by Hazel Parker
Splitter nodded, but I could tell he thought that I had something more to say. We were meeting in order to establish ground rules for working together right now.
“I see,” Splitter eventually said. “Do you ever have that problem? Do you ever have people wanting to follow you?”
“Sometimes,” I admitted, which was as much as I would give him. “But I keep my work life and my private life separate as much as I can.”
That was… true, but only in the most literal sense. In the practical sense, because of the visibility of my clients and my work, it was impossible.
“Must be nice,” Splitter said, although he said it with a laugh and a nice smile. “So, anything else?”
“Nope, just those three rules,” I said, although I recognized that those were three pretty big rules for him to follow. Especially as a Saint. I almost don’t want him to follow the first two rules while he’s with his buddies. That’s a good way to get askance looks and judgments and kicked out.
Different ways of being, I suppose.
“We’ll have you out of here tonight hopefully. If all goes to plan, Mr. Cole will be here to pick you up. I have two hours blocked off tomorrow morning from ten to noon for you to come to my office to discuss the case.”
“Ten?” Splitter said. “Fu…nny how early you want it.”
“Early?”
“Yeah, usually I wake up around noon.”
“Well not anymore.”
There had been many signs that Splitter and I came from very different backgrounds and this one is added to the list.
“Club business,” he said with a shrug, leaving it at that.
“Hmm,” I said, thinking about pressing him on that but deciding that this was not the place to do it. “Unfortunately, I don’t have any other room on my schedule. You’ll have to set an alarm.”
“Alright,” Splitter said. “Can I have an exception to the no-swearing rule?”
“Nope,” I said with a smile. “Suck it up, buddy.”
When was the last time I ever was so casual in an initial meeting as to say, “suck it up, buddy?”
“Well, there is one legitimate concern,” Splitter said. “I don’t own a suit. I can still show up to your office, but I won’t have anything more than a button-down and jeans.”
Though that in itself did not matter as much, I had a fear that the paparazzi would capture Splitter walking into my office and use that for their tabloids. I swore that many of them had a permanent photographer by my office so they could capture who went in to me and who didn’t; while a B-list actor coming in might have drawn eyes, it at least would have made sense.
But this? This was very different.
“OK, fair point,” I said. “It is a pretty stuffy place, admittedly. What if I come to your shop?”
Splitter’s eyes went wide.
“You know that rule you gave me about not swearing and not smoking? While I’m happy to follow it, absolutely no one else there will.”
“I’m aware,” I said. “Believe it or not, Splitter, you are very gracious and polite in your ease of accepting these rules. I cannot say how often I’ve had… ahem, butthole clients of sorts who just ignore my rules because they think they are who they are. Most of them eventually wise up, but you seem serious. As long as you follow my rules, I don’t mind what the others do.”
That was a bit of an oversimplification. I knew it would be very uncomfortable for me there, especially since I knew the rest of the Saints would be sizing me up. And no matter how much I only cared about God judging me, no woman could ever walk into a mechanic shop with a dozen beefy men who acted as outlaws at night and not feel a little concerned.
“Understood,” Splitter said. “And I will do everything I can to make sure you feel comfortable in there. We may be gruff and jagged on the edges, but I promise we’re good people. If I say no swearing and smoking, they might oblige but no promises.”
“Thank you, Splitter,” I said.
It was at that moment that I thought he was about to say something and caught his eyes, staring right at me with an intensity that… that…
I didn’t want to put the label on it that first came to mind, most especially because we had a business relationship, but…
That was kind of…
Romantic?
“I’ll be going now,” I said, a little shook by what I had just seen. “See you at ten tomorrow, OK?”
“Yes ma’am,” he said, way too smoothly and way too relaxed in comparison to how I felt.
I smiled, stood up, offered my hand—surprised to notice it shaking a bit—and then left. I motioned to the guard that he could take Splitter back to his cell, although the process had already been put into motion to get Splitter out within the next few hours.
As I walked out the door with my sunglasses on and my head low, I couldn’t help but wonder with some awe at how easy that conversation had felt. Splitter was very rough around the edges, obviously, but beneath there seemed to be a real gem of a guy. I tried never to judge my clients by their guilt or innocence, preferring to look at it as a range of outcomes with the goal of aiming for the best one, but…
Splitter was different.
He was very different.
He was rough, but he was willing to polish himself around me. He was willing to fix his foibles around me and be a good man. He was willing to actually listen.
He’s a client, Amber. Just remember that. And keep it that way.
If you can…
Chapter 3: Splitter
As I sat back in my cell, trying to replay everything that had just happened, I couldn’t help but have two concurrent thoughts.
The first one was that I was utterly relieved and a little bit overjoyed that I had Amber Reynolds by my side. Not only did I have the best lawyer in the city, but I also had someone that I connected to and someone that I felt easy speaking to. She was going to have some harsh rules but she was going to help me get off in this case. I had no doubt that I was in good hands.
On the other hand… fuck! And I was glad I could think that and say that without her! I was happy to accommodate her requests for me to live like a good Catholic boy, most especially since my life depended on her legal skills, but… fuck! No swearing? No smoking? Telling her everything I did, including some potential club business?
I mean… shit, just the fact that I was feeling guilty for even swearing in my head told me that Amber was already having an effect on me. I would have to make sure that when I saw the boys, I did not act this way, that I was the Splitter they all loved and knew, because if I didn’t, shit, the jokes about being whipped and being a bitch would never end.
Well, fuck that! I was still Splitter, Vice President of the Savage Saints, and I was a goddamn savage in every way. Around Amber, I supposed I could be Shaun Reddings, although I’d still go by Splitter. But…
Oh yeah, she’s coming to your clubhouse tomorrow morning. At ten. Which might as well be before the crack of dawn in your world. Man, this woman is going to be the death of me.
Or she’s going to prevent you from being the death of yourself.
I just knew I had to keep my hard edge. Whatever happened, I had to remind myself that I had a job as the VP. What I did with Amber had no impact… OK, that was a lie, but… fuck!
Thankfully, after about two hours of this game of mental gymnastics where I contorted myself to still be the hard mofo I knew I was while trying to decide if allying with Amber’s rules outside of her presence was a benefit to me and my soul, I heard the familiar footsteps of a guard approaching my cell. I lay on my bed, my feet up, casually looking at the ceiling, as if the mental hurricane in my mind was nothing more than a calm, breeze-less day.
“Well, well, well, Shaun Reddings,” the same ugly guard with the goatee said as he looked at me, arms crossed. “Somehow, some moron posted your bail. I’m not sure what sugar momma took mercy on you, but you are free to go.”
Man, I’ll tell you what, I tried my
hardest not to break in front of him. I tried my damndest just to walk away, “be a bigger man,” and walk to my freedom with middle fingers in my pocket.
But in the MC world, one wasn’t “the bigger man” by walking away from an insult like that. One had to remind the other that they were here, they were not taking any shit, and they were in for a world of fucking hurt if they tried that shit again. I could not take bullshit like that.
I got to the entrance, used my height and size to intimidate, and chuckled.
“I guess the big bad Vice President is out the door, huh?”
Reminding the guard of his own words from hours ago seemed to trigger an infuriated response because I could see his face turning redder by the second. Admittedly, perhaps laughing was not the greatest decision I had ever made—it violated Amber’s rule to lay low—but who wouldn’t want a fucking karma moment like that? About the only way it could have been better was with some cartoonish antics from the prison guard, and let’s face it, I could not get too greedy.
As I walked through the hallway, ignoring the hooting and hollering from the other prisoners to let me out—something I sure as hell wasn’t going to do, since many of these assholes probably committed their crimes on innocent people—I just reminded myself of Amber’s three rules. One, tell her everything. Two, don’t swear and don’t smoke. Three, lay low.
They became something of a mantra for me as I walked to the last hallway before exiting the prison block, confirming that I had nothing on me. This still was not natural, and if I followed those rules when I got to the hall of the Saints, I’d lose my VP title faster than if I asked to have it taken away. But it got my ass out of prison, and I wasn’t about to change that!
Once I was verified, I was led out to the front door, where I walked out a free man once more. I’d taken this walk a couple of times before, but this was a very different kind of walk. Those walks had come because the crimes were so menial that it wasn’t worth the manpower and the space to keep me locked up. This walk came because I had the support of the Savage Saints behind me. Perhaps they had gotten the money from elsewhere—that wasn’t my concern, honestly—but I knew they’d been the ones to pay the bail.
Nothing said I was valued quite like paying a bail that I knew extended into the five-figures, if not more. I didn’t begrudge them that the bail hadn’t been posted immediately. This was doubly true given that the club would probably justifiably need me to come up with some nice revenue generation for the costs that came through here.
As I stepped out, I heard a familiar sound, a sound that was like an opera to me, a sound as soothing to me as a church choir to Amber—I presumed—a sound that was like “We Are the Champions” to a sports team.
The gentle murmur of a motorcycle turned on but not yet kicking, the put-put-put-put sounds emitting from an engine staying still.
I smiled as Trace came into view, hopping off his bike with mine right behind his. Behind Trace, Jane sat, sitting on the bike and smiling. She waved to me, and I waved back, but my attention was all on Trace, whom I embraced tightly. I actually began to feel emotional when I realized how much Trace, as president, had authorized for this to actually happen.
Goddamn motherfucker was my hero at this point.
“Good to see you back, Splitter.”
“Trace,” I said, a mixture of a laugh and near-sob. “You are the fucking man. You did not have to post bail, and I cannot say how fucking grateful I am.”
Trace gave a casual “don’t know how I did it” shrug, even though we both knew full well that it was thanks to the very reason I was in jail that I was able to post bail.
“Buddy, we’re just happy to have you out,” he said. “Come on. We have a hall meeting as soon as you get back. No rush, though. Feel free to indulge in a treat of some kind on your way over.”
He then patted my chest, and I pulled him in for a hug once more.
“I’ll see you at the shop,” he said, patting my back.
With that, he departed for his bike, kissing Jane on the lips and taking off. Jane smiled and waved once more, and I waved back. God, how good it felt to be free. God, how good it felt to see my bike again.
Oh, shit, was that taking the Lord’s name in vain?
Ah, fuck, I was swearing… and there I went again. You’re not around her! Relax, Splitter.
I know, but fuck!
I had to laugh at myself, telling myself to quit wasting time playing the Catholic guilt game and to get on my damn bike. Having my hog between my legs felt like a return to paradise; with her underneath me, there was no better ride, no better rush in the world. There were many pleasures in life that most people were ashamed to love that were quite good—sex, alcohol, partying, sex with more than one woman at once—but there was nothing quite like the freedom of riding on two wheels. I wouldn’t quite say that I’d give up fucking to ride forever and ever, but the fact that it was even a thought in my head should have said it all.
I took one last look at the prison, restrained myself from giving a middle finger in full public view of all of their cameras, and roared off. Riding my chopper was something that I never forgot how to do; though a few days had passed since I had last ridden mine, it could have been a few years and it would still be second nature. That just was not something that a Savage Saint ever forgot. It would be like forgetting how to breathe or how to eat. At that point, death might as well have been embraced.
When I hit the highway, while I may not have forgotten the technique of riding, the thrill, the adrenaline, the sheer freedom of riding was something that felt novel all over again. All of these cars in Los Angeles traffic, stuck listening to their stupid radio stations or meaningless podcasts, had nothing on me. I got to feel the air brush against me. I got to push forward and slow down as needed. I got to split two cars; they did not.
Whatever “safety” they had was nothing more than neutering of the human spirit. I had intellectually remembered that, but emotionally remembering it was a very different thing. And now that I was on this bike, I did not give two shits what Amber’s rules were for me. I was free, I was the man, and I did not have to answer to anyone.
Sure, eventually, the ride would end. I’d either have to fill up on gas, or I’d have to head to the shop for hall, or—
Shit, hall. Well, Trace had said that I could indulge a little bit. So…
I ignored the exit for Green Hills, choosing instead to hit a hundred on the bike, laughing and giddily shouting at the spike of happiness that came. I had to slam on the brakes when I saw a cop about half a mile away, nearly causing myself to skid out; that, admittedly, was a little sobering to experience. But I wasn’t trying to race Trace. I just needed that feeling, and my chopper had provided that and then some.
Once I had to slow down for the cop, I knew I’d gotten my fill of driving like a maniac and having that rush. Slowly, as I came down, Amber’s third rule—by now, I figured I might as well just call it her laws—reminded me to lay low. I laid off on the gas, ignored the temptation to do some deranged and crazy U-turn on the highway, and waited for the next exit before I looped back around.
It was painfully, awfully slow. I felt like an old geezer of a grandpa who had to go slower than everyone else just to make a point about driving safe. What kind of fucking rule was this?
But I knew she’d made it for my own good. A man who just posted bail on murder charges and then got caught speeding was, well, not exactly a great look.
The sight of a Savage Saint driving at the speed limit probably looked a bit ridiculous—most especially since I realized halfway through that Trace had not brought me my jacket—but it kept me out of trouble. I turned off the exit for Green Hills, found my way to the shop, and jumped off.
Immediately, Trace was waiting outside with, thank heavens, my Saints jacket.
“I can’t tell you how much of a jackass I feel like for forgetting this,” he said as he approached.
“Nah,” I said, waving my hand. “It k
ept me outta trouble.”
Trace laughed, but as the jacket came closer, I began to feel overwhelmingly emotional about it. This wasn’t just like putting on a workplace uniform again; this was something so very different. I felt naked without the jacket. I felt incomplete without it.
The Saints were my life. They had given me everything I had, provided me my brothers, and prevented me from going down some dark roads. Without the Saints, I would probably just be working some minimum wage job, struggling to make ends meet, doing drugs on the side…
Certainly have never met anyone as hot as Amber Reynolds. God, was she a beauty.
When I had the jacket fully on, I patted it over and over again, as if suddenly discovering that I had gotten my skin back. I saw the patch for Vice President and patted it.
Then I felt an enormous amount of shame that I’d let myself get to this spot. I really did not know if I had been sloppy at the blowup of the warehouse, as the truth was, I felt like I was being made an example of, but just that I had allowed the situation to devolve to that was embarrassing for me. If some prospect had fucked up, well, he was a prospect for a reason. But I, the VP, had wound up in jail.
“Hey, man, you OK?” Trace said, patting my arm.
“Huh?” I said, realizing I’d gone into one of my emotional stupors. “Oh, sorry, brother. I just…”
“You got set up as the fall man,” Trace said. “They couldn’t come for me. They don’t have enough. But they didn’t want to get a low-level member. They wanted you. But what I said about them not having enough is true for you too.”
“Then why did you hire Amber?” I said. “She can’t possibly be cheap.”
“She’s not,” Trace said with a smile. “But you aren’t either.”
God, how Trace could stir my emotions like no other.
“Come on, man,” Trace said, leading me to the clubhouse. “We’ve got a whole host of guys who are looking forward to your return.”