and the ones wanting us dead, Dad purposely caused panicked drivers to slam on their brakes.

With the sudden speed change, cars were all spinning awkwardly and blocking the road.

Mentally, I exhaled in relief because the chaos had enemy bikers slamming on brakes and running off the road to save themselves from an accident.

With a false sense of security, I looked forward to seeing us getting closer to the two-lane bridge. I prayed we’d live through this as the bike charged upward and onward, climbing the bridge, desperate to get us to the protection of other brothers and the clubhouse.

Is it a cruel world or cruel fate to feel as though you’ve been handed life’s gift only to have it ripped from your na?ve fingers?

Just this morning, being on the back of Dad’s bike had been a dream come true, yet now I was to learn destiny is nothing but one powerful lesson after another.

One to learn from. To grow by. To find the true message in all that’s worth fighting for.

This lesson was to start with a horrific explosion.

One second, there was a bridge supporting Dad and me.

The next second, the whole bridge was in pieces, soaring upward and outward, insisting I conform to the blast. I have no recollection of releasing my fingers and letting go of my father.

I have no memory of where his body and bike were forced to move as we separated, me clutching at the empty air.

It hadn’t been guns that were our only enemy of the day. Instead, the sensation of being violently propelled into the air was all-consuming. As my smaller body went higher, the cloudless blue sky got so close I was sure I’d soon be able to touch it.

Until my descent began.

From impossibly high in the air, I could feel Earth sucking me back in with a power that had me reach out to the sun, hoping it could help me by stopping this merciless fall.

That is when I noticed I was gripping Dad’s yellow skullcap in my right hand.

The sun may not have been able to help me, but I continued to hold this part of my dad with me as my descent picked up speed.