True North: A Wordsmith Chronicles MC Standalone

by Harlan, Christopher

  “Not a fan?”

  “Of school?” I ask. She nods. “No. Formal education and me didn’t get along. Irreconcilable differences were cited in the divorce proceedings.”

  “Yeah, I can’t see you sitting in a classroom taking notes on biology or government.”

  “I was a decent student. That wasn’t the problem.”

  “What was the problem, then?”

  “I hate wasting my time, and school was a huge waste of time. High school doesn’t teach you what’s important. It doesn’t teach you how to think, it teaches you how to follow rules, and have your mind shaped based on other people’s opinions. I did my work. I handed in my bullshit homework. I filled in the bubbles with my number 2 pencil, but I hated every minute of it. When I got a little older I realized that school was never going to be the place where I got educated, the insides of books were. So that’s where I started.”

  “I wish I’d thought of that before I spent untold fortunes on a bachelors and masters degree. Student debt is no joke.”

  “That’s what I hear. You still paying that off?”

  “No, I paid that off with the settlement.” Her voice lowers in tone towards the end of that sentence. I don’t think she wanted to talk about that with me, but it came out anyway. “Shit,” she says.

  “What?”

  “I, ummm. . . didn’t want to get into the whole divorce thing. It’s not your problem.”

  “If it affects you, it’s my problem now. That’s just the way it is. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but it isn’t for my sake. You can tell me anything—no boundaries.”

  “I’m not used to no boundaries. I’m used to a lot of them.”

  I smile. “That’s because you never met me.”

  “I sure didn’t,” she says, giving me a look that lets me know that I said the right thing. “I promise to tell you another time, okay? Cross my heart.”

  “No problem,” I tell her.

  “But I was able to pay off my student loan debt. It felt great—like I was giving a giant middle finger to the federal government.”

  “Nothing wrong with that. I give that same middle finger in my mind all the time.”

  “Yeah, I bet you’ve had to put your middle finger up a lot in your life, haven’t you?”

  “Put it up?” I ask. “Delilah, it’s been up since I was born, and it hasn’t gone down yet. How’s your beer, by the way? Getting used to the taste yet?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” She takes another sip and tries her hardest to not pretend it’s gross. “But I’m gonna finish it. The place is called Cerveza! It would be sacrilegious to not at least get it down my throat.” She sips again. This time her eyes lock on me in the way they do when we’re alone.

  “Please don’t say that,” I beg her.

  “Say what?”

  “Anything that includes a clause about getting something down your throat. Not unless you want to drive me so crazy that I fuck you right here in front of the whole bar. And trust me, I will.”

  “Promise?”

  When she says that I look at her to evaluate flirtation from truth, and I can’t see any difference in her face. She means it. I raise my eyebrow as high as it will go. It’s involuntary, I don’t even realize I’m doing it until I feel the stretch of the muscles just above my eye. “Be careful, Delilah,” I tell her. “I’m not someone who jokes about fucking. If you keep saying things that make me imagine my huge cock in your mouth, that’s exactly where it’s going to end up, whether there are people around us or not.”

  “Big talk, Mr. North,” she says, pushing her glass aside. “But I’m not seeing any action.”

  “Get the fuck on your knees, right now,” I command. I’m not forceful with women who don’t want that from me. But if you invite that part of me to come out and play, you’d better be ready for what happens next.

  Our table is towards the back of the bar, and Delilah’s back is towards the wall. There aren’t too many other people back here. In fact, we’re the only ones—but the bar is crowded and loud, filled with guys from all different clubs, repping their colors, drinking lots of brews, and getting out of control, as usual.

  I don’t want to make Delilah uncomfortable, but I need to see how much she’s a woman of her word. I don’t know why I have these little tests I keep giving her. It’s not that I’m distrustful of women, in general, but I’m always suspicious of outsiders who try to play in my world. For most of them—guys looking to prospect, or women looking to get a biker dick rammed inside of them—it’s a fetish thing, a fantasy, something to check off of their bucket list before running back to their civilian lives the minute things get too real for their liking.

  I don’t think Delilah is one of them, but I’m gonna put that theory to the test one last time.

  She doesn’t waste any time between my command and dropping down. She pretends like she’s checking something in her purse, leaning to the side at first before sliding her ass all the way off of her seat to the floor. I don’t move. I don’t look around or look behind me because that’s the sign of a guilty man looking to draw attention to himself. I stay cool as can be, my eyes fixed on the wall in front of me.

  I can’t see her, but it’s only seconds before I feel her going for my zipper. I feel her fingers grasping at the inside of my thighs, and once she gets a grip on my zipper I feel it drop down. I’m holding my breath, still being careful not to move, and that’s when I feel her hand reach in to grab the giant snake that’s waiting just beyond my pants. She has to reach in until she’s wrist deep, but she gets down to the head of my cock and squeezes like she’s trying to let out all of her frustration, and I jump at the sensation.

  I can’t see my own face, but it’s a good thing I’m not facing the crowd, because my expression probably looks like I’m about to have a heart attack. I just might if she keeps at this. Her other hand grips at my leg, and I’m waiting, stuck in an inhale I won’t let go, for her next move. But just as I think it’s about to happen, I hear the yelling from across the bar.

  “Joaquin! How are you, you crazy motherfucker!”

  The voice is Sig’s, and now I know that my best friend is in the room. I hope we’re still best friends after the way we left things. I reach under the table and tap Delilah’s arms hard so that she knows to stop. I see the table move as she tries to get up fast and bumps her head. “Fuck!” she says under the table.

  “Are you alright?”

  “Yeah. What the fuck?” She pops up just as Joaquin walks over. “Hey Joaquin, long time no see.”

  “Hey there, Delilah,” he says. He looks stressed, but he’s trying to make it look like he’s having a good time. I know my friend—things weigh on him heavily. Part of that is my fault, he’s holding up the skeleton of our MC all by himself. “What’s going on North?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Delilah, would you mind if I borrowed my old friend here for a second? Ana’s grabbing a beer at the bar, I asked her to come keep you company.”

  “Of course,” she says. “Go do your thing, I’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask her.

  “Maybe I’ll drink another India Pale Ale,” she jokes.

  “A what?”

  I go to answer Joaquin, but Delilah answers for herself. “An IPA.”

  “Oh, right. Is that what it stands for? I never knew.”

  Delilah winks at me, and I let go of all my concerns that this is all too much for her. I keep my hands low because my dick is still partially hard from the near public BJ I almost got under the table, but it’ll go down quickly. More than that, she passed my tests with flying colors. She’s legit, and I need to stop doubting her.

  I love seeing Joaquin, even after the tension we had between us last time, but I really don’t feel like talking about this club shit right now. I’ll listen to what he has to say, at least. I owe him that much. I probably owe him more than that.

  Twenty One—North—Way Back W
hen

  “. . .among men like us. . .”

  “You were right, North.”

  It’s a hell of a way to start a conversation. Good to hear, but unexpected coming from Joaquin’s mouth.

  “Was I?” I ask. “What was I right about, exactly?”

  “Everything you said the other day, you were right about all of it. We don’t need to back down to that motherfucker. We didn’t start this club to puss out to other MC’s that try to push us around. Especially that one.”

  He looks fired up now that we’re talking about it, but that concerns me. Of the two of us, Joaquin’s always been the more emotional, the one more likely to let how he feels dictate how he behaves. I’m the calm one. The calculated one. The one who can keep a slow heart rate through almost anything. I get angry just like Joaquin, but I never let my anger control the things that I do.

  “I was talking shit before,” I tell him. “We were fighting, and I was pissed off from having to be around Travis. That advice I gave you was my ego talking. I’ve thought about it since, and I don’t think taking Travis on is a good idea. We should just sell to him.”

  Joaquin looks betrayed by my words. The look on his face changes from happy intensity to confusion quickly. “What?”

  “We should just sell to him, I said.”

  “For that bullshit, low ball price?”

  “He didn’t seem to be willing to go any higher,” I tell him. “I tried.”

  “I’m not accepting that,” Joaquin says defiantly. “I’m just not. Shit, it was you who said that I shouldn’t.”

  “I know, and now I’m saying that you should. Cooler heads have prevailed. It’s a bad idea to say no.”

  He looks bewildered. I understand why. I told him the opposite of what I’m saying now very recently, but I mean what I just said—I gave it some thought, and I know how Travis will respond if he feels slighted. The man is a sociopath, plain and simple. Now, I have no degrees in psychology to make that diagnosis, but I’ve personally seen him do things that only the sickest and most depraved of humans are capable of. Not only have I seen him do those things, I’ve seen him take pleasure in doing them. I’m not afraid of the man, but he’s not to be crossed if it can be avoided.

  Joaquin throws his hands up. “I don’t get you anymore, man. I really don’t.”

  “There’s nothing to get, brother. Poking the hornet’s nest isn’t a smart play right now. Not where we are as a club.”

  “There it is again, North. That we shit you keep referencing. Let’s be clear on this right now. There-is-no-fucking-we any more. You made that choice. There’s just me and the few guys who are left.”

  “Exactly, dip shit, that’s exactly why you can’t take Travis on over some bullshit like a clubhouse. It’s suicide. Unless that’s what you’re going for. But I don’t think leaving Ana a widow, just to save your pride, is something you want to do right now.”

  “You son of a bitch!”

  I expect him to lunge at me, but not as hard as he does. He takes me clean off my feet, which comes as a shock as I hit the ground. All of a sudden, I’m involved in a scuffle with my best friend in the parking lot of a biker bar, and the first thing I feel is embarrassment that this stupidity is even happening. “Stop it, man, this isn’t how this is meant to go.”

  “Fuck you, North. I’m so sick of your shit.”

  He sounds really angry, but we’re still best friends. You can tell that, even in a situation like this, because no punches are being thrown. He’s letting out some serious frustration at the moment, but he’s not trying to hurt me, and I’m definitely not trying to defend myself in any real way. I know that this will only end when he’s burned up all of his energy pulling and pushing at me, and I’m willing to wait it out. Lord knows that none of these boys looking on are going to do shit—it’s not in our nature to break up fights, real or imagined. It’s almost part of our DNA to let the score between two men get settled between two men. I understand that, and I don’t expect a stand up, but it’s still uncomfortable having an audience for this kind of thing.

  Joaquin is out of fighting shape and, in half the time I expect, I feel his attack getting weaker, and a few seconds after that he stops moving. “Can we get up and be adults now? Come on, let’s talk this out like grown men, please. I’m tired of. . . whatever it is that we’re doing.”

  “Fine,” he says, letting go of his grip on my jacket lapel and taking his weight off of me.

  Once we’re both on our feet, I brush the little bits of dirt and concrete debris off my pants and jacket, and Joaquin does the same. There’s a code among men, especially among men like us, that once we’ve done our thing physically, it’s time to talk. There’ll be no more fighting even though that was a piss poor fight. It’s time for words, like civilized people. Like friends.

  “Look, Joaquin,” I begin. “I know that I told you two contradictory things. And I know that I’ve left you holding this whole thing up by yourself, on top of the side business you’re trying to build. I get all that, and I’m sorry. My leaving is not meant to hurt you, or to betray everything that we built together. If you feel that way it breaks my heart, man. But that’s not what’s intended.”

  He takes a deep breath. Several of them. “I know.” His voice is low, almost like he doesn’t want to admit that I’m not the asshole he’s been treating me like. “I know. I’m jealous of you, man. That’s the cold, hard truth.”

  “Jealous? What the hell do you have to be jealous of me for?” I see it in his eyes before he answers me. I didn’t see it before, and maybe because I’ve just been too wrapped up in my own shit to notice, but now it’s as clear as day. He wants out also. This shit’s been weighing on him as much as it has on me, and he wants to walk away just like I am. He just can’t admit it to himself. He just looks at me, expecting me to read his eyes like friends have the ability to do. “Look,” I say, stepping closer to him and putting my hands on his shoulder. “Just sell that place for whatever you can get for it. Tell the last few guys that you’re getting out, too, and I’ll do everything I can to help you with your food truck. People love that shit, man, you have a future in that truck. This life isn’t going to lead you anywhere.”

  He thinks about what I’m saying, and despite myself I try to be as gentle in my delivery as I can be. “I don’t think I can, North. We can’t all just walk away from this shit.”

  “Why not? That’s just some shit you’re telling yourself.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  I’ve had just about enough of that particular sentiment. “Stop fucking saying that. It’s not easy for me at all. You think its easy walking away from the only life you’ve known as an adult? It’s not. I just have the stones to man the fuck up and do something uncomfortable, and you’re being too much of a pussy to follow along.”

  “Boys, boys, don’t fight, it makes me sad.”

  I don’t need to turn around. The voice behind me is not only unmistakable as anyone else’s, but I already spent too much time hearing its horrible sounds not too long ago.

  I spin around and look him in the eyes for the second time.

  “Hello, Travis.”

  Twenty Two—Delilah—Way Back When

  . . .this devil of a man. . .

  I’ve always been good at reading people.

  Call it energy, or personality, or whatever else, but I trust my ability to know a lot about a person without them having to say much. We give ourselves away. We send signals out to the world as to who we really are, with every gesture and every expression.

  The obvious exception to my ability to read people is my ex husband. But, then again, the man made it a focus of his existence to keep secrets from me. You can’t really blame me for getting fooled for a time by a professional bullshit artist. But outside of that particular blind spot, I’m really good at telling someone’s true nature, and I always have been. So, when I see this devil of a man standing with North and Joaquin, a violent shiver runs its way dow
n my entire body.

  I want to run over there, but I’m torn. They look like they’re discussing some serious business, but their body language is telling me that something bad is about to happen. Screw it, I’m going over.

  “Hey, North,” I yell as I approach. You can tell from the way they’re all standing that something is off. North and Joaquin are on one side, and a tall man on the other. They look like they’re facing each other down, and the tension is palpable. North opens his eyes at me in a way that lets me know that I should have stayed back, but it’s too late. I want to know what’s going on.

  The big man looks me up and down in a way that makes me uncomfortable—really uncomfortable. He turns to North after eyeballing me. “Well, it looks like you’ve been keeping some secrets from your old friend. Who is this fine young thing, and why is she calling out your name and not mine?”

  His voice sounds like tires on gravel. His eyes are intense and cold, even though he tries to hide all of that behind a fake smile. He looks back at me, and his eyes trace me from my toes to the top of my head, stopping strategically to stare at my tits in the middle.

  “Travis, this is. . .”

  I interrupt North. I can introduce myself. “Delilah.”

  “Delilah,” Travis says. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. Your man and I were just talking some business. Well, actually, we were about to, but I was having too much fun watching the little wrestling match. That was adorable, boys. You all work out your differences?”

  “Fuck you, Travis.” Joaquin sounds angry. He’s looking at Travis like he wants to murder him, and North is being his normal cool self. I’ve never met a guy more even tempered. He has this quiet confidence that’s so rare in men that it actually took me a few times of seeing it to realize what I was looking at. He doesn’t scream or yell, and he doesn’t let his emotions show on the surface. He stays calm when most men would panic—he remains confident in situations where most men would doubt themselves. I don’t know where he gets that from, but it’s sexy as fuck, and I’ve never been around anyone like James North in my entire life.