Gunner shouldered the side of the sprawling Cape Cod, a cigarette hanging from the corner of a scowl. If the lighthouse draws the tourists to Peggys Cove, the Sou’Wester restaurant gives them a place to leave some money behind. The view in Nova Scotia is free, but sophisticated tourists like to get their money’s worth. The Sou’Wester and the cluster of gift shops below the rocky point make sure they get the full tourist experience. Gunner wasn’t paying a dime for the shelter the restaurant offered.
Carla stood at the edge of the parking lot near the road. She was with Gunner’s new ol’ lady, Cheyenne, and a small group of Stallion women. Greg was in the middle of it, speaking to Cheyenne. Carla smiled my way, a lot of menace in a pretty face. I waved.
“The fuck does he want, anyway?” Gunner asked behind the smoke as we both watched our little brother charm the ladies.
“He came back from that pilgrimage thinking we need some family bonding,” I said.
“What fucking family? You a cop, him a priest? That ain’t family, bro. That’s just embarrassing.”
“We look up to you, too. Now fuck off and give him a few minutes.”
“You say that behind a badge; guess I didn’t teach you your place under the patch.”
“Like I said, big bro, ‘fuck off.’” I flipped him the finger, a gesture that could have gotten a guy seriously messed up in the bad old days.
Gunner smiled as he pulled the cigarette and flicked it off the side of a tour bus rolling past. He raised a middle finger to the faces and cameras pressed against the windows. Bonus photo for them. A legendary lighthouse and a real live outlaw all in one day.
“I see you still embrace your fellow man, Lee,” Greg said as he joined us beside the restaurant. A cheek-stretching smile took any sting out of the rebuke. Good thing. Two of us pushing his buttons might be more than Gunner could take.
“They came for the show.” Gunner pulled the cigarette pack from his jacket and lit another. I wondered if he’d let it slide if I used his real name.
Greg turned to me. “Cam, Officer Cage tells me you won’t be coming to the graveyard after all. That’s a shame.”
“Sorry, Greg. We wanted to complete the ride, but then duty calls. You know how it is.”
“I do, indeed. But, like charity, sometimes duty should begin at home.” Greg nodded toward the final group of bikers walking down to the wharf. “Especially at times like this.”
I looked at my brothers. A full-patch giant squinting and scarred behind his own angry smoke and a soft-featured mop top peeking out from above a white spec of collar. The badge planted me somewhere in the middle, not pure enough for the priesthood and not dirty enough for gang life. Was I the lost brother or the found one?
“Look at the three of us,” Greg said. He was reading my mind. “I wear a collar to atone for our father’s sins. Lee, you wear his patch and repeat them. Cam, you curse him by wearing the shield he stood against. Three sons living in a very big shadow.”
“Look, Greg, should I call you Father or what? I don’t know what the fuck to call you. Doesn’t matter. The old man was an asshole. Okay? Treated you like shit and kicked the shit out of us, but that don’t mean you know anything about him.” For Gunner, it was a speech. He took a long pull on the cigarette.
“That’s just it. I don’t. Not enough, anyway. Just as you don’t really know enough about me. You’re my big brother, and you are uncomfortable calling me by my given name. That says enough, and it’s why I want us to spend time together. The three of us. We are in many ways one. Children of a broken home, a broken man.” He touched each of us on the forearm. Gunner tried to back away, but the building stopped him.
I tried to remember the last time the three of us had stood this close together. I couldn’t. Greg was right. Only a fool wouldn’t see the shadow of the old man in our choices. He was a gang leader, and his sons joined gangs. Gunner the right one, me the wrong, Greg the biggest gang of all.
“You know what, Greg?” I said. “You’re right. For better or worse, we are brothers. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to spend some time together.” I wasn’t sure I meant it.
Gunner looked at me over his cigarette. He didn’t say no, but his eyes did.
“Thank you, Cam,” Greg said as Bobby Simms approached from the front of the building.
Today, he wore a loose-fitting sweatshirt under his leather vest. He still looked big, but at least he wasn’t busting any seams. So much for the family reunion.
“Well, if it isn’t Halifax’s most famous brothers. If only I had a camera to capture the moment.” Simms smiled. His tone was soft. It dripped bullshit the way it did when he knew Greg was behind me back at Sandy Gardner’s house.
Gunner pushed away from the building, standing tall above Simms. Saying nothing, saying everything.
“I hate to break up the party,” said Simms, “but Father, I wonder if you’d come down to the wharf with me for the final prayers.” He turned away from Gunner, ignored me.
“Well, Cam, as you say, duty calls.” Greg backed away from us. “Guess mine comes first. Let’s pick this up later. Gunner, ride safe.” He dropped the Lee with Simms standing there. Smart.
“Aren’t you two coming down?” Simms’s tone grew harder as he looked at me. “This is about your father. You can’t just stand here and let the rest of us honour him.” The smile gone now, his eyes locked with mine.
He was looking at the wrong Neville. Gunner had a handful of Christian vest before Bobby could turn back to Greg. Christ saves, but does he protect fools? Bobby was about to find out.
“The fuck you say, asshole?” Gunner had Bobby against the building now. I saw Carla make a move toward us. I waved her off and stepped in, putting a hand on Gunner’s shoulder as Greg pleaded with him to release Simms. As much fun as it would be to watch, I’d never be able to explain to Inspector MacIntosh how I let my brother beat someone he told me to stay away from. I pulled Gunner off.
“Later, prick.” Gunner pushed him toward the road. Simms straightened his vest, the smile back.
“My apologies. Love and respect, brother,” Simms said to Gunner as he and Greg headed down the hill.
“Asshole,” Gunner said, as he stepped away from the building and headed to the bikes. I followed.
“He still connected in any way?” I asked as we walked.
Gunner stopped. Looked at me. A line was crossed. I raised my hands in surrender, and we walked on. I regretted the question about Bobby. It had pissed him off before I had the chance to ask what mattered. We stopped at the glide. Gunner pulled his do-rag and wiped the moisture off the seat and the tiny bitch pad, attached to the rear fender of our father’s ride. A suction cup held the square of leather in place behind the saddle. Nothing comfortable, but Cheyenne had a seat behind the VP on a club run. Gunner must be serious about her. He caught me looking at it.
“Problem?” he asked.
“Nah, man. It’s what you need. Happy to see it.”
He looked past me.
“Cop with you looks pretty hot. Fuckin’ bike she rides, shit, nicer than yours, bro.” He reached for the cigarettes again. All the tension gone.
“Bike’s nicer than most. She carries a big gun, too.”
“Like I said, hot.”
“Listen, I gotta ask you a question about last night.”
He sat on the edge of the saddle, put his right boot on the rear passenger peg, and looked at me.
“That beating at The Bank. The club good with that?”
“You look like your old self, you know bro,” he said as he rubbed the do-rag over the bitch pad beside him. “You ride in, nice ol’ lady tight behind you. Makes me think of old times. Feel it right here, you know.” He pulled the cigarette hand into his chest. “But twice now, you ask cop questions. Maybe it’s time you leave.”
“Not a cop question, bro. Blair’s a fri
end. Real tight friend. Gonna be payback.”
He took a slow drag on the cigarette and shrugged as he stuffed the do-rag in his hip pocket.
“I see Williams is still wearing the lower rocker, see his goon in the back office today. Makes me think they were taking care of business last night. Maybe payback is going to be a bigger problem,” I said.
“Shit’s complicated, bro. Can’t just pull his rocker. You better let it be.”
“Fuck that, Gunner. You pulled that scarecrow’s rocker in a heartbeat when he turned yellow on me this morning. He wasn’t even prospecting your charter.”
“Shit’s complicated, bro. Not the same.”
“So the club’s cool with cop beating now?”
He didn’t answer. He stood and looked back toward the restaurant. The riders were filtering back from the wharf. Cheyenne and Carla were in the lead, heading toward us. I turned away from them and stepped up to him, put him in a bad place with witnesses watching. This wasn’t two brothers now. It was someone challenging the Stallion VP. He raised an open palm to the left as we locked eyes. I knew a prospect or two had been waved off. He put a hand on each of my shoulders. I leaned into him.
“Like I said, complicated right now. That changes, I’ll tell you. Let it slide.”
I pulled free of his grip and took a half step back.
“Nothing slides. Not a fucking thing.” It’s the Stallion code, and the club needed to know I still lived by it.
Cheyenne arrived first, wrapping her arm around Gunner’s waist and smiling at me. The black boots glistened with a salty mist where they met her thighs. Nature’s own stripper glitter. She had a short-waisted, impossibly tight, blue leather jacket covering the shredded T-shirt. Carla placed an arm around me and smiled, not at Gunner, but at Cheyenne. Her jacket was not as tight, but those black riding jeans were. She leaned into me, playing her part. It felt good when she touched me, brought me back down. All eyes in the parking lot were still on us. Gunner raised his right fist in front of his chest. I paused as we looked at each other, then met his with mine. We bumped fists and parted.
“Care to share?” Carla said as we walked to our bikes.
“It’s complicated,” I said. “Let’s just ride.”
“What, no party at the clubhouse? No lap dancing?”
Chapter 12
Saturday, dusk
Lolita clutched her skirt and blouse in one hand. The other held a fur blanket closed over her breasts. The wrap was about warmth, not modesty. She worked hard on stage, and the sweat chilled as she walked through the air-conditioned bar to the dressing room.
Several men waved twenties as she passed, looking for some private time. A drunk in a nice suit waved a couple of fifties as he tugged at the blanket. She paused at the easy mark. She was in a hurry but couldn’t leave that money on the table. She looked across the room where Sheilagh was just coming out of one of the private dance booths. Perfect. Lolita caught Sheilagh’s eye, nodded to the mark, and then moved in and sat on his lap. She let the blanket fall open as she pulled the fifties from his hand and placed her lips against his ear.
“Got a surprise for you, honey,” she whispered, biting gently at the lobe.
She stood as Sheilagh slid into the waiting lap, her red hair brushing his face. Lolita leaned in. Her lips met Sheilagh’s in a slow kiss. They parted, tongues lingering in front of him. That’s all a hundred buys you, she thought as she left Sheilagh to empty the rest of his wallet.
Lolita wanted to get out of the club to see Samuel before her next set. Everybody worked the pole on Saturday night at The Fog Bank. She’d have almost two hours before the other girls filled out the rotation and it was her time to dance again. She hoped that would be enough.
In the dressing room, she pulled a sweatshirt over her head and slipped into a pair of jeans. She kept her back to the sick midget’s camera. She grabbed her purse and headed for the back. She’d almost made it when Glen Carroll grabbed her shoulder as she reached the door.
“Where the hell you think you’re going, girl? We got customers out there want some lap time.”
“The clubhouse. I’m supposed to dance there before my next set.” She knew Glen worshipped the Stallion; she hoped the lie would work.
“Nobody told me nothing about you leaving the club.” His raspy whisper was firm, but he released his grip.
“Okay, I’ll stay. You call and tell Gunner. I don’t want no shit for it.” She moved past him and headed back to the dressing room.
“Wait. Hang on a minute. How you supposed to get there?”
“They’ll send me a ride. Same as always.” She stood still, not moving to the door.
“Yeah, well, that’s cool, I guess, but tell Jimmy to call me. I need to know this shit.”
“Whatever,” she said, heading for the door.
She lit a cigarette as soon as she hit the parking lot, taking a long deep drag as she looked for Samuel’s Ford. It slid out of a parking spot and rolled up to her. She jumped in. He looked frail behind the wheel. He was only two years younger than Lolita but seemed somehow like a child. He was handsome, or would be if he wasn’t slouching his shoulders and aiming those lidded eyes at nothing. God, she thought she had it bad. She watched him adjust his position, casually throwing his left arm over the wheel as he turned to greet her. Trying to look like he was bigger, older. At least Sam was still trying to be something more when he was alone with her. She couldn’t help the smile.
“We can’t go far. I got to be back here in an hour.”
“Soon you won’t have to be inside that place at all, Tatjana.” He looked down as he said it. Baby steps.
Gunner spun the black cap off the bottle of Jack Daniels and leaned against the window frame. He took a quick belt and placed the open bottle on the dresser beside him. He looked down into the compound. The bikes were lined up neatly in front of the house. The old man’s glide was in the back of a silver-and-blue half-ton, ready for the drive back to Cam’s. He’d let the prospects do it. He didn’t want another showdown. He grabbed the bottle again, walked to the edge of the bed, and handed it to Cheyenne. She leaned up on an elbow and let the covers fall free as she took a drink. Looked good and knew it.
The sound of the band thumped through the floor. The party was starting to kick downstairs. Cheyenne stood and pulled him close. The heat of her body felt good. Her feel, her smell, were already familiar, comfortable. Gunner placed his hand on the small of her back and lifted her into him. She wrapped her legs around him and leaned back, her hair falling off her shoulders, her smile full of promise. She didn’t say a word, didn’t ask him what was bothering him or any shit like that. She just lifted the bottle and took another drink. Fucking perfect.
Cheyenne’s body was lean and tan, a natural dark shade, not that bullshit fluorescent copper from a tanning bed. He figured she had some Arab or Indian in her. He didn’t give a shit if she wasn’t a white chick; she was fucking hot. She had a small tattoo, a vine with tiny blue flowers leading down from her navel. Not Stallion blue but close enough. He knew her back was ink free and wondered if he would change that. He’d never marked a woman as his own; maybe it was time. He took the bottle from her with his left hand. He pushed her back onto the bed, rolled her over, and traced an outline just above her ass with a corner of the bottle. He spilled a shot into the tiny dimple at the base of her spine, leaned in, and licked it. He sat on the edge of the bed, leaned against the headboard, and took a longer drink.
She rolled on her hip and looked up at him.
“We gonna keep the party here or go down?” she asked.
“Little of both.”
“How ’bout a lot of both.”
He smiled. Where the fuck did this chick come from?
“Can I ask you something?” She reached for the bottle.
So much for perfect. Here comes the feelings shit
. He stood and walked back to the window.
“Cam’s ol’ lady. She’s a cop like him, right?”
“Yeah, why?” At least she wasn’t asking about him.
“I dunno, she just seems cool, you know. I like her. They gonna party with us?”
“No, baby. Cop is a cop. We can’t have ’em here in the house when we kick back.” He looked out into the compound again.
“They don’t seem like cops.”
“Makes ’em better at it, I guess.”
“You and Cam okay?”
Now comes the prying.
“Fine.”
“Cool. I’m gonna grab a shower. Wanna come?”
He watched her walk across the room. She reached back and slowly stroked the area above her ass. Ready for the brand. He felt a smile burn his cheeks as he turned back to look out the window at the compound. A scowl pulled the smile from his face as he watched Jimmy Williams walk from the gate to the side of the house. He should go down and kick the shit out of the little fuck. Cam was right, that prospect patch should be pulled. Beating a cop, fuck. Snake wouldn’t have it, though. Williams was an earner and ran the Box like a pro. He also had support in Montreal, and that complicated everything. Halifax was the mother charter, but Montreal carried more weight in the Stallion world now. Bigger city, bigger profits, more members. Williams had done time with some Montreal guys and had their blessing. Hard to believe. Gunner watched the little fuck swagger out of sight. Killing him would work. No club politics there. A dead prospect ain’t much trouble.
He took one more drink before grabbing the cap and twisting it back into place. The real trouble would be Cam, not Williams. Little brother would sure as shit take on the club if he didn’t make this right. If the Indian was as close to Cam as he said, there would be payback. Had to be. He wouldn’t respect Cam if he didn’t go after the prospect. Fuck, one brother wants to get all close and cozy. The other one wants to go to war. He headed for the shower. Fuck ’em both.
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