“Melanie, it’s her new name. She doesn’t seem to hate it, so it’ll probably stick. Keep the bottle, I’ll grab another on my way back from the kitchen. Rest easy, pros. Life is good.” The graybeard lifted one hand as he walked away, and Doug watched as Slate and Hoss eyeballed him, their gazes traveling back and forth between Doug and Bingo until they settled back on Doug with a grin on each face.
“No idea what their thing is.” His muttering was lost under the sound pulsing from the speakers of the music machine and he lifted the bottle to take another drink. I should eat, he thought with clarity, then slumped farther into the cushions, exhaustion and the whiskey working together to relax his muscles. Later.
***
Doug stared at the bowl suspended in front of him, squinting one eye to try and bring it into focus. Littered across the curved bottom were small, folded pieces of paper. “One of those fuckers is hiding my downfall.”
That’s what he tried to say, maybe even thought he had. Later, when he watched the video posted to the chapter’s private group, he would know it came out more like, “On dose fuker hid me.”
He bent his fingers, scrabbling across the slick surface, chasing the largest piece of paper. Either it would have the longest song title in history written on it or would be written large enough he might actually stand a chance of reading it. Maybe.
Probably not.
Eventually, the paper gave up the ghost, and he captured it, trapping it between thumb and finger to draw it out and place it on top of the table next to the karaoke machine. He bent at the waist so quickly stopping wasn’t possible, and an instant later, his forehead bounced off the table, recoiling him back upright as fast as he’d folded in half. “Ow.”
Laughter burst loudly from everywhere, and Doug looked around to see a ring of grinning men staring at him. “I love you. My brothers.” He grabbed the paper and tried to read it, closing one eye and squinting the other.
“Jesus, someone gonna tell him what he’s singing?” Doug twisted to look at Slate, careful to keep one hand on the edge of the table as an anchor. “Tell him, Bingo. This is your gig, brother. Who’s he singing?”
Bingo stepped forwards and plucked the paper from Doug’s fist, unfolding and smoothing it flat. “Cher.”
A cheer sounded near the back of the room, then someone asked, “Which song?”
Bingo grinned, holding the paper like a flag, waving it back and forth. “He’s gonna sing about being a tramp.”
More cheers from over by the bar as Deke bent down beside the console, digging through a box filled with props that came with the karaoke setup. He straightened and there was a round of loud laughter as he brought a long, dark wig into view. He flipped the wig around, shaking it out until it hung straight in his hands, then ran a strand through his fingers. “Gentlemen, we gotta set the stage.” Doug reeled for a moment, nearly losing his balance before clamping the edge of the table with his other hand, barely able to steady himself. Deke reached over, and Doug felt him put the wig on his head, his hands coming back into view as he took a moment to arrange the long hanks of hair around Doug’s face. “There ya go, brother. You’re ready.” A microphone appeared and Doug grabbed for it, taking three swipes before someone steadied his elbow, wedging the device into his hand.
“I am ready.” He closed his eyes, listening to the familiar strains of Cher’s once-popular song rolling through the room. It had been one of his mother’s favorite songs, and he’d sung along with her so often, he didn’t need to read the lyric prompts, lifting the microphone and falling quickly into the song. The catcalls and shouts of laughter didn’t fade, and he opened one eye to see the room filled wall-to-wall, all faces he knew and respected. Near the center front was Mason. “Prez,” he interrupted himself, “I didn’t know you were here.”
“Yet here I am, motherfucker. Now sing, dammit. I love this song.” Mason dipped his chin and leaned one shoulder against Slate, making it clear he was waiting.
“My momma did, too,” Doug told him with a nod, then used a hand to flip a heavy strand of hair over his shoulder. Laughter swelled louder at his actions and he grinned. Doug propped one hand on a hip and swayed in place, significantly more sober now than he had been even five minutes ago. “Here we go.” With that, he launched back into the song, catching up at the chorus, not at all surprised when several voices raucously joined in.
At the finale, he threw back his head, reaching up to clutch at the wig and hold it in place as he ended the song, microphone suspended over his mouth. Straightening, he looked out at the faces grinning up at him. Here. This was where he should have been all along. My brothers.
Mason stepped up to stand beside Doug, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “What do you say? He a fuckin’ Rebel?” Jumbled shouts filled the air, followed by a forest of closed fists. Slowly, one by one, the movements led by Slate, upturned thumbs began appearing in place of the fists. About halfway through the process, Doug realized what was happening and he stiffened, suddenly afraid of what the outcome could be. Mason’s hand gave his shoulder a squeeze as he waited patiently until every vote was revealed. “So voted. As his sponsor”—another squeeze—“I claim the right to hand him his colors. But before we do, I’m gonna wanna hear it, brothers. Rebels forever”—louder than anything else tonight, the words rang out as a hundred voices lifted in unison—“forever Rebels.”
Mason pulled Doug into a clinch, pounding the center of his back. “Naked ain’t a good look for you, brother. Let’s fix that, shall we?” A moment later the club’s prospect vest had been stripped from Doug’s shoulders, replaced by a new one which fit as if it were tailored especially for him. Looking down, Doug saw the expected diamond patch low on the front panel, but just over the vest pocket was a piece of tape. He stared at it, trying to make out the word written in black marker, but was still befuddled enough by the whiskey that the upside-down letters didn’t make sense.
“What’s my name?”
“It’s right there, man. Can’t you see it?”
Doug shook his head at Mason, then twisted his neck the other direction.
“Fuck me, he’s wasted.”
He nodded, the room swinging and dipping with the movement. “It’s all Bingo’s fault. He’s the whiskey man.” He scraped at the tape with his thumbnail, trying to work it loose, stilling when Mason’s hand settled on top of his. Looking up, he realized Mason and Slate were on either side of him, and somehow, they’d been magically transported to the hallway outside his room. “Hey. How’d we get here?”
Rolling his eyes, Slate took the tape from the vest and smoothed it on the wood of the door like a label. Doug finally got a good look at the word written on the white strip, and he stared.
“We’ll get your name stitched up and you can get someone to sew it on. I think you’ve earned the moniker a hundred times over tonight.” Mason gave him a shake and Doug looked around, staring into the face of one of the most honorable men he’d ever known. “Welcome, brother. Welcome.”
Gypsy.
Melbourne, Australia, five years later
Kelsey
She stumbled when a heavy weight hit her back, then as arms wrapped around her throat, she heard a familiar voice whisper in her ear, “I can’t believe you’re not coming back for a whole year. Say it ain’t so!”
Kelsey Rye dipped her head, reaching up a hand to stroke along the back of her friend’s arm. “Only for a year.” Finances were tight, and grant money at her job study program hadn’t been renewed for next year. That meant she needed to postpone additional credits and work a regular job for a bit, to sock money away until she could come back and finish. She knew thirty was older than the norm for getting one’s degree, but Kelsey’s life hadn’t followed the typical path to now.
“But then we’ll be in all different groups and have different friends.” Kate’s arms tightened, and Kelsey pulled away, turned and smiled at Kate. The girls had met on their first day and had been close since. “I’ll mis
s you.”
“I-I’ll miss you, too.” With ease borne from long practice, Kelsey hid her flinch at the stuttered sounds and forced a smile. She reached out, smoothing her palm down Kate’s hair. Not wanting to let the damned thing get the best of her, she pushed her tangled tongue through her stress-induced stutter. “I-It’ll go fast.”
Lips pursed in a pretty pout, Kate grabbed her hand, dragging Kelsey at her side as she stalked up the sidewalk. “One last drink. Come on. Come with. You just had a birthday, we can have a party.”
Kelsey dragged her feet as she pulled her hand free. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’m meeting Kevin at the pictures.” Kelsey dipped her chin, trying to hide her smile. Kevin. She’d met him in a coffee shop a few days ago, shocked when he strolled up to her table and asked her name, bold as could be. He was working in an office. Kevin had told her he was in sales, and if his late-night hours seemed odd for that career, she reasoned she didn’t know exactly what he was selling, after all. He was sweet and kind, and seemed to be definitely interested in her.
“Kevino, he’s a wanker. Stay clear of him, Kels. That one’s up to no good.” Kate sounded genuinely concerned, and Kelsey’s heart gave an errant thud in her chest. “Come on. Come with me, and we’ll have one last beer before you get on the coach to go home.”
Not bothering to correct her friend’s misinformation, Kelsey leaned forwards, wrapped her arms around Kate’s neck, and pulled her close. “I’ll miss you, Katie.”
Arms cramped tightly around her shoulders as Kate folded around Kelsey. “I already miss you more.” Kate gave her a squeeze then pulled back to look into her face. “I’m not kidding about that Kevino. He reeks of bad news. You should stay clear away.”
“I-I love you, crazy girl.” Kelsey brushed her lips across Kate’s cheek in goodbye. “I’ll ring you every week.”
“Oi! You better!” Kate smoothed her skirt with both hands, and looked at Kelsey from under lowered lashes as she tried to hide her tears. “I love you, too, Kelsey.”
Three hours later, Kelsey was seated in the back row of the cinema, a nearly empty bag of popcorn balanced on one knee, all of Kate’s caution forgotten as Kevin curled his hand around her shoulder. Credits rolled upwards on the screen as the other patrons climbed to their feet and shuffled out of the darkened cinema, into the darkness outside. He leaned close enough his breath ghosted against the shell of her ear, and she shivered in anticipation of all the things he might do next. “Pretty, pretty Kelsey. What shall we do now?” Fingers touched her knee, trailing a delicate stripe of heat upwards. “What say we head out the back doors, take a shortcut to the car park?”
Kevin had volunteered to drive her and her possessions home to Croydon. He said he had family near there, and had grinned when he told her it’d be no hardship making the trip in the company of a pretty woman. They’d stopped at the housing unit for the program before coming to the cinema, and all of Kelsey’s things were currently stowed in the boot of his car.
“Okay,” she told him, turning her head in time to see a sly smile break across his face. There and gone in a flash, she eyed him cautiously for a moment as they stood and settled into an easy stride to the door leading into the alleyway behind the cinema.
“Pretty, pretty Kelsey. We’re going to have such fun with you.”
Hawks MC
Gypsy, Eight months later
Gypsy laughed hard and bent to press his forehead against the palm of his hand, elbow propped on the edge of the counter. “Stop, Jesus. Stop, brother. Let me catch my breath.” Jase ignored him, launching into yet another story, this one involving two hockey players, a trapeze artist, and the destruction of a hotel room.
“I got a million of ‘em.”
Turning to the side, Gypsy put his back against the wall, holding his beer loosely in one hand as he swiped across his face with the other. The woman standing beside him pressed close. Still laughing, he looked out across the room filled with RWMC members, seeing similar mirth reflected on every face close enough to hear Jase’s story.
Laughing so hard he could scarcely talk, Jase sputtered, “And then—Jesus Murphy I’m funny as fuck—and then, she said, ‘Only 10,000 people went down on the Titanic.’ Eh? Funny, right?” Jase tipped his chin up, looking around the group with a broad smile on his face. “Get it? ‘What’s the difference between your ex and the Titanic?’”
Gypsy groaned along with the rest of Jase’s audience. He grew quiet when he saw Deke walking across the room towards them. Gaze on Gypsy, Deke jerked his head towards the office door, and when Gypsy looked that direction, he found Mason standing with Willa, bent close so his mouth was near her ear.
Gypsy leaned over and spoke to his date for the night, a friend of one of his bartenders at Marie’s. “I’ll be back. You’re safe here.” He sighed at her wide-eyed look in response. She was nice enough, but wasn’t right for him. Might as well draw a line under it now. “Actually, let me have one of the guys escort you out. I don’t know how long I’ll be. It was nice to meet you…” Gypsy stumbled over her name and finally gave up, gesturing to one of the prospects roaming the room. “Take her to her car.” Gypsy watched her walk away and clapped a hand on Jase’s shoulder. He used the grip for leverage to stand straight, then said, “Back in a minute, brother. You got jokes, man. Not good ones, but jokes.”
“Hey now.” Jase’s fake outrage made the men laugh, a sound that died off as they turned to watch Gypsy walk towards Deke.
Wanting to have an idea about the upcoming conversation, he asked Deke, “What do we have?”
Deke shook his head. “Dunno. Bossman took a call, came out and wanted you.”
That could mean any of a dozen things. Sure, Gypsy managed Marie’s, the bar and music venue the club owned here in town. But the job was only one part of what he did for Mason and the Rebels. The piece which fed his soul was taking down abusers and users, something he’d perfected over the years.
Inside the office, door closed against the murmurs of conversation and beat of the music, Mason didn’t hesitate. With Myron on the phone, he launched into the reason for his question at the door if Gypsy had a valid passport.
“Years ago I ran up a debt and it’s been called in. I don’t mind clearing the obligation, and honestly, if they’d led with the why, we’d be wading in anyway.” Mason’s gaze was steady. “You’ve heard of the Hawks down in Australia.” Gypsy nodded, peripheral vision catching Deke doing the same at his side. “Talon, their national president, has a situation. Daughter of a member got scooped up in what looks like a trafficking ring. They want her back.”
“Where do we come in?” Why would a club halfway around the world be calling on the RWMC for help with something that would have to be handled locally? The only thing that made sense was if her location had changed. “Was she shipped here for sale?” Gypsy had shut down a number of such auctions in the past couple of years, working alongside regional clubs to mete out punishment once the victims were rescued and put in the path of help from authorities. Bringing her here would make the most sense; there’d been a huge uptick in purchases all across the states, money coming out of the closet to buy flesh. But why would they want him to fly to Australia if that were the case? Something wasn’t adding up.
“No, we’re certain she’s being held there. They know the player, but not the where. With who her daddy is, she won’t be going to open auction, so we need a buyer in place who can get to her and get her out fast.” Mason sighed, ran a hand over the top of his head, and gripped the back of his neck tightly for a moment. “Myron—” He waited for a beat until the man on the phone acknowledged his call, then continued. “—I need you to find her. I’ll connect you to their tech gal, Melissa Stevenson, and she’ll feed you everything she’s got. We’ve got to get moving on this. Nary, the girl, she’s barely in college, brothers. Hawks are digging as fast and as deep as they can to find her, but as of this moment, Rebels are also all-in.” Hi
s eyes bored into Gypsy as he asked, “Got me?”
“I got you, boss.” Myron echoed Gypsy’s response from the speakerphone.
Moments later, Gypsy stood outside the office and scanned the group. Tequila would need to run Marie’s for the time Gypsy would be out of town. Looking at the mass of men gathered in the room, he quickly located the faces he considered his personal inner circle, those of his closest brothers. Then, with his mind on the woman, Nary, and what the Hawks would lose if things went wrong, he took a moment to think of all the Rebel faces no longer in the mix. Men and women who had passed, painful memories all. Winger, Bingo, Watcher, Hoss’ old lady, every absent person was a hole in the fabric of the club they’d mended around.
Nothing could fill those holes, but they could strengthen the spaces around where they’d been, making the club stronger in the end. Claudia would have liked these people, he thought, not for the first time. She would not have liked what’s her name. He snorted, walking towards where he’d spotted Tequila standing near Gunny, another of his favorites. And Claudia would likely have kicked my ass for not already booking a flight. It was her memory that had first driven him to try and right what wrongs he could. From what Mason had said, the Hawks didn’t need to have holes in their lives, and if something happened to Nary…
In his head, Claudia’s voice spoke softly, something that was harder and harder to grasp onto these days, “Doug, you’ll be given an opportunity to change your life one day. Don’t pussy out. Take it, and run with it, because we don’t all get second chances.”
***
Gypsy stared at the two men and one woman standing outside arrivals near the customs area. Mason had described Iss, or Melissa as he said she was known here, and that could only be her standing and staring at him as if he’d suddenly grown two heads. It had been a long, cramped flight followed by half an hour of questioning by security about his “bikie” affiliations, and he was ready to get this show on the road. Not certain which of the men were present, he offered them all a lifted chin in greeting. The movement made his hair drag across the back of his neck, irritating in the heat, so he settled his duffle on his shoulder before scooping up the length of his hair to tie in a loose knot at the back of his head.
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