Devil's Fall: Dust Bowl Devils MC

by Britten Thorne

  Gunner wanted to thank the old man but couldn't catch his eye as he sat. "Anyone else?" Bill asked.

  Should I say more? He’d debated whether or not he should bring his own feelings into it. The others had when they’d put their current old ladies up for vote - Irish, Anchor, Bars himself. But their circumstances were different. What do I feel, anyway? Heat, lust, sweat, addiction, none of that will help my case. “She’s a good person,” he said, “She doesn’t deserve any of this. She certainly doesn’t deserve to be stuck with the likes of me. I get your reservations. But she was there with me when… when Alvarez passed.” It was hard to say it out loud. Hard to even say his name. “If she hadn’t been, who knows where I’d be right now. Not here. She’s not a seductress.” The thought made him want to laugh. He remembered her face the first few times they’d met - that stoic expression. How shocked, how downright offended she’d looked whenever he goaded a reaction out of her. No, she was never a seductress. She wasn’t even a flirt. “She’s just in over her head. So. Don’t be assholes.” Finally, he sat, and waited on her fate.

  Grim faces greeted her as they filed out of the back room. The bartender had given her a sympathetic look and complimentary beer, but otherwise she’d had no hint as to what was going on back there. She’d heard no shouting, no gavels banging, no fights. Just silence as the bar slowly filled and as time ticked by.

  She waited for Gunner as the other men passed, but saw no sign of him. Or Nomad, or Bill. Were they having a private meeting, just the three of them?

  One of the bikers did approach her as she watched the clock and sipped her beer. He was younger than most of the other men, probably near Gunner’s age, with a scraggly black goatee and dark, glassy eyes. “Your man won his case,” he said without preamble, “They’re talking terms.”

  “Oh. Um, thank you…” she waited for him to give his name. He looked her up and down instead.

  “So. Is this a sham? I voted you in, so you know. Voted against the president. My own damn father. Guess I feel sorry for our friend. Way I see it now, you owe me a favor.” Oh, shit. Was this how it started? Owing the club favors? Owing them her life?

  “Oh,” was all she could think to say.

  “What’s your poison?”

  She gestured at her glass. “Just beer. I’m good.”

  “Yeah?” He stood closer - close enough to smell his aftershave. Close enough to crowd her against the bar. The president’s son. Who will stop him if I call for help? “That all you girls drink at college? Alcohol and what, just pizza and candy and dicks all day?”

  “Please take a step back.” What the hell does he want?

  “I’m just offering my help,” he said, stepping away, but only a fraction. “Just tell me what you need.”

  Drugs. It clicked into place. She wasn’t completely oblivious, not entirely innocent. She’d experimented. Some of her friends were really into cocaine, some demanded a little X before they could declare any gathering a true party. But she had no habit. I’m sure many of the girls that get stuck in this life do, though. Was there a diplomatic way of refusing him?

  “Nothing right now, thank you,” she said. “What was your name?”

  “Call me Jester.”

  Always ‘call me,’ never ‘my name is’ with these guys. “Well, Jester, thanks for the offer. I know who to ask for if I’m shopping for - er - poison.”

  “Still owe me a favor, college girl.”

  “I’ll be sure to let Gunner know,” she said, emphasizing his name.

  “Speaking of that dumb bastard-” Oh, great, here we go. “You’re in, now. So anything you do to him, anything you do to the club, the consequences are ten times more severe. Do you get it?”

  “Yeah,” she said, “‘Don’t fuck up,’ right?”

  “Don’t fuck up. Don’t fuck around. Don’t give us a reason to remove that tattoo. We don’t take you down to the doctor’s office and have them laser it off.”

  Her stomach turned. “I got it.”

  Gunner finally emerged, sending Jester scampering off. “Everything okay?” he asked.

  She released a long breath. “Everything’s fine. What’s the deal?”

  “We’re gonna keep you right here for a while,” he said, sliding onto the next stool. “With me. Don’t worry. Just until we straighten out your little problem.”

  My “little” problem. The one that sent me fleeing across the country. “How?” she asked. Was there an easy solution? A solution at all? She knew most of the threats she received were just that - threats with no real substance. Just angry clients who were lashing out.

  But Colin had found her. He’d gotten inside her hotel room.

  “Bill’s going to facilitate a sale,” he said. “The club gets a cut of it - a big one. Irish will help us investigate any other threats after that.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head, “If I sell it, that means I have money. That means that-” He pressed a finger to her lips.

  “And,” he said, “We’re changing your name.”

  “What?” She glanced around them. No one seemed to be paying any attention at all. “Why?” She didn’t want to lose her name. What would that leave her with? Her belongings, her place at school, her friends, her entire life - she’d left it all behind. She was already a completely different person, but did she need to cement it so completely?

  “Irish said that Dawn’s gotten a few threats, but nothing like you’ve had,” he said. “We’ll call you whatever you want, it’s just for your IDs. No big deal.” Just on everything that will identify you from here on out. Just on your license, on your mail, told to new people. “Call me so-and-so because I have no real name anymore.” Like hell it’s no big deal.

  It was a worry she would have to fret over later. She forced the distress off her face. “Will Dawn sell her share, too?” Gunner shrugged. “You make it sound so easy.”

  “It is easy.” He swung and arm across her shoulders and pulled her close. “You’re in, now. It doesn’t matter if they don’t like you. We take care of ours. We’re going to dig you out of this. And what do I keep telling you?”

  “No one will hurt me if I’m with you.”

  “Right. And I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight at all until some of the dust settles.” He whispered into her ear, voice lower, “And as my ‘prisoner’, you’ve got to do what I say.” She recognized that tone. She felt it rumbling deep inside her core when he spoke like that. It was one consequence that she knew she could handle.

  ◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙

  When the Devils decided on a course of action, they didn’t waste any time getting right to it. She found that out the very next day when she heard banging on the bedroom door while she was still in the shower.

  They’d stayed at the bar as instructed. Though it was more than a bar, once she saw the rest of the building. There was a number of small rooms, much like a hotel, and a conference room that was off-limits. “Very off limits,” Gunner had said. She decided not to ask too many questions. He’d stayed with her, as promised, so while she chafed at being told she wasn’t allowed to leave, it was bearable as long as he was there.

  “What’s happening?” she asked, peeking out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. She wasn’t about to step out if somebody else was in the room but Gunner was alone.

  He grinned. “Drop the towel and I’ll tell you.”

  “Tell me and I’ll drop the towel,” she replied, pinching the corner between two fingers. He brought that out in her - a teasing, playful side that had never seen the light of day in her old life. Her goal was simply to keep him distracted, keep his attention on her and not on the crushing grief that she caught crossing his face during quiet moments. She recognized it because she felt similarly, though she’d had a lifetime of keeping her emotions at bay to lean on. She could push it away easily, promise herself she’d deal with her sadness and her loss later. But he had no such buffer, and so she hurled herself between him and his des
pair as much as she could and hoped he would stay there with her, and not give in. So far it seemed to be working.

  The grin left his face as he delivered his news. "That was Bars. Apparently Jupiter was keeping tabs on that Colin fellow."

  She head a bad feeling about that. "Keeping tabs?"

  "Well. More like keeping the guy locked in that hotel room all this time." He shrugged a shoulder. "Jupiter was after you, remember. When he dragged it out of this guy that he wanted to take you back to New York, he said 'hell no' and figured he'd lock him down until the club was done with you."

  Her head spun. “‘Dragged’ it out of him?"

  Gunner grimaced. "Punched it out of him."

  That poor idiot.

  On the other hand, fuck that guy. Maybe Gunner was rubbing off on her.

  "What does this mean?"

  "They're making a deal. His boss - or someone posing as his boss, who the fuck cares - he'll fly out with a contract and a suitcase full of cash and we'll get this shit done."

  "Too easy," she said, shaking her head. "Something will go wrong."

  "Something always goes wrong." He'd inched close enough to reach her. "But you don't have to worry. You're with me." In a flash, the towel was in his hands and she stood naked before him.

  She sighed. "This is one way to pass the time, I suppose." She giggled when he grabbed her.

  It was too easy to forget the outside world when lost in a tangle of limbs and skin and sweat. Too easy to see herself there with him still in a month, six months, a year or longer. Too easy to imagine it, the impossible reality where they could make each other happy.

  Later in the day as the bar opened for customers, she helped clean tables and wash plates and glasses. They didn't really need the extra assistance, but she didn't like feeling like a charity case while she stayed there.

  Gunner never strayed further than just out the front door. As day turned to night, she could tell he was getting restless - snapping at patrons, chain smoking cigarettes, making fists and clenching his jaw. It was like he was itching for a fight. Is it because he doesn't like being told to stay put? Or is this just him? He didn't seem drunk. Just agitated.

  "You okay?" she asked, finally taking a break and approaching him at the pool table, dishtowel in hand.

  "Meeting's set for tomorrow," he said. He wrapped an arm around her waist and glanced around the room. Like he was claiming her and waiting for a challenge. "Got the call from Bill."

  "That's good, isn't it?"

  "He doesn't want me there."

  She tensed. "Why?"

  "Says I'll fuck it up somehow. I'm already banned from the bar where you'll be meeting, but I'm sure you can guess how much that matters."

  "Not a damn bit," she mumbled, though her mind raced. If she walked in there without him, she'd be completely alone. She had no friends here. "What will you do?" Images flashed through her head. The club taking the entire payment from her. The club handing her over to Colin and his boss to go back to New York after all. Shooting. Wasn't there always shooting when there was a big pile of money on the table? Wouldn't the club prefer it if she were dead? Not all of them, she assured herself. Otherwise I wouldn't be here at all.

  "I'm going." He stamped out his cigarette on the floor of the bar. "They'll just have to deal with it." He tilted her chin, forcing her to look at him. "You're scared."

  "Yes."

  "Well stop. I said I'll be there. You'll be fine."

  "I just want it all to be over," she whispered.

  He pulled away. "Yeah. We'll get you on that bus soon. Don't you worry."

  Huh? That wasn’t what she was trying to say at all. "I didn't mean-" he shook her away as she tried to grab him. Not again. Don't push him away again. Not now. Panic welled in her chest as she chased him out the front door.

  The man from before - Jester - barred her exit. “He’ll be right back.”

  “But-”

  “You ain’t allowed to leave, honey.” She didn’t want to show fear but she didn’t want to challenge this man either, with his glassy eyes and thin, smirking mouth. Alarms in her head rang, danger, so she backed away.

  I can fix this, she assured herself, heading back to the kitchen. He’s overreacting because he’s scared. But he’s still stuck here with me for another day. I can fix it.

  “Let’s get fucked up.”

  Jester smirked. “Your old lady doesn’t look too happy.”

  Gunner ducked out of her sight, leaning back against the wall next to the door. He listened to Jester turn her away.

  “Trouble in paradise?” the scrawny biker asked after she’d left.

  “Making trouble is what I do.” The night was clear and relatively quiet. The well-lit parking lot was lined with cars and bikes but none were coming or going at the moment. A rarity - usually someone was revving an engine and showing off somewhere. “What’ve you got?”

  Jester licked his lips and grinned. God, he’s like a fucking serpent. “Got some K with your name on it.”

  “That’s - fuck, really? - that’s perfect.”

  They discussed the price but Gunner put it out of his mind immediately. Jester would just have to remember their agreement on his own - he didn’t give half a shit about money, anyway.

  The inhaled it off the seats of their bikes. He felt a moment of regret before the effects hit - a sadness, imagining what Senna would think of this, of finding him like this. There was no way she’d just be okay with it. She’s better than this. I’m fucking things up worse. But half the reason he sought Jester out was that he wanted to push her out of his mind. She was in too deep. Losing her was going to be too painful to think about.

  So he slipped away. He watched himself from somewhere far above and somewhere off to the left, numb, thoughtless. He was through with Jester - he didn’t actually enjoy the man’s company, only the things he carried. He ignored the man’s protests while he pulled a pair of pliers from the toolkit he carried on his bike.

  When he pushed Senna from his mind, all he could see was his dying friend.

  “What the fuck are you doing, man?” Jester had to shout in order for Gunner to be able to hear him. “You’re gonna wreck your bike if you try anything.”

  “It doesn’t work,” he muttered, though he knew it wouldn’t make sense to Jester. It didn’t need to. Jester didn’t matter.

  He knelt and positioned the pliers behind the back wheel of his bike - around the little bell. A gift from his father when he’d bought his very first motorcycle, back before he was even old enough to hold a license. “It doesn’t work anymore.”

  It was supposed to be luck for the road, for the ride. But wasn’t all of life just one long-ass dark and foggy road that never seemed to end? That’s the drug talking. Alvarez was gone and when Senna inevitably left he’d be alone on that road once again. No luck. This thing’s a sham.

  With a flick of his wrist, the bell was free. One job done.

  He made his way slowly back to the bar where he could sit and watch and listen and not use his brain. He didn’t like the Eagle bartender, but at least the stranger was quiet. He remembered when Irish used to tend the bar - that guy never shut his trap.

  Where was he now? Where was Dawn? Wasn’t Senna supposed to make good with her sister?

  Wait, he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about Senna.

  But he wanted to see her. He smiled within the haze of the drug but he frowned internally, remembering that he’d hurt her feelings just minutes before.

  Was it minutes? It might have been an hour. It might have been two.

  He floated through the back door and down the hall.

  When he finally managed to grip the doorknob to the room they shared and turn it, he found her sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting, frowning. He shut the door behind him.

  She was looking at him strangely. Did he look that bad? Dirty, glassy-eyed, he was sure. I shouldn’t have come in. “I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he said, though he walk
ed to her anyway. He meant to sit next to her, but he sank to his knees at her feet instead. Did I miss the bed or was this on purpose?

  It didn’t matter. He wanted to give her something; he wanted to give her everything. But what did he have? Nothing of worth, nothing worthy of her.

  “Put these on.” He fished his dogtags from his pocket and slid the chain over her head. They hung between her breasts, clinking slightly as she breathed.

  “This feels sacrilegious,” she said, staring down at them.

  “I can’t remember if they’re good luck or a curse.”

  “They’re neither. They’re metal.” She shook her head. “It’s like dropping the flag in the dirt. Or ripping pages out of a Bible. I can’t wear them. Take them back.”

  This was supposed to be a good trip but this isn’t fun. He felt like he was smiling but it wasn’t right. He was cracking apart.

  He placed the bell in her hand. “This I don’t understand at all,” she said, holding it out as if afraid it would bite her. It was old, and filthy with years of grease and oil and dirt.

  He let his head rest on her thigh, too tired to hold it up any longer. “It’s for luck on the road,” he said, “It keeps you from crashing.” He sounded like a madman and he knew it but he said the words anyway.

  “Yeah?” she asked. “Are you afraid of black cats, too? Don’t walk under ladders? Do you throw salt over your shoulder?”

  Is she making fun of me? He did do the salt thing. “Don’t steal black umbrellas,” he said. “No hats in bed. The rule of threes.”