Chapter 5 Raiden
RAIDEN
“This the place?” Marcus squints at the flashing neon sign that promises ‘Girls Girls Girls.’ He looks as dubious as I feel, and I check the address on my phone.
“Yup.”
The Fuzzy Peach strip club is tucked down a winding alleyway off the inner city streets of Charlotte.
It’s late afternoon, not yet dusk, as a group of men weave drunkenly past us. One stops to take a piss in a doorway that leads to a vape store.
“If that piss trickles down to my bike…” Marcus shakes his head slowly, not needing to finish his sentence. I know exactly what he’ll do if piss gets on his bike, and it won’t be pretty.
“Stay here with the bikes.”
I’m not leaving my baby in a place like this. Not where there are drunk men with obviously no respect for themselves or personal property.
“Why don’t I get to see the titties, Prez?”
His grin makes it obvious he’s joking. We both know if he wanted to go to a titty bar, it wouldn’t be a rough joint like this. There are much classier establishments if you know where to find them.
“Trust me, I wish we were meeting somewhere else. Anywhere else but here,” I mutter as I watch the doorman shove a customer onto the street. The man stumbles and falls, cursing loudly. The doorman stays staunch, and the man gets to his feet and drifts off.
“Any trouble just holler,” I say to Marcus.
“You got it, Prez.”
He relaxes against his bike, the causal stance hiding the alertness that he’s trained for.
Marcus was an Army Ranger. His specialty was reconnaissance.
He’s six foot three and as solid as the logs his family mills.
His road name is Wood, and not just because of the fact that his family have run the Wild Sawmill for generations.
He’s also good with his hands, crafting little animal sculptures and ornaments out of any bit of wood he finds.
As I leave, his hands go to his pocket and he pulls out a hunk of wood and a small knife. The wing of an owl is half carved as he chips away at the piece, his knife making a skimming sound with every stroke.
I smile to myself as I walk away. There’s nothing as casually menacing as an ex-military mountain man slowly carving a chunk of wood while leaning against a badass Harley and wearing an MC patch.
The doorman eyes me up and down as I approach, then steps aside to let me pass. It’s a sign of how rough this establishment is that they let me in with my cut on.
Through the door is a short corridor, and a plastic curtain leads to the main bar. Music thumps through the floor, and it stinks like sweat and desperation.
Girls twirl on the stage looking bored as rowdy customers wave dollar bills at them. One of the girls on the stage steps away from her pole and bends down slowly to collect the money, letting one lucky customer slide it into the waist of her thong.
She looks bored and tired, and I wonder if she needs the money to feed her kids. I’d like to buy her a decent meal and find her a better job.
But it’s not the women I’m here to save.
I walk around the end of the stage and to the far side of the room, scanning the faces of the men I pass.
He’s not with the groups gathered at the side of the stage or sitting at the tables nearest the stage, which is what I expected. On the other side of the room are booths where the light doesn’t quite reach.
It’s the glint of metal that I see first, a wheelchair tucked under the end of a table. The man in the chair is slumped with his hand resting on his elbows watching the girls dance. There’re three empty beer bottles sitting on the table, and he watches the stage with glassy eyes.
“Jesus.”
The kid’s as bad as his parents told me he was. I approach the table and slide into the chair opposite him.
“Strangest place I’ve ever conducted a job interview.”
The kid lifts his dark eyes to me while never moving.
“I don’t want the job.”
His eyes move lazily back to the stage. They’re expressionless as he watches a girl swing her legs around a pole and hang upside down.
I scratch the side of my beard, taking my time. If he’s trying to shock me, it’s not going to work.
“I was in Iraq with your old man.”
The kid doesn’t even blink.
“If you’re about to give me some spiel about getting my life back, you’re wasting your breath.”
He keeps his gaze on the woman and his expression neutral.
He’s given up. I’ve seen it before, and it only make me more determined to help him.
“I told my dad I didn’t want to see you.” He looks back at me. “No offense. But I don’t need some motorcycle gang. I’m in a fucking wheelchair. I can’t ride.”
He spits the last bit out, and his bitterness is a relief. It means he’s angry, but he also still feels something, so there’s still hope.
I nod slowly and lean back in the chair, watching the dancers for a while. A minute goes by and then another. The boy keeps his eyes on the dancing, but I can tell he’s curious as to why I’m still here.
I observe him out of the corner of my eye. He’s twenty-five, but with his sunken eyes and hangdog expression he looks older.
His father told me he used to be fit. He loved to run and ride and race bikes. He’s loved everything about bikes since he was a kid. He went into the army as a motorcycle mechanic until his convoy got hit moving between bases.
He came back home minus both his legs. A double amputee from above the knee.
That was twenty months ago. But despite the therapy and rehab, he spends his nights drinking and frequenting places like this.
His father called me in desperation to see if there was anything we could do.
“I heard you worked in Mechanic Maintenance.”
The boy blinks lazily. “Yeah.”
“What you know about Harleys?”
He shrugs. “I know I’ll never get on one again.”
I rub my beard, trying not to feel sorry for the kid. He doesn’t need my pity. There’re all sorts of adaptations these days. The kid could ride, but it takes more than an adapted bike. He’s got to want to do it.
“I don’t need you to get on one. I need you to get under one.”
His gaze flicks to mine, and for the first time there’s interest.
“I’m looking for a mechanic. Someone who knows bikes. And I hear you’re the man for the job.”
“I already told my old man I’m not interested. I’m sorry, Mr.… you’ve wasted your time.”
I move the beer bottles away to the other end of the table and lean forward. “I don’t think you’re a waste of time. In fact, Luke, I think you’re just the man we need.”
“I’m not a charity case,” he hisses.
I sit back away from his intense gaze. Damn, the kid’s got it bad.
“And I’m not a charity.”
“You are.” He sits up for the first time and turns his head away from the stage. “My old man told me about you, taking in broken veterans who need help. Well, I don’t need your help.”
He puts his hands on his wheelchair and reverses out from under the table. I stand up and move over to him, pulling a card out of my back pocket.
“I’m sorry you feel that way. We’re ex-military men who love to ride.
We’re not a charity, and I expect anyone who works for me to work hard and follow my rules.
I don’t dish out pity, and I’m not your therapist. But I can offer you a job and a place to stay so you can conduct your life with dignity and self-respect. ”
He stares at the card in my hand for a long time.
“What do you ride?” he asks finally.
“A Fat Boy 114. It’s parked out front if you want to take a look. As long as someone hasn’t pissed on it.”
A ghost of a smile passes across his face, and he reluctantly takes the card from my hand.
“At least let my man show you where the classy strip joints are.”
“I’ll think about it.”
It’s the most I’m going to get out of him. I sure as hell hope the kid snaps out of his own sorrow. It’s hard to readjust to civilian life, especially with life-changing injuries like his.
“Come for a visit, take a look around, meet the guys, see the shop and see if you like it.”
“Maybe,” he grunts and wheels over to the bar. I let him go, knowing I won’t get an answer today. I only hope I’ve done enough to convince him to at least visit.
The music changes, and someone announces a brand new dancer. The room whoops, and the lights dim.
“Shit.”
I don’t want to be here for this. There’s a throng of men pushing toward the stage, and it takes me a while before I can move past them.
I’m passing the stage just as the curtain opens and a long thick leg in killer heels peeks out from behind the curtain.
My skin prickles with heat, and blood rushes to my dick. Shit, after all these years I’m just as horny as the men in here, getting excited about a piece of flesh.
I should keep moving through the crowd but I’m rooted in place, needing to see the owner of that leg. The curtain parts and the little minx is stepping backwards, shuffling her chunky ass through the curtain, shaking it so the tiny skirt she’s wearing shimmers under the disco lights.
Long dark hair flows over her shoulders and down her back. She’s got a tiny golden top on to match her skirt and most of her back is exposed, showing enticing curvy flesh.
“You see something you like?”
I didn’t notice Luke wheel up next to me. He’s wearing the first grin I’ve seen him in all night. I’m aware that it’s because my jaw is on the floor and my black jeans are suddenly too tight around my hard cock.
I don’t usually have this reaction to a woman. Not since that night two years ago when I was in the White Out and ran into Isabella Berone…
A strangled noise burbles out of my throat as realization hits. At the same time, the woman turns around with a flick of her neck. Silky thick hair whips around her shoulders, and the men whoop as her beautiful features are revealed.
“What the fuck…?”