Game Changer (Hell's Saints Motorcycle Club)

by Marinaro, Paula

  Game Changer

  by Paula Marinaro

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  I heard screaming. And begging. And crying. I saw them huddled against the wall. Pleading.

  That’s what was waiting for me at the end of the long battered hallway of the apartment that my sister and her addict boyfriend, Jamie shared. As I passed their bedroom I could see a razor, coke residue, a rolled up bill, and a small mirror sitting on the floor. I knew if I looked further, I would see a syringe and a heavy elastic band. When Jamie’s sleeve was rolled up, his arms looked like a road map that said: Next Stop Heroin. This Way Please.

  Jamie‘s drug of choice was H. and my sister‘s drug of choice for the past year had been Jamie. More recently though, I knew she had been doing coke and not just a little bit. I had stopped giving Claire cash about a month ago when I realized most of it was going up her nose or into his arm. I still came by once a week, when I knew Jamie wouldn’t be there. I bought my sister groceries, cleaned the house and sometimes she would even go out with me.

  Those were the good days and I would like to be able to say they were just like old times. But I couldn’t say that because my kid sis and I never really had the kind of upbringing that could draw on remember the good old days scenario. One thing you can say about a shitty childhood, it can do a lot to bond two little souls.

  Even in the worst of it, I had always reassured my sweet little sister that she and I were destined to live long happy lives. I knew the chances were pretty good that there really were no happy endings and no rewards for surviving. But I would be damned if she was going to draw her last breath in fear, huddled on a dirty floor with a junkie’s arms around her. Wondering how the hell I was going to get us out of this one, I walked toward her screams.

  They had seen me anyway. I recognized the rockers on the cuts and knew instantly who I was dealing with. Not good, but could have been worse. These guys were 1%ers no question, but I had learned early on nobody was all bad or all good and one of the kindest men I ever had known, had worn these colors.

  Chapter 2

  My dad’s best friend had been one of Founder of the Hell’s Saints Motorcycle Club. They met while serving time in County. Spending two years together in a five by nine cell you learn a lot about a man. In the hours of swapping stories, they had discovered that, aside from having a long and unpleasant relationship with the United States Criminal Justice System, they had a lot in common.

  Both my dad (Jack) and Prosper had grown up in the Foster Care system. They had served their country by joining the service (my dad was Army, Prosper was Marines) and doing two tours each in Vietnam. They both loved bikes, tequila and dark eyed women. Prosper was released a month after my dad. The two of them took to the road that very day riding across the country sharing everything. And that everything eventually included loving the same woman.

  My mother was Lakota Sioux, living in desperate poverty on a reservation in the Badlands of South Dakota. She was selling little earrings by the side of the road when they rode into town. My dad liked to say that while she had easily been the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, it was her gentleness that had shone through like a beacon. It took him three days to convince her to ride out with him. Her name was Magaskawee and she was 18 years old. My dad called her Maggie.

  Maggie, Prosper and Jack spent the next 6 months on the road together. My mother was pregnant before her 19th birthday. When Prosper found out, he rode out that same afternoon. I couldn’t say for sure, but my guess is that being around her every day and not having her was something he had learned to live with. But watching her flower, ripe and beautiful with the seed of his best friend growing deep inside of her was just too much. So he left and soon after he had started a family of his own. That family was the Hell’s Saints MC.

  Prosper came back into their lives a few years later. By then I was a little girl. I had been a shy, observant child living in a land of ordered chaos. I learned early on that that there was a lot to be said about sitting quietly and Watching. I watched for secrets. I found out Prosper’s secret when I watched him watch my mom. Then, I watched my dad watch Prosper watching my mom. My mom spent all of her time watching us so it all worked out okay.

  She was nineteen when I was born and eight years later she was gone. She gave us as much as she could in the time we had with her. She taught us the Lakota ways and she would often sing lullabies to us in rich Native American Language. She loved us. And we knew she loved us. I always knew we were safe with her. I didn’t always know that about our father. I knew he would never hurt us, but there were times that I knew he didn’t see us. Sometimes, when Claire would laugh or cry or demand attention in her sweet baby way, he would look at her as if surprised she was still there or even there at all.

  Our mother never forgot. And she was soft. Her skin was soft, and her long, long hair was soft. Her eyes were a soft deep brown color and they were fringed by long thick soft eyelashes. When she spoke, it was in soft tones. She never raised her voice. If we were out in the yard playing she wasn’t the sort of woman who would stand on the porch and yell for her children. She would walk to us, put her hand gently on us and guide us home. She was our world. It seemed like she had no other family. We never had any grandparents or aunts or uncles visit us. Once I heard her talking on the phone to someone called Tanka. She was in the bedroom with the door closed, but I could hear her crying in between the words. I had asked my mom about it, but she just shook her head and went sad for two days. I never brought it up again.

  So Maggie made her family where she could. Although I know sometimes they made her uneasy, she welcomed my father’s rough wild friends with gentleness and grace. And they seemed gentler around her. Big muscled hardened men, men that the town folk would give a w
ide birth to, would turn to sweet around her. My dad had an open door policy when it came to his friends and everyone was welcome at any meal. There was never ever not enough. If it be macaroni and cheese or roast beef no one left that table hungry.

  My Mom had a way of making everyone feel like an honored guest. Whether the guest had just been released after doing five to ten, or whether it was one of the “shadow people” who had been thrown out by his latest old lady and needed a hot meal, a shower and a woman’s advice, my mother treated them like kings. Because of this, these rough and tumble men were around a lot and when they sat at Maggie’s table to break bread they found their manners. They found their pleases and thank you’s. They found their ability to keep their elbows off the table and their napkins at the ready. They kept their mouths closed when they chewed. They kept their voices low and their conversation mainstream. They complimented the food and drank their beer from a glass. They offered to help with the dishes.

  One thing they didn’t do was ever find themselves too close to Maggie. Not in the kitchen, not in the dining room, not at the table. Our father had been known for his crazy jealous nature. His love for his boys only extended as far as it didn’t interfere with the love of his life. Prosper was the only one who got close to that, to her. And Jack only allowed that because when Maggie had a choice to make, she had chosen him over Prosper. He also put up with it because Maggie would have it no other way. Our mother had put her foot down on two things in her whole life. One was that she made all and every important decision regarding her babies, and the other was that wherever was home for Maggie and Jack, was also home for Prosper.

  But they were all gone now. Cancer took my mom and after that my dad drank himself to death. I hadn’t seen Prosper in many years.

  Prosper had been a big, hard handsome man with dark brown eyes and light brown hair that was streaked through with caramel, molasses and honey sun- kissed highlights. When he picked up the small girl that was me, I felt like I was sitting atop a redwood. He had had a deep gravelly voice and sang a mean Bob Seger. In the summer time, there would often be a warm crackling fire in the smoke pit of our backyard. He and my dad would play soft music and sing in deep harmony. Claire and I would fall asleep to those tunes in our mother’s arms and I grew up knowing all the words. Sometimes I heard my mom humming Prosper’s music softly to herself when she thought she was alone.

  Other times there would be different people in our backyard and on those nights there was no music, just loud men and women with letters on their jackets just like Prosper’s. I didn’t need to watch them to know that their secrets came from dark places. On those nights, I would keep Claire upstairs with me, tucking her in close and keeping her safe from the dark shadows they cast on the bedroom walls.

  On my 8th birthday Prosper bought me a beautiful silver harmonica. As much as I had loved the wonderful little music maker, the best gift of all was the time we spent together. He talked to me about how the harmonica was a magic instrument because it was so small that you could carry the gift of music with you wherever you went and how hell, if you had music you were never alone.

  He taught to me how to hold it so that the low notes were on the right and what those notes meant. I learned that if I blew into one little hole it sounded one way and if I sucked the air in it sounded another way. I learned how to isolate those sounds. He taught me to breathe from the diaphragm. He tutored me on the fine art of over blows and how to choke them, and that while the standard lip lock was a cool way to go, you really needed to do it a different way to play the blues. He taught me how to make rich soulful sounds by bending notes and I practiced so much I had a permanent state of cramped hands and swollen lips.

  My mother was pretty sick by then. Prosper and I would spend hours sitting by her bedside singing and playing for her. Mom’s favorite was Bob Seger’s Turn the Page and she made us play it over and over again. To her unending delight, Prosper learned to replace the long soulful sax with a beautiful rift on his mouth harp. When he taught me how to sing in harmony, my child’s voice was clear and strong and fearless. I loved him because he shared her with me. Sometimes in quiet moments when I was playing on the floor and they sat softly talking to each other, I watched my mother. And I saw what I had missed before. My mother had a secret too.

  The love my father had for my mother filled his heart so completely there wasn’t much room left over for us. Her illness broke wide apart a deep hurt in his soul that only being loved by her could heal. She changed him, and when a woman changes a man that way, that man would rather die than go back to the place without her. My dad’s secret wasn’t that he couldn’t live without our mother, but that he didn’t want to.

  He was disappearing before my eyes and I took to following him around everywhere. I knew my mother would soon be gone and I was petrified to lose him too. I waited and I watched. He never seemed to notice, but Prosper did. One morning we woke up to find him gently snoring on the couch with Claire’s little body tucked safely under his arm. He was there every night after that until my mom died two weeks later. Prosper was the one who arranged all the things for the service. He held our little hands in his through the whole thing. My dad too deep in his own grief to tend to ours.

  After my mom was gone, he would still come and visit but there were no more magic nights filled with sweet music and firelight. When I watched Prosper then, there seemed to be a darkness growing within him. I knew all his new secrets came from bad places and that had made me sad.

  Eventually he started to bring a woman around. She had the unlikely name of Pinky and she was fascinating. She was round in all the right places and had big blonde hair that hung in soft curls down her back. She wore bracelets with little gold bells that chimed when she moved. She had a wide mouth and a big laugh. She smoked endlessly and when she hugged us she smelled of tobacco and lilacs. I remember she used to bring us cookies and one time even cleaned the house. Prosper smiled when he was with her. The first time I heard my father laugh again was because of something she had said.

  Prosper, Pinky and Jack were the family we were left with. Because I was a Watcher, I knew that by many standards, Prosper wasn’t a good man. But he was always good to us and that wasn’t only enough, it was everything.

  Then came the night when the good in Prosper stepped up to change the crash course that had become our little lives.

  Chapter 3

  Two big men filled the dirty little kitchen. One had a gun closely trained on my sister and Jamie.

  “You here, why?” A third man I hadn’t noticed pulled himself away from the filthy kitchen counter and walked toward me.

  “My name is Raine,” I stammered. “Claire is my sister.”

  My palms were sweating and the fragile hold I had on the paper grocery bag started slipping. The bag broke and the groceries fell heavily on the floor, apples rolling everywhere. I followed them with my eyes trying to gain composure, because now I was just that scared.

  The man standing in front of me was the biggest man I had ever seen. Everything about him was frightening. He stood well over 6 feet tall and had massive arms filled with big tribal tattoos and skulls and other black and gray scary things. His skin was the color of sun kissed copper and he had jet black tousled hair. He had a long straight nose, white teeth that looked like they were ready to bite me, and eyes so dark I couldn’t see his pupils. He was dressed all in black and had three little silver hoops dangling from his right ear.

  He continued to walk slowly towards me, his big arms crossed against his chest. He examined me from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet and I felt myself shrinking back. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him for very long, so I looked past him into dark night and saw myself in the reflection. From the top of my pony tailed head to the bottom of my running shoes, I looked small and scared in my too big scrubs. I had just finished my last class of nursing school. As of right this minute I was a Licensed Practical Nurse specializing in Pediatrics. The ceremony it
self would be in two weeks. But really, I was done and I had wanted to celebrate early with Claire.

  I broke out of my trance and pulled myself back when I felt him reach out and grab my arms. He roughly turned them palms up and stretched out each arm looking for marks. Not finding any, he pushed me away from him and snorted.

  “You’re clean,” he said.

  Not sure if this was a question or not, I nodded yes.

  “Why are you here?” I asked him.

  He turned and looked at my sister, still hysterical on the floor.

  “Ask her.”

  “What have you done?” My hands at my sides now and balled up so tight I could feel my nails cutting into the palms of my hands. My sister’s eyes were glazed over with fright and I saw that absolute piece of shit, Jamie, had a tight hold on her.

  “None of your fucking business, bitch.” That was Jamie.

  I ignored him and walked quickly to put myself between the gun and my sister. I knelt down beside her and smoothed the sweaty, matted hair off her face.

  “Claire, tell me. Please, what have you done?”

  She wouldn’t look at me, and when I looked up three really big badass bikers were staring down at the cleavage left open by my oversized scrubs. A giant of a man, not the same biker, but someone just as big and just as scary, reached over and hauled me up.

  “Your sister and her jacked up boyfriend have a real problem, sugar.”

  The hold he had on me tightened and I glanced down quickly at the panther tattoo that ran the length of his arm. The front of his hair was pulled back into a ponytail and the rest fell loosely on his shoulders. He had bright white teeth in a tanned face and a two day stubble.

  I took a deep breath and nodded. Maybe this could be fixed.

  “How much?”

  “Thirty large.” He smiled.

  I felt the legs go out from under me. Not because I couldn’t fix this, but because I could. I had saved every single dime I had ever been given or earned since the age of ten years old and had exactly $30,099 dollars saved. A small fortune to me. It was everything we hadn’t done, everything we hadn’t had. It had always fallen on me and I had always stepped up. I lived in a tiny house that we had inherited, I never went out, I drove a crappy car, and spent next to nothing on myself. I kept a close watch on that money, all the while planning on it going towards something better for the two of us. If saving Claire’s life was the something better, I was good with that.