Trapping Wasp (Dead Presidents Book 3)
Page 2
Entering my station, I turned on the lights and looked over my current project log. I had a shit-ton of work to do on account of it being the third straight day of sunshine. In most places, the calendar announced summer, but in Seattle, the sun did. When it finally decided to peek out from behind our signature rain clouds, every fair-weather biker in the city brought their hog to my shop for an annual tune up.
Not that I minded. In fact, I loved my job. Fixing engines was in my blood, and I’d taken an interest in mechanics before I’d hit double digits. I came from a big family, and Mom and Dad were successful business people who worked long hours to rake in the Benjamins and give us kids everything we could ever want. They were good parents who’d built a solid, stable family.
Well, except for me. I was the black sheep of their perfect little flock, and despite their best efforts to round me up, I couldn’t stay confined within their structure. I didn’t even want to. While my brothers went straight from high school to college where they majored in business and minored in golf to take after our folks, the only family member I wanted to impress was my grandfather. Now, that dude… he was cool as hell.
Gramps lived next door, and my parents used to get on my case about bothering him. I made the mistake of telling him my folks didn’t want me hanging around him once. He said, “You tell those goddamn busybodies to mind their own damn business.”
Since I was five at the time, I went straight to my parents and told them what Gramps had said, word-for-word. It ended in my first experience of sucking on a bar of soap while my mom lectured me about the evils of swearing. I was spitting suds for a week, Gramps had found it hysterical, and I’d learned who I should and shouldn’t cuss in front of.
As a widower and a retired mechanical engineer, Gramps lived in a messy house but spent most of his days out in his shop, working on one project or another. He’d served in the Navy and had the best stories, a vividly colorful vocabulary, and couldn’t care less what people thought about him. While the rest of my family was always trying to get me to read or study, he welcomed my lame jokes and endless curiosity as I spent summers trailing behind him, asking questions and handing him tools.
I was twelve when Gramps brought home his first Harley project and asked if I wanted to help him restore it. The bike was a 1975 FLH Electra Glide with a bad engine, two flat tires, chipped mustard yellow paint, and a thrashed seat. It looked like it belonged in a junkyard rather than his shop, making me wonder why he would waste time and money on something so damaged. Gramps had a way of seeing past what something was to what it could be, though, and I couldn’t wait to see what he made of this hunk of junk.
We started with a full engine rebuild. Once we got the hog roaring loud enough to make my balls drop (Gramps’s words, not mine), we pounded out dents, stripped the God-awful yellow paint, and repainted the entire bike matte black. Then, we customized the shit out of it. New tires, vintage touring seat, ISO grips, chrome cooling fan, chrome sickle mirrors, chrome pipes, bullet footpegs, Beast headlight, you name it, we changed it out. Gramps named the sled Bertha, and by the time we finished her, there was nothing but the frame left of the original bike.
“Why didn’t you just buy a new one?” I asked, looking over our work. It amazed me how much cooler the bike looked. How much we’d transformed it from trash to perfection.
His brow wrinkled in confusion. “What the fuck would you have learned from a new motorcycle? I’m old and my hands are tired, and I’m not doing this shit for nothin’, you know? I’m teaching you my goddamn trade, Andrew. None of those pussy brothers of yours have ever been interested in what I do back here in the shop. Glad to see that your mom finally pushed out a son who has potential to become a man. Now, come on. Let’s go make ourselves some sandwiches, then I’ll take you for a ride on this beauty and see if we can’t pick up some broads.”
That was the day I realized that Gramps enjoyed having me underfoot as much as I enjoyed being there. He saw potential in me, like I was the living, breathing version of the Electra Glide we’d restored. He died of a heart attack shortly before I graduated from high school, leaving me his house, his shop, all the projects we’d worked on, and my share of a million-dollar inheritance. Turns out Gramps’s other interest was investing and he was damn good at that, too.
I could have moved into his house and been set for life, but I needed to make my own way. I wanted my own stories to tell my grandkid someday. So, I joined the Navy, where I learned how to work on all sorts of engines. Now, I spent my days in the bike division of Formation, rocking out while I utilized the skills Gramps had passed down to me and customized some really dope bikes.
As I worked, the peace I normally felt evaded me. Instead, my mind kept drifting back to the bar last night. No, it kept drifting back to Carly. How many times had I tried to get her number over the past few months? More than I could count. I never had to work this hard to get laid and knew I should let it go, but I couldn’t. There was just something about her that kept invading my brain space, begging me to keep trying. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was worth it.
Sure, Carly had a banging body with great curves and those little red cowboy boots she wore with her Copper Penny uniform practically brought me to my knees, but there was more. Past her long dark hair, perfect plump lips, and big brown eyes, there was something broken about her. But it wasn’t her brokenness that pulled me in. It was her innocence, her mystery, and her potential.
The kind of potential Gramps had seen the day he looked at that decrepit old 1975 Harley and decided he needed to have it.
Not that Carly was decrepit or old, but I did need to have her. I had a feeling if I could just make those lips curve in a genuine smile for once, we’d both get a full restoration.
Or, maybe I just wanted her because she’d turned me down. Maybe once I got her fine ass in my bed I could finally get her out of my system and move on like I always did. That line of thought conjured images of her screaming my name as I pounded into her, making my jeans hella uncomfortable. Adjusting myself, I forced Carly firmly out of my mind and focused on work.
As I was finishing up the installation of a Knockout Custom Wheel Kit on a brand-new Road Glide Special, Havoc appeared in the doorway and watched me. Standing over six-feet tall with dark skin, an imposing scowl, and a quiet, calculated nature, Havoc could be one scary motherfucker when necessary. His intimidating presence made him the perfect sergeant at arms for the Dead Presidents, but beneath his kicking-ass-and-taking-names persona, he was also one of the smartest, most compassionate men I’d ever met.
Like Link, our club president, Havoc had been a Green Beret. He’d seen shit I couldn’t imagine. He needed the stability, structure, and accountability of the Dead Presidents, and he actively sought out recruits who needed the same. Even when it meant spending a few extra days in jail.
Havoc let out a low whistle, approaching. “That’s one sexy bike.” He leaned forward, inspecting my work. “Thought that wheel kit only came in gloss black?”
“It does, but this customer is loaded. He paid to have it painted. He wants the entire bike matte.”
“Well, it looks fuckin’ awesome,” Havoc replied.
“It should. It’s costing a mint. I’m surprised to see you back so soon. Was it a crash?”
In addition to being the sergeant at arms, Havoc was one of Formation Auto Repair’s tow truck drivers. He wasn’t technically working at the shop today since we had other business to attend to, but with Brick (the driver on call) out on a pick up, when dispatch had called, Havoc came right in.
“Not a crash; just a broken-down Daewoo sedan.”
I finished tightening the bolt I was working on and turned to stare at him. “No shit? A Daewoo? Those are still on the road?”
Havoc chuckled. “Not this one. Piece of shit’s in our side lot now. I let Rabbit know and he thought I was fuckin’ with him. Had to go check it out himself.”
Rabbit was our head auto mechanic. I managed the
Havoc backed up to lean against the wall where he could keep an eye on everything around him. Like most vets who’d seen heavy combat, he didn’t like to have his back exposed. He was normally stoic as fuck, but today he seemed stiffer than normal. Sensing that something was eating at him, I asked, “How’s Julia?”
Julia was Havoc’s fiancé, which was crazy since they’d only known each other for a few months. Link had recently married an attorney after only a few months of hooking up. My two best brothers had gotten stung by the relationship bug, and the rest of us were searching for vaccinations against that shit.
“Good,” Havoc replied. “We got her all moved into my place.”
“Brick said you took the weekend off. You got plans?”
Havoc rubbed a hand over his short hair before tugging at the muscles in his neck. “My mom’s flying out to meet Julia.”
Havoc’s mom lived on the east coast, and as far as I knew, he hadn’t seen her in a few years even though they were close. He should be happy about her visit, but he sounded pissed.
“There a problem with that?” I asked.
He snorted. “Last conversation we had, she told me I needed to find a nice black woman to settle down with.”
I stood, watching him as I grabbed a rag and rubbed most of the grease off my hands before heading to the sink. “Bet that went over well.”
“She’s lost her goddamn mind. I told her to call me back when she found it and hung up. Then one of my sisters called to tell me Mom is coming out here to meet Julia for herself.”
“That sounds dicey.”
He nodded. “My sisters are all pissed, and I don’t fuckin’ get it, Wasp. No one in my family is racist. One of my sisters is married to an Alaska Native, and one is married to a blond Italian. I never said shit about their spouses, but now they’re all in my business, talking about how the good black men always go to white women.”
Good? I wanted to crack a joke about Havoc’s jail time, but his current rage face told me this wasn’t the time. Besides, he’d never strung together so many words in one sitting with me, and it was kind of nice to be the one he opened up to for once.
Hell, if I could help Havoc, I might just be up for replacing Sage as the club’s shrink.
“What are you gonna do?” I asked.
He ran a hand over his short hair. “Fuck if I know. I’m definitely not leaving the two of them alone, though. And if Mom thinks she’s gonna meddle in my relationship or make my woman feel less than, she’s in for a surprise. I’ll be putting her ass right back on her broomstick and sending her home.”
I wanted to laugh, but I clamped my mouth closed and fought like a son-of-a-bitch to keep all traces of humor from my expression as I tried to think of something helpful to say. But helpful wasn’t really my thing. Thankfully, before the urge to poke the bear overcame me, Spade, Sage, and Tap showed up and we got on our bikes and headed out.
Wasp
MILITARY VETERANS DON’T always have the best reputations. We swear, we drink, we fight, we fuck, and sometimes we lose our goddamn minds. Although I never saw direct combat, I had plenty of brothers who did, and they say the hardest part of war is coming home. That’s why Link’s father formed the Dead Presidents MC… to provide support and structure to servicemen who came home too changed to go back to their old life. Jake founded the club, but since he took the reins, Link has been working his ass off to expand his old man’s vision.
Link wants to remind society that despite our issues, we’re still the good guys.
Sometimes even we forget.
Our club often feeds the homeless and runs toy drives, but Link’s been searching for other shit we can do. Other ways to make a difference and give our members a way to atone for some of the fucked-up shit they had to do while in the service. His latest idea was an anti-bullying campaign that had me, Havoc, Sage, Spade, and Tap walking into Helping Hands, a low-income preschool located only blocks from the club. This was our third visit to the school in as many weeks, and I was surprisingly excited to see the kids again. Judging by the hurried steps of my brothers, they were, too.
When Link first told us about the job, I thought it would be easy. Coming from a big family, I had all kinds of experience with kids. Hell, I’d been roped into babysitting my younger cousins more times than I could count. But nothing had prepared me for the pint-sized thugs at Helping Hands. The first day, we’d strolled into the classroom thinking we were hot shit with our speeches and prepared demonstration, but those savage little assholes saw us coming.
They kept interrupting us with questions about guns, how many people we’d killed, and inappropriate (but funny) body part discussions. How the fuck were we supposed to handle their curiosity without traumatizing them? Training sure as hell hadn’t taught us that. Determined, we tried separating the kids into groups so we could divide and conquer, but they ended up dividing and conquering us.
The second session went better. We hit up the dollar store and brought cheap little toys that we used to bribe them into listening and participating. Worked on the greedy little bastards like a goddamn charm. Today, we planned to see if we could keep their attention while spacing out the rewards.
Sage, the club shrink, said it was kind of like training dogs with treats.
Havoc reached the door first. He took a deep breath and looked us over. “Everyone ready?”
We slid our game faces on, channeling the A-Team or some shit like that. He opened the door, and we entered as a unit. Wearing fatigues and combat boots, marching in line, we looked pretty damn impressive. Black, Hispanic, Asian, Mixed, White, Link had created some sort of all-race super team, insisting the kids would better relate to someone who looked like them.
That’s what he claimed, but I had my own suspicions about his presidential motivations. I wouldn’t put it past the fucker to snap some pictures and put us in a calendar, so he could sell it for a charity. Hell, I’d even given him the name for it… Hot Veteran Smorgasbord. In response, Link had kicked my ass out of his office.
Some people have no vision.
My team checked in at the front desk. Today’s receptionist was new; a mousy little woman wearing a conservative floral dress and glasses. She took one look at us and I swear, her glasses fogged up. Her cheeks turned bright red and she immediately held up the paper she was writing on and began fanning herself.
Yep, all the babes would pay for our calendar.
“Hi, um, you must be the Dead Presidents.” Her reading glasses slid down her nose as she checked us out over the top of the form, her gaze flickering around the group like she was trying to stare at us all.
Broads dug men in uniforms. My bike and cut got me laid plenty, but if I ever hit a dry spell, I knew I could don my fatigues and I’d be drowning in pussy. Of course, my current dry spell had nothing to do with the willingness of babes, and everything to do with a certain brown-eyed beauty who wouldn’t give me the time of day…
Spade stepped forward, beaming a wicked smile at the receptionist. The Copper Penny’s lead bouncer always went for mousy little librarian types. “Yes ma’am.”
He gave her a little wink and she about fainted.
“Uh… the, um, same room.” She swallowed. “As last time. Please s-s-sign in here. Do you need me to… uh… show you? The way, I mean?”
She was so worked up, she could barely speak. Walking with us would probably give her a heart attack. We all signed the visitor sheet.
“No, babe, we got it,” Spade answered, still grinning. “Thanks.”
“N-n-no problem.”
He cast her one more look over his shoulder as we rounded the corner. No doubt Spade would have her number before we left. Shaking his head and chuckling to himself, Havoc led us to the classroom of preschoolers who’d be entering kindergarten in the fall. We could hear the kids before we reached their door, and the sounds coming from that room made our footsteps falter.
Every single one of us had broken up our fair share of fights and dealt with veterans so far gone they didn’t even recognize us, but the door of that preschool classroom gave us pause. I took in the uncertain expressions of my brothers and let out a laugh, grabbing for the handle.
“Don’t be pussies; they’re just kids,” I said as I pushed through the door.
Shit was everywhere.
It looked like the kids had been in the middle of some art project when they’d gone mutinous. Papers, glue, and glitter covered the desktops and floor. Every single last kid was huddled under their desks, yelling “No!” on repeat from the top of their lungs, and the teacher—a new one I hadn’t seen before—had her hands over her ears and a look of terror on her face as she shuffled toward the door like she was preparing to escape or maybe call for back up.
No amount of military training could have prepared us for this shit.
The children were downright feral, some grinning from ear-to-ear in anticipation, while others wailed in terror and confusion. They just needed a pack leader to organize them for either fight or flight. It was one of the funniest things I’d ever seen. I clamped my mouth shut and backed into the hallway, trying not to laugh.
Havoc pushed past me and stomped into the room. Putting his whistle to his lips, he blew. The loud, shrill sound of the drill sergeant whistle worked like a power box, instantly flicking off the switch to their screams. Even the feral kids clamped their mouths closed and covered their ears. We’d learned about that little cheat while doing emergency research after our first visit to the school went FUBAR.
Once Havoc had their attention, he gave them a hard scowl. “Have you all lost your minds?” he asked.
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