Mouse.
P.S Sid says thanks for the sausages.
As love letters went, he'd had better.
Nitro couldn't pretend that he wasn't pissed at her splitting, but he figured she'd be back. And while the temptation to jump on his bike and head to Bath was pretty strong, he was expected at church later, and missing that again wouldn't go down well. Although if she wasn't back in a couple of days, he'd go and check in on her.
He was going to have to buy her a cell, because he couldn't take care of her if he didn't know where the fuck she was. She might have insisted that she didn't need one, but that was before she’d met him. Nitro grinned as he shrugged on his cut; all he had to do was make it seem like it was her idea.
~oOo~
The Bristol Freaks' clubhouse was a huge, five storey Victorian villa that had long ago been converted from a family home into a hotel with a public bar, and had been acquired by the club some five years previously. The pub on the ground floor was still open to the public, and had a reputation for good music, decent ale, and a lack of trouble, and the basement housed a well equipped gym that ran a boxing club for the local kids and fitness classes for their moms. The upper floors were used exclusively by the club, and consisted of a bar area, church and kitchen, and on the top floors and attic rooms were mattresses and beds for anyone who wanted somewhere more private, or was too wrecked to ride home.
The area had obviously been extremely affluent at some point, but over the years the huge homes had been turned into bedsits accommodating students from the nearby university, and nothing lowered property values like students. Now the once-manicured gardens were full of trash, and the few remaining villas that were intact were up for sale. Nitro wondered whether the club moving in was the final nail in the coffin, although they had a reputation for being good—if a little noisy—neighbours, and the pub was used by the locals as much as it was by bikers.
Nitro had won his top rocker when he was twenty-one, and since then had worn California, Nevada, and now, England patches. He'd visited clubhouses all over the States, but he'd never been in one as fancy as this. All the original features, from the huge fireplaces, to the ornate plasterwork on the ceilings, remained on the upper floors. There were even fancy stained glass windows, and the wood panelling that lined the pub and stairways always gleamed and smelled of polish. He was sure it was the only clubhouse in existence where he always had the urge to wipe his feet before entering; most he wanted to when he left.
As was usual, he went into the pub for a pint before church. The booze was a lot cheaper upstairs, but most of the patches would have at least one pint in the pub, especially on week nights when it was quiet, for no other reason than to keep some money going through the tills.
The Dewdrop Inn—or The Drip, as it was known by the locals—was a legitimate business in every sense of the word. No dirty money crossed the bar, and drug dealers and underage drinkers knew to stay far away. Nitro was by no means an expert in such things, but he'd guessed it looked about as traditional as a traditional English pub could look. He'd been disappointed when it had been explained to him that, unlike upstairs, which was largely unchanged, the pub had been re-shaped and refurbished several times over the years, and most of the 'original features' were reproductions that had been imported from China in the Nineties. He was just grateful that none of the features included those low, skull cracking beams that were a thing in village pubs. And that, despite appearances, there could be no doubt that the The Drip was a biker bar.
“Usual?” Vi, the landlady, grinned. “Or we have a new guest cider in, if you prefer.” Nitro's aversion to cider and ale had become a standing joke.
“I'll stick to Bud, darlin'.”
Vi grabbed a bottle from the fridge. “One of these days you'll go native. The guys went up about ten minutes ago, take it up with you.”
The only people in the bar room upstairs were patches—even the two prospects had been excluded—they were here to discuss business, not to party. There was no need to open up church; they wouldn't be disturbed tonight.
Denny was clutching a glass of something that resembled the piss of someone with kidney failure. He took a sip and grinned at Nitro's expression as he joined them. “It tastes a lot better than it looks, my brother.”
“Doubt it could taste worse.” Nitro sat and put his bottle on the table. “I'll stick to drink without dead things in it.”
Carter sat down with Ralph, the secretary, and Boz, the most senior of the patches, and still one of the most feared. He looked over to Denny, who nodded his approval, then pulled a baggy of pills from his inside pocket. “Top quality E.”
Biff took a pill from the bag. “Supplier?”
“Club in Amsterdam, Smiling Ghouls, are looking for a supply line into the UK. I've spoken to their prez a few times, an' he seems like an upfront bloke. It could be a good earner for us.”
“What about The Flatlanders?” Biff voiced the concerns of the others there. “They're not going to like us scoring from another club.”
Carter shrugged. “It's looking like they're about to be patched over by the Ghouls. Their numbers are down, and they’re losing business to the Eastern Europeans. If they don't agree to a patchover, they're in danger of losing all their business. So it looks like we'll be working with them sooner or later either way, if we want to keep this supply line open.”
As the other members discussed the pro and cons of working with a new club, Nitro drank his Bud in silence; he was only there because it would take a majority vote from all the patches before they agreed to the deal, but he had little to contribute to the discussion.
Biff nudged him with his elbow. “What do you know about 'em, yank?”
Nitro shrugged. “Don't know any of them personally, but the Freaks in the States never had a beef with them, and they allied themselves with us when the shit with the Serpiente up north blew up. I'd say they were okay.”
“I'm surprised you lifted your head out of pussy long enough to notice.”
One day Nitro was going to have to bury his fist in Carter's face. He grinned. “I notice plenty, brother. Mostly cus I don't have my nose stuck between my President's ass cheeks all the time.”
Carter pushed his chair back, but was prevented from standing by Biff's hand on his arm. “Play nice, children. If you have a problem, take it into the ring.”
“No problem here, Sarge.” Nitro smirked. “You know me, I'm all about the love.”
Carter had never liked him. Nitro wasn't exactly sure why, but he was beginning to think it was just good ol' fashioned jealousy. The VP was around the same age—maybe a little younger—and was the poster boy of the chapter. Bikers had always attracted women, but some bikers attracted more than others, and Carter was that guy. He was young, good looking and was the VP of an outlaw club.
He took his role seriously, and made no secret of the fact that, one day, he wanted to take the gavel. He was smart too, Nitro couldn't deny that. He planned carefully, always weighed up his options, and was never led by his emotions.
Except when it came to Nitro.
Nitro knew he had to take some responsibility for that. When he'd first arrived in England, he'd not been planning on staying, and it had amused him to watch the VP giving him stink eye as he porked everything in sight. And while Carter hadn't voted against Nitro taking the England rocker, he had voiced concerns. Nitro got it. He was a joker, a fool. He'd blown in, taken his pick of the girls, and then was given a vote, despite leaving a shit ton of trouble behind him. As far as Carter was concerned, Nitro was a liability, at best unreliable and, at worst, a risk to the club.
He was neither of those things—not when it counted. Sure, he was selective over the jobs he chose to do for the club, and he might not always show up for non-mandatory runs, but whenever there was a call to arms, Nitro would stand shoulder to shoulder with his brothers. And he would never put the club at risk. The fact that he'd left his home to protect it was proof of that.
>
As the debate continued, Nitro sat in silence. If he was asked, he'd give his opinion, but he contributed little. Not because he didn't care, but because he was listening to what was being said. A vote to work with a new supplier was important, and it was always a risk. He didn't want to vote the wrong way.
The bored expression was there purely to piss Carter off.
“Nitro?”
Nitro raised his hand and grinned at his President. “Aye.”
~oOo~
Mouse rested her head on her forearms and closed her eyes as, around the table, the group discussed whatever the fuck it was they were discussing this time. While she understood that for the community to work, there was a need to discuss even the smallest issues, she couldn't help but wonder whether, just sometimes, someone could make a unilateral decision.
“Are we boring you, Mouse?” Digger poked her shoulder with a bony forefinger.
She opened her eyes and lifted her head a little. “You're talking about planting beetroot. I'm ambivalent when it comes to root vegetables. Sorry.”
Digger slammed the palms of his hands onto the table, jolting her upright. “You and me are going for a smoke. Outside. Now.”
Digger had been given special dispensation, due to his beat-up state, and was allowed to sit and smoke on a bench by the back door. Mouse reasoned that as she was with him, she was now included, so she began to roll a fag and waited for him to start yelling at her.
She didn't have to wait long.
“I'm getting a bit sick of your attitude.” Digger snatched the cigarette from between her fingers. “If you want to stay here, you do not take the piss, you hear? You know how this works, an' you know that some of the shit that we discuss is tedious. But do not start putting yourself above anyone else, cos if I think you're doing that, my girl, I'll have you kicked so far from this place you won’t touch down in this hemisphere. If Yvette wants us to talk about the merits of growing a surplus of beetroot, then that is what is what we'll do. An' you'll at least have the common courtesy to look interested.”
A snarky reply rose up into her throat, and Mouse swallowed it down, hard. Partly because she really fucking hated it when Digger was pissed off with her, but mostly because he was one hundred percent right. “Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry.”
He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Maybe it's time you started to think about whether this is what you want, Mouse.”
Because she'd been bored during a conversation about beetroot? Mouse looked at her old friend. “This is my home, Digs.”
“I know, an' there'll always be a place for you here. But no one will think badly of you if you want to do something different with your life.” Digger grinned. “This life is hard enough, an' it gets harder if your heart isn't really in it.”
“You think I'm not committed?”
“I think you've spent the best part of ten years being committed. You're a grafter, Mouse, an' I'm so proud of you when you stand up against The Man, but you don't have to keep doing this.”
“Are we talking about Nitro?”
“Dunno, gal. Are we?” He patted her knee. “You bailed on me for him. I'd say he's pretty fucking important.”
“I didn't bail... I just needed some space. I knew you were in good hands.”
Digger stood slowly and pressed his hand against his ribs. “You didn't need space, you needed Nitro. It's okay, Mouse—better'n okay—you've found someone special, an' I couldn't be happier for you.”
“I hardly know him, Digs.”
Digger shrugged. “You know he's a decent bloke.”
“No I don't... What if...”
“He turns out to be an abusive arsehole? He fucks around on you? He could, but that shouldn't stop you from taking a chance. I know he's a Freak, an' I get why that could be a problem. But don't be too quick to judge. It coulda been them who did this to me, but they walked away. An' the people who were supposed to care about me couldn't even be bothered to check that everyone got away in one piece. If it makes you feel any better, if I had any doubts about him, I'd be the first to tell you.”
“What makes you so sure?” Mouse stood and took his arm. “How come you're still prepared to take people at face value?”
His chuckle turned into a coughing fit, and he wiped his mouth with a grubby sleeve. “The face people show is all we've got to go on. Trust your gut. Give yourself permission to be happy.”
Mouse sighed. “Not sure I do happy, Digs.”
She couldn't read the expression on Digger's face, or maybe she just didn't want to. “Then it's about time you started.”
On their return to the kitchen, the conversation had moved on to whether Nigel and his harem should be allowed to stay on Hope Farm. To Mouse's surprise, Digger, instead of sitting back down, announced he was tired and was going to have a lie down. Maggie stood and whispered something in his ear, and he shook his head and kissed her cheek. When she sat down again, Maggie's expression mirrored her old friend's, and a chill ran down Mouse's spine.
Maggie caught her watching. “You two okay?”
“Yeah.” Mouse tried to shake the feeling she was missing something.
“I'm glad.” Maggie smiled. “Maybe when we're done here, you could take a ride into Bath with me. I have some errands to run.”
Mouse forced herself to smile. “Do I get rewarded with scrumpy?”
“You're a freeloader, Mouse.” Maggie shook her head and turned her attention back to the discussion around the table. “Are we going to vote?”
~oOo~
Nitro had avoided getting into the ring since arriving in Britain. He had a strong aversion to getting hit and, as a result, was an extremely good boxer. And because he was good, once his English brothers found out, they would be either wanting to spar with him, or worse, push him into the underground fighting scene, which heightened the chances of him getting hit considerably.
He didn't want to get into the ring with Carter, although he'd seen him spar enough times to know that he was more than capable of putting him on his ass. He had no real beef with the guy, and didn't want to have to hurt him, but Nitro knew that he couldn't walk away from a challenge, and that from the moment the VP had laid eyes on him, he'd only been putting off the inevitable.
Nitro watched his opponent as he bounced around the ring. That's the way, fuckwit. Tire yourself out before I've even climbed through the ropes. He grinned and pulled two twenties from his wallet and handed them to Biff. “He's going down, brother.”
Biff looked at him sceptically. “You sure about that?”
Nitro dropped the wallet and his keys onto the bench before checking the bindings on his hands. “Does this look like the face of a man who has lost many fights? Trust me, Sarge. Don't waste your money on him.”
As he climbed through the ropes, Nitro made sure his left foot got caught, and he stumbled, a little too theatrically, he thought. Immediately, the betting stepped up a gear, and he couldn't quite suppress a grin as he straightened up. They fell for it every time.
Biff entered the ring and stood in the centre. “Okay, boys. Try to keep it clean. No rounds. Loser is the one who hits the deck first. If I finish it, all bets are off.” He stepped back. “Okay, fight.”
If Carter had thought that being an amputee put Nitro at a disadvantage, he was to quickly learn he was wrong. It was true that his stance was flat footed, and he wasn't the most graceful around the ring, but he was quick, and it was almost impossible to unbalance him.
Carter jabbed a couple of times, just to test the water, but Nitro easily evaded him, then swung with his left. Carter saw it coming but couldn't get out of the way quite quickly enough. Nitro knew he hadn't hurt him, but the first punch finding its mark gave him a psychological advantage, and he capitalised on it with a couple of jabs of his own.
As they slugged it out, Nitro could feel a shift in the atmosphere. His brothers were slowly realising that this wasn't going to be an easy win for Carter. His brother was a decent fighter,
but was relying on a killer punch. And Nitro was an expert in not getting punched.
“How about you start fighting?” Carter grunted as Nitro, again, evaded a roundhouse punch.
Nitro grinned. “How about you stop fighting like a chick.”
Carter was getting frustrated; Nitro ducked and another shot missed its target. For every five punches the VP threw, Nitro would throw one, but almost every one got through, whereas Carter, more often than not, was punching thin air.
Carter hadn't been entirely unsuccessful; the warm wetness running from the edge of Nitro's eyebrow and the dull pain in his ribs confirmed that at least some of the shots had breached his defences. But Nitro was doing a lot more damage and Carter, it appeared, was a bleeder.
The fucker wasn't showing any signs of going down, though, and both men were getting tired. Time for Nitro to go on the offensive. He moved in with an uppercut, but instead of backing off with his guard up, as he'd done before, he followed it with a couple of body shots, one of which he knew had hurt.
Carter staggered back, too stunned to keep up his guard, and slipped on some blood that had been spilled on the canvas. Giving him no chance to catch his breath or recover his footing, Nitro swung with his right, sending the already defeated man crashing onto the canvas.
Biff slapped his back with his huge paw. “Where the fuck did you learn to box like that?”
Nitro grinned and held out his hand to his fallen opponent. “A nomad I met when I was prospecting in Vegas decided I was gonna be the next big thing. Fucker was built like a mountain, an' he must've had at least fifty pounds on me.” He hauled Carter to his feet, and pulled him into a one armed hug. “It didn't take me long to learn that if I didn't want Deke Samson smashing my face into a pulp every time we stepped into the ring, I'd better get good quick.”
“Samson?” Carter raised an eyebrow and winced as a fresh flow of blood trickled down his face. “I've heard about him. Shit, brother, you could've warned me.”
Nitro laughed and began to climb through the ropes. “Didn't want to spoil the surprise.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “We good?”
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