GRIFFIN: Lost Disciples MC

by Paula Cox

  The game of pool stopped, and all eyes turned to them. Damon put his hands in the pocket of his leather jacket and looked around at everyone.

  “I guess we all know why we’re here, eh?” he said with a jocular sort of dark humor.

  Griffin took a step forward, shook his head, and whispered in the ear of his president, “Make the girls go.”

  Damon raised an eyebrow and turned to look at Griffin with an “Are you kidding?” look on his face. “Girls are always allowed at these kind of meetings.”

  “This is too sensitive. We can’t trust them…just trust me on this, man.”

  With a shrug, Damon turned back to the crowd. “Sorry, guys. We’re going to have to ask the ladies to leave for now.”

  The girls traded offended look as they stood from the laps of the men that they were there with. After exchanging “I’ll-call-yous” and brief kisses good-bye, the only people left were Disciples in truth. Already Griffin felt a lot better about what they were about to discuss.

  Damon drew himself up and began to pace, already comfortable under the scrutiny of the various members of the club. It was as though he had been expecting this for quite some time, and Griffin supposed that it made the most sense, given the fact that the vice president usually took over for the president, and it was not as though they were playing the safest of games.

  “Listen up, guys. We were hit hard this week. I think we all know that. Some of the guys who were hit at Manny’s funeral are here.” Damon nodded at the corner where a man with an arm wrapped in gauze stood. The man nodded back. Griffin thought about the other guys who had it worse, the ones who were still in the hospital.

  “We have been disrespected, and I am here to tell you not to worry, because it won’t stand.”

  A murmur of assent rose throughout the crowd, and Griffin tried to suppress a smile. It was going to happen; they were going to finally get their revenge.

  “So, I have a plan,” Damon said. “I think we hit them where it hurts; we hit them hard; and we don’t show a bit of mercy.”

  The murmurs grew more fervent, although something turned Griffin’s stomach as he thought about the situation. In the office, Damon said that he was planning on talking everything out first, and now—all of a sudden—he had a plan? It was likely that he just did not want to hash it all out to Griffin right before the meeting, but he could at least have hinted that this was what he was going to do. He kept his cool—lest the others realize that something was up—and hung back to listen to what Damon had to say.

  “Okay, so…hitting them where it hurts. We know that the Los Diablos’ clubhouse is only about twenty minutes from here, so I was thinking that we go in, crush them inside of their own home, and get out before they realize what even hit them.”

  There was a silence as everyone processed it, and Griffin desperately hoped that they would all come to the same conclusion that he had: It was stupid. Sure, it was a bold plan, definitely one that would strike fear in the hearts of the Los Diablos, but it was also completely reckless, and it seemed like it was a little too rash. Perhaps Damon was not thinking as clearly as Griffin had assumed he was.

  “I don’t know about that,” Griffin said, breaking the silence. “I mean, there are a bunch of other ways we can go about it where we won’t end up losing guys.”

  A voice spoke up from the back, one of the Disciples from Marfa. Griffin recognized him as Dex, a skinny little biker with a high-pitched voice. They had run jobs together back in the day, back before Griffin became a “big shot” when he rose in the ranks of the Disciples. It was not as though Dex and he weren’t friends anymore, it was merely that they were often too busy doing their own respective things to be able to catch up. “No matter what we do, we’re going to lose guys anyway. That’s pretty much how this works,” Dex said and then laughed.

  A chuckle moved through the crowd in an attempt at bravery, but Griffin knew that every single guy in the room was probably looking around to see who the most likely one to die would be. All Griffin knew was that it was not going to be him, and he did not really want it to be anyone else if he could help it.

  “Yeah, there is a risk.” Griffin said. “But also I’d rather not tempt fate, wouldn’t you?”

  “We need to prove that we need to be respected,” Damon said sternly. “We need to prove that we’re not afraid, and we definitely need to prove that we’re not going to be fucked with.”

  A cheer went up through the crowd.

  Typical. Say anything with enough passion and you’ll have everyone eating out of your hand and riding into war, thought Griffin. Then he said, “Listen, I’ll do whatever you think we need to do in order to get back at those assholes. I am just wondering if anyone else had any ideas.”

  No one said anything for a minute, until one guy near the front sat up a little straighter to speak. “I think that hitting them in their clubhouse is a smart idea. Yeah, it is reckless, but it is where they live and where they relax, and what’s scarier than that?”

  “Scary?”

  “You know, imagine your own home not being safe.”

  I can imagine, Griffin thought bitterly, his mind drifting to Natasha. None of them really had any idea about what she was going through, and why would they? They were outlaws; they had specifically committed to this sort of thing. Natasha was an innocent bystander who had been dragged into something horrible, and now she could not even go home lest the assholes that belonged in the Los Diablos tried to kill her. Now she was holed up in some crappy motel room because literally anywhere else was dangerous. Griffin did not need to imagine it, he just knew.

  Another man spoke up and said, “Yeah, no kidding. They got us at Manny’s funeral. I think we need to hit them harder, and where it hurts.”

  Damon smiled. “Great, should we put it to a vote?”

  There was a murmur of more assent throughout the room.

  “Anyone against the plan?”

  Griffin raised his hand, as did a few others, and he could already tell that it was not enough.

  “Anyone for?”

  The rest of the men raised their hand, and already Griffin knew that it was pointless, they were going to go through with it. Of course, he’d follow the club into the bowels of hell if need be, but the idea annoyed him a lot more than he’d thought that it would. Did not they realize that his idea was superior? Of course not, they had immediately put the first idea to a vote. Next time he’d have to be more assertive, that was all. Griffin was still getting used to leading, not following. Luckily for him, right now was a time to follow; it was more straightforward there.

  With the decision made, it seemed as though everyone was going back to hanging out, drinking beer, and playing pool. Griffin knew that he should stay. These were his guys, and he had at least some sort of responsibility to stick around and talk to them. However, his heart was not into it, and he kept thinking about Natasha and how she was somewhere else right now.

  What would she think of this plan? Should he even tell her? He thought of the look on her face as he told her he had to leave. Did he really want her to worry?

  Did he really want to not do something solely because a girl he was fucking did not want him to? He never thought that he would see the day, but this felt different. He made a decision to tell her as soon as he could. She said she wanted to help, and she definitely needed to see exactly what that meant.

  Damon walked up to Griffin and clapped him on the shoulder. “I want you front and center in this,” he said with a smile.

  “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” Griffin replied.

  “Good man,” Damon said absently, already moving on to the next man who wanted to talk to him. Griffin watched him as he went, knowing that if he was ever in the position that Damon was in, he was probably going to do it a lot differently.

  Of course, the only way he would get in that position was if Damon died, so he would rather not think about it. Instead, he took another beer, turned to one of his bud
dies, and asked if he could join the next game. Griffin was paired up with Julian, an old friend of his who went way back.

  Julian was a big guy, not fat, but solid, with blonde hair and blue eyes that occasionally gave him a vulnerable look. If Griffin had a best friend in the family that was the Disciples, Julian would definitely be it. They racked the balls, and Griffin went first, splitting them and landing with stripes.

  “So, how have you been holding up?” Julian asked in his small, shy way. Griffin appreciated the thought—although he knew that Julian had been around for almost as long as Griffin had and also viewed Emanuel like a brother. It was kind of Julian to acknowledge how close Emanuel and Griffin had been, pushing aside his own sadness in order to support his friend.

  “I’ve been doing alright,” Griffin admitted. “Especially now that we have a plan.”

  “Emanuel was a great guy,” Julian said as he sunk the thirteen in the corner pocket. “Really top notch, we definitely have to do something for him.”

  “I know,” Griffin said, still trying to shake the awkward feeling he had about the plan that had been presented. It still didn’t sit right with him, but the idea was what they had to go with, so complaining about it would only make less of a united front. Julian looked up at him, obviously picking up on Griffin’s ambivalence, but he knew better than to say anything out loud in the middle of the clubhouse. Griffin thanked him for that, and he leaned over to sink another ball.

  “So,” Julian said, obviously willing to change the subject from something so heavy. “Any chicks in your life?”

  Griffin didn’t know if he wanted to bring up Natasha. It was complicated enough to see a girl who refused to become a part of the Lost Disciples, but the additional fact that she was also Emanuel’s daughter would just seem baffling. He knew that she was going to have to accept it sooner or later, her existence was going to come out somehow, but it wasn’t his place to do it for her. So instead of that, he shrugged.

  “Just the usual, I guess,” he replied safely. “You know me, never like to be alone but never like to make them stay.”

  “Yeah,” Julian said, his face hard to read. He knew that Julian didn’t have the best luck with girls, mostly because he was too quiet. Girls were initially drawn to him, thinking that he was mysterious, but would usually leave as soon as his shyness came through and they assumed that he was just not interested. Griffin kept meaning to take the poor guy under his wing, but Griffin was a terrible wingman. Griffin would rather not go out at all instead of accidentally sleeping with a girl that Julian might be interested in. It had worked out pretty well already, although he couldn’t help but feel sorry for his unfortunate friend.

  “Actually,” he said, giving a look around to make sure no one was overhearing. “I’m supposed to be heading to the Tumbleweed tonight to meet a girl.”

  “A girl?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What is her name?”

  “That is not important, but I need to have an extra set of eyes out for me there—just in case the Los Diablos want to bring trouble.”

  “To the Tumbleweed?” Julian raised his eyebrow in an ironic way, clearly not buying the idea that the dusty, western-themed bar on the other side of town was going to carry some sort of hazard.

  “Yeah, I’d just feel so much better if someone else had my back.”

  “Fine,” Julian said, completely not convinced. “I’ll join you, but I’m really not sure why you’re so worried. Ain’t no biker who really goes to the Tumbleweed.”

  “Yeah, but no biker had ever attacked someone at a funeral either.”

  Both of Julian’s blond eyebrows shot up. “I gotta say, you are right on that one, Griffin.”

  “I have some pretty damn good instincts.”

  “And who is the girl?”

  “Just some girl, you know me.”

  Julian gave a little smile.

  “Fine, I’ll have your back.”

  Griffin grinned at him. “I know you always will.”

  “Of course, we ride for life, right?”

  Griffin nodded and leaned over to sink an eight ball in the corner pocket.

  “I win,” Griffin said.

  “You always do,” Julian replied.

  Chapter 16

  A song played on the jukebox:

  Listen poor sinner; you’re driftin’ away

  From the Dear Savior; who’s pleading today

  What will you do; when the Savior ain’t nigh

  When the Pale Horse and his rider goes by?

  The song was an incredibly old country western song, and Griffin tried to remember the name of it. It sounded like something his mother would sing to him before she became too drunk to sing much anymore. Listening to it made him feel happy and sad at the same time.

  The time now ain’t long; when the Savior will come

  Then you’ll be judged; by the deeds you have done

  On that judgement day; you’ll weep and you’ll cry

  When the Pale Horse and his rider goes by?

  It was kind of cheesy, but that was The Tumbleweed. The bar was one of those pathetic attempts at being “true western”—even though they technically were already a western bar by the sheer fact that they operated in Texas. In order to enhance this, the horns of several longhorn Texas steers adorned the walls, country music always was playing on the jukebox, and every Friday and Saturday night they dusted off the bucking bronco in the middle of the bar and offered free drinks for anyone who could ride it for longer than ten seconds. Usually drunk girls tried and won that sort of thing, which wasn’t always a bad thing. There was something about a woman on one of those mechanical bulls that was just indescribably sexy.

  It was ridiculous, but Natasha had been in the mood for something ridiculous, and Griffin obliged her. There was also the added bonus that not a single Disciple would ever set foot in there besides Julian—who was trying to remain inconspicuous at the bar while Griffin and Natasha talked. No other biker from any other club would set foot in there for that matter either, so there was the added bonus of being anonymous, especially since Griffin had left the leather jacket that proclaimed his allegiance back in Natasha’s motel room. Even if someone was to walk in there, they would probably just think that their eyes were playing tricks on them.

  The song played on, and he could swear that he heard his mother singing, so sad and mournful. He felt lost in it for a time.

  When that trumpet sounds; on the sinners below

  Not even the angels; in heaven will know

  Then’s when you'll wish; you had Jesus nigh

  When the Pale Horse and his rider goes by?

  “I wonder what this song is even about,” Natasha said, and Griffin snapped out of it, almost embarrassed at being caught dreaming about something so stupid and from his past. Natasha had clearly picked up on it, but she didn’t say anything or comment on it, and that was one of the main reasons why he thought that she was definitely worth keeping around.

  “Huh?” he asked, trying to act as though he hadn’t been listening to the song.

  “The pale rider, pale horse, obviously this song is about Jesus, but I’m not so sure about the pale rider thing. It sounds familiar, but I feel like I’ve only read it in a Stephen King novel.”

  Griffin laughed a little bit. “Nah, it’s from the Bible.”

  Natasha raised an eyebrow. “You read the Bible?”

  Griffin raised one back. “You don’t?”

  Won’t you redeem; your poor wicked soul

  You can't pay your way; with Silver and Gold

  If you’re not saved; you’ll be lost in the night

  When the Pale Horse and his rider goes by?

  “I never really got around to it,” Natasha explained. “My mom was never very religious, and it’s not like my dad was exactly, at least not to really get into it, so I never got into it myself.”

  “That’s really saying something in Texas,” Griffin said. “It’s like everyone
has to read the Bible at least to be able to live here.”

  She laughed. “It’s not really like that in other places in Texas; this is just at the end of the world.”

  “I never really thought about other places.”

  “Yeah…” She trailed off as though concerned that she was going to touch on something too real, and Griffin allowed her to drop it—even as he fought a desire to actually explain himself. How does one explain that they’ve barely left the state—except to toe the line at Mexico—and even rarer, hasn’t ever really left town? Compared to Natasha, who had gotten out, he felt strangely small. Yet, as she smiled at him, he stopped feeling that inadequacy all over again.