Treat: Steel Saints MC

by Evelyn Glass

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying. You don’t think I haven’t heard the rumblings behind my back, the sly comments about me being the president and the secret meetings between you and Tyler? You’d have to think I’m fucking stupid to not smell bullshit when it’s right under my nose. But until you rally your army and force me out, you fuck with my club and my business, you better know the consequences.” I put the diamonds in my back pocket and jump out of the truck. The men stand motionless in their places, looking at each other for answers. Finally, they follow my lead, watching me close and lock the door behind me.

  “You all are demoted. No fucking privileges at all. No meetings either. You can ride with the junior peons doing streetwalker check-ins on the east end until you prove your worth to me. You break one more direct order or rule, or if I hear of you trying to go behind my back, I’ll take your patch and your tongues. And you damn well know I mean it.”

  They stare at me speechless. Ever since I killed a man in the ring last year, my threats mean much more than they used to. They all see me as someone to fear -- a monster. It’s a double-edged sword. I can use it in times like these to bend people to my will. But if a girl like Alana found out, I doubt she would ever want to be associated with me again. Maybe that was for the best.

  My head hangs low as I walk back to the restaurant, unsure of what is about to happen inside. Something about that girl is pulling me in a million different directions. I need to figure out why I am so protective of her, why my stomach turns when I see that pile of discarded kitchen supplies sitting on the ground outside the truck. It could be that I just got this weird soft spot for sick daddies with daughters, or maybe it’s a hard-on for damsels in distress. Whatever it is, she’s about ten seconds away from walking out that door on me if I don’t think of something, anything, to keep her around… and quiet.

  There’s a soft crunch on the ground as I walk. It catches my boot in mid-air and forces me to look down. A cell phone covered in a red and blue shell lies on the ground just outside where Taylor was holding down Alana. I squat down to attempt to turn it on. Despite having a cracked screen, it flashes on immediately. There’s a picture of Alana with bright red lipstick, her hair slicked back into a ballerina’s bun on top of her head. She’s pursing her lips while leaning in with a dark haired friend with purple lipstick.

  While sexy enough to keep my attention, I’m more concerned about the message alert at the top of the screen. It’s from one of her contacts by the name of Jana: What the hell are you talking about, A? Who is Liam Murphy and why are you at The Emerald Pub? That place is for thugs. Get the hell out of there, or I WILL CALL THE COPS.

  I should have known. I should have taken her phone and completely cut her off from the world. While it looks like she didn’t give much information to this girl, she still knows my name and our location. This isn’t looking good. Even if I wanted to go with Taylor and Mateo’s plan by taking her out, it wouldn’t work with a third party looking in suspiciously. Now I had to get Alana back on my side and into the game on her own terms -- no matter what.

  She’s sitting in the same booth as before, looking absolutely terrified. Her hands shake as she tries to take another bite of her salad while the other one holds up her small head as if it’s about to blow off. Her eyes are closed again -- a dangerous coping method when you’re around guys like us. I scoot back in the booth across from her as quietly as I can, but she can still sense me.

  “You ready to tell me what the hell is going on, Liam?” she whispers low, probably guessing that what happened outside wasn’t for public consumption. It was a typical problem for a guy like me. Owning a public and pretty popular restaurant meant that anyone could come in at any time -- even an undercover cop or a rival gang member. What was said around here was done with tight lips and under low lighting.

  I’m without an answer for her. She has to know or at least have some guess. So instead of trying to lie through my damn teeth about it, I ask her, “What do you think? You tell me, Alana.”

  “What I think? What I think is that you’re a freaking low-life, pond scum thief who parades around with other pond scum lowlifes with little to no IQs and tons of steroids. I think you used me as more than just your getaway driver. You couldn’t think of a way out of whatever shit you got yourself into, and you decided that the best course of action was taking some blonde bimbo for a ride. But you don’t know me.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, my interests piqued again. “What don’t I know about you?”

  “I think that you see me as this innocent little angel you can toss money and brooding glances at. But I’m smarter than you, and I am tougher than you think. I’ve been handed some tough shit my entire life. If you think this is going to make me sit back and just take whatever abuse your men are gonna throw at me, you’re wrong. I’ll make your life a living hell.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt about that, Alana,” I say, half laughing. She really was feisty when she wanted to be. Of course, it was an act. The truth was that she was terrified. I can feel the vibrations of her legs bouncing up and down rapidly against the table base. Her eyes continue to dart between the tables full of faceless people and those coming in and out of the doors.

  “Then let me go. You don’t want to deal with me, and I certainly don’t want to deal with you. Just let me go, and I’ll go away. I won’t tell anyone about this.” She places her hands on the table; face up as if she is offering me something.

  I reach into my pocket and take out her phone. Placing it in her hands, her eyes grow wide. “You’ve already told someone. I don’t know this Jana person, so I don’t trust her either. She knows my name and my restaurant. So while you may not tell anyone about the diamonds, what’s to say that she won’t.”

  Alana looks back up at me with a wild, desperate expression. Her face stretches as she realizes just how screwed she actually is. “You don’t know her like I do, but she won’t tell. I swear she won’t tell. Just please, let me have my truck back so I can go.”

  I lean back in the booth and look over towards my bartender as he walks to one of the few false bottles of beer from the fridge and hands it to a man waiting at the bar. It’s a decoy we use when we distribute in-house. The man hands him a roll of cash, which the bartender counts and puts in a safe underneath the register. This happens almost every night for about twenty or so “regulars,” but this gives me an even better idea -- a way to make Alana stay and me very, very rich.

  “I’ve got a proposition for you, Alana,” I say as I lift my hand towards the bartender. I suddenly felt like celebrating.

  CHAPTER 7

  Liam’s face lights up brightly as he orders the bartender, “Bring us a few slices of chocolate cake, the freshest ones in the fridge, along with another bottle of champagne.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” I ask, my head reeling. “You’re ordering dessert, and you haven’t even bothered to tell me what the fuck is going on? I don’t want to stay any longer. I want to go home!”

  I lower my voice as the bartender reappears with two white plates stacked with dark chocolate cake sliced to perfection. It’s dark brown layers are on top of dark brown frosting with a white dollop of sugary whipped cream. My mouth is near watering. Chocolate is always my downfall, but I push aside my slice and focus on the problem at hand.

  “Your dad drives an ice cream truck, and you were pretty eager to take my money earlier,” he points out seemingly randomly as he stuffs his face with a large bite. His eyes close in pleasure, savoring each and every little morsel of that cake. After a sip of fresh champagne he continues, “I’m guessing that being in the ice cream business isn’t that profitable, nor does it come with quality health care insurance.”

  “No,” I answer deadpan. “It doesn’t, but you knew this already. I told you about it.”

  Liam looks around over his shoulder and towards a few older, graying men sitting at the bar. The group talks low with each other as they sip frothy mugs of golden beer. L
ike Liam, they wear all black -- some with battered leather jackets full of black and white patches sewn carelessly onto the sleeves and back.

  “You see the guy on the right of that group of guys? The one with the red, scarred hands?” I didn’t notice this before, but the man he is referring to has a hand as bright red as a cherry tomato. It looks almost as if he has soaked in the sun too long, but the scaly quality, how it almost glimmers in the light above him tells a much worse story. The flesh looks as if has been dragged through the ringer and put back together again. I can’t help but shudder at the thought.

  Liam adds, “That’s Sean. He’s one of the first guys to join Steel Saints, my club. I didn’t have any question about letting him either. He is one of the best riders I’ve ever seen in my entire life. He could ride through torrential rain pour without hesitating. It was like him and his bike were one. So I put him in charge of one of our more difficult jobs -- running shipments from our partners in California back to Vegas. He was such a natural at riding the highways that we even had him training young guns and peons, the guys that were probation members.”

  “Then, one day, Sean found himself being chased down by a group of guys from the Black Flag Mafia. I knew about their plans a few days earlier, but I had trusted that Sean could get himself out of trouble if he got spotted. That day was January last year. Roads outside California weren’t exactly the best. There was some weird frost on the ground and Sean was trying to outgun two Black Flag riders in a big ol’ Ford truck. His tires twisted out from under him, sending him flying across the highway’s pavement. He didn’t stop rolling until he slammed into the side of an underpass. He was lucky that this happened during the morning rush. The few cars that stopped kept the Black Flag guys from taking more than his daypack and satchel of drugs.”

  I lean in further as Liam continues his story. “You know, I love being in Steel Saints. I formed it because this was a way for me to make a quick buck without having to work a 9 to 5 desk job like some chump. And as you can probably guess, it pays to break the law. Sean was bringing in a ton of money at the time, enough for his wife and their newborn son to live in a high-rise on Sunset Street. But it wasn’t enough money to pay his medical bills without health insurance. I think the first bill his wife Bonnie brought me in was nearly fifteen grand, and it was only for the emergency room. Sean needed reconstruction surgery, skin grafts, physical therapy, etc.”

  “My boys and I did our best to cover. We all agreed to take ten percent cut of our income to put towards his bills, so he didn’t have to worry about it. Yet, it still piled up much higher than we could handle, especially with the loss of our supplies from Cali headquarters. We ended up all going without a paycheck for a month to take care of our guy.”

  “Okay…” I finally say, still looking over at the man with the dark eyes and the red arm. “I still don’t know what that has to do with my dad or me.”

  “My second guess is that there isn’t a fraternal order of ice cream truck drivers that are willing to forgo their paychecks like my men were willing to do. My third guess is that his medical bills are the reason why you have an envelope with his name on it sitting in your safe.”

  “What the hell were you doing in my safe? That is none of your business!” I shoot him a look of absolute disgust, yet he continues to shovel chocolate cake and champagne into his mouth like this is just some regular old business meeting.

  Liam puts down his fork and lowers his voice, not losing that dry humor behind his tone, “Lady, I’m a criminal. Do you really think that I am not going to look into your safe when you keep it unlocked? We’ll talk security 101 later, but right now, I want to talk about my proposition. You need me.”

  I mutter under my breath, “I need you like a hole in my head, you mean.” The truth is that I’ve been on my own with this for far too long. I can handle whatever he thinks I need him for like I always do. It’s how I got into grad school and started my blog. It’s how I am still standing today.

  “No.” His voice has a finality to it as he reaches across the table and grabs my hands. It’s not romantic -- far from it. He forces me to place them on the center of the table while he holds them down against the cold, manufactured wood tabletop. I steal a look at them plastered there under his grip before making myself look up into his emerald colored eyes. “You need me because I have the money. And with your help, I’ll have even more of it to share.”

  I cut him off as firmly as possible, “I don’t want anything to do with those diamonds or your boys. Whatever offer you’re about to make me, the answer is no.”

  “I’m not giving you a cut of the diamonds, Alana. I’m offering to do for you what I did with Sean. I’ll give you one hundred percent of what I bring in from the sale.” He takes out his phone and types in a few numbers. When he turns the screen around, he shows me the five-figure number: 20,000. My face freezes in place as I try to sit further back. His quick hands catch me in place. “I’m sure this won’t cover all your dad’s medical bills or whatever you’ll need to live for the next month or so, so I’ll add this to sweeten the pot. You work for me, and I’ll throw in twenty percent of the restaurant sales and twenty percent of whatever I bring in from my boxing matches this month.”

  My mouth goes dry as I ask as coolly, “And how much are we talking from that?”

  “From the restaurant, that’s another five thousand. And for boxing, I’ve got a couple of big fights coming up, including the Tri-State Pro-Am fights. They’ve got a prize purse of ten thousand each for the win and five thousand for participating in title matches. That’s about two to three if I win one. I’m the odds-on favorite to win at least three of them and go to the finals in another two.” He pauses as he adds, “You look as if you need this calculator app more than I do. You want me to do some math for you?”

  “No,” I answer breathlessly. “No, I got it. But what about my truck? I’ve got supplies to sell. I can’t just give that up for you to do what you want.”

  “That’s the thing. I’ll come with you. I’ve got to sell the supplies, and I’ll do it from your truck. But given my followers, I’m guessing that I’ll probably have repeats of what tonight was like. You did like the huge stacks of cash I made in under an hour of selling, right?”

  Of course, I remember that. I’ve never sold that much in one day, let alone an hour. I doubt my dad has either. His star power could generate so much buzz for my dad’s business that could be invaluable in the future, especially if my dad’s recovery was going to take a longer time. But a month with some hard-ass criminal riding along with me in my truck? And not just any criminal, but a jackass like Liam whom I’m already having strange cravings for? That just didn’t seem to work for me. I needed an excuse to get out of him being with me in such close quarters.

  “I don’t want to be afraid for my life because you’re riding along with me. This is my life and my dad’s business, and I’m not ready to give it all away if you get caught by cops or have some weird mafia or motorcycle club or… uh… whatever… come after you. I’m not like you. I don’t break laws.”

  “That’s my other point, Alana. By the way you look today, I’m guessing you don’t really get out that much. What kind of life are you actually living if you don’t add a bit danger into it? Trust me when I say that life is way more interesting when you don’t follow the rules, and you let your instincts take over.”

  A more interesting life -- that’s something I won’t deny I need. Spending my nights locked in my dorm room writing historical fiction isn’t what most people would describe as actually living. I can’t remember the last time I went out to eat like this or had a night where I was alone with a really good looking guy. My life was a blur of working as a TA, driving the ice cream truck, writing my homework, and thinking of blog posts.

  My readers would agree with Liam as well. One night, I was venting to Jana that I didn’t have many readers for my blog, even after pouring my heart out about my last breakup. Jana pointed out tha
t my breakup was just “normal stuff.” There was nothing exciting about Adrian leaving me because I was just some bland girl who couldn’t even stop her man from cheating on him. I was just another throwaway girl with nothing to show for it, not even an interesting tale to walk away with.

  All my life, I’ve been writing these stories about beautiful women locked up in towers and evil queens jilted by lovers. By all accounts, they’re good, real good or otherwise I wouldn’t be in grad school right now. But I was living behind the page and my keyboard. I was making up these lives that I realistically would never live and female characters that I just would never get to be. Here Liam was offering me a chance at being something more than a grad student driving around her dad’s ice cream truck.

  It’s selfish, of course, but this could be big for me as a writer. I could make a name for myself, drive readers to the site, even charge a bit for advertising too to bring in some cash. Who knows… maybe I could turn this into a novel. Already, the story was starting off great: girl gets kidnapped by some handsome criminal offering her money she can’t afford to turn down. There was violence, redemption, blood, and maybe even some lusty romance to share.