by Ora Wilde
“I’ll tidy it up for you,” he told me as he smirked. “A year of being a prospect made me good with that kind of a job.”
“Awww, that’s very sweet of you,” I began to respond with renewed sardonicism until I realized the grimness of his words. “Wait a minute! Are you telling me that I will be staying there for a long time?”
“I... I don’t know,” he labored to answer. I could tell that he really didn’t have a clue.
“Just bring me to the clubhouse,” I started to insist.
“I think Prez will eventually ask me to take you there... just not right now. Driving you to the warehouse and keeping you there until his next call is his strict order.”
“You can’t blame me if I find this... everything... very suspicious, right? San Carlos is, what? Forty, forty-five minutes away? The clubhouse is just by the pier. That’s like fifteen minutes away from where you picked me up. Isn’t it more convenient to just go there?”
And again he fell silent. His quietness this time around was different. It was eerie. Disturbing, even.
“No one told you?” he asked.
“Told me what?”
“The old clubhouse’s gone.”
“What?!”
“The Aztekos blew it up two months ago.”
“Shit! You’re kidding, right?”
“No I’m not, sadly.”
“Those damn Mexicans! I always hated them! Why did they do that?”
“Retaliation.”
“For what?”
“Rotten knocked up one of their members’ sister.”
I wanted to laugh so hard were it not for the dread that still lingered in my heart. That’s very typical of Rotten, to fuck anything that moved. Anything with a hole, actually... and it didn’t have to be alive. Still, knocking up the sister of a rival club’s member doesn’t justify that kind of revenge.
“Their reprisal was kinda over the top, don’t you think?” I expressed my concern.
“She’s thirteen,” he calmly replied.
I was stunned in disbelief. I wasn’t expecting that. Rotten has always been a nutjob who thought with his dick. But he’s, what? Pushing fifty? And the girl probably just got her first period?
“Was anyone hurt?” I asked instead.
“Aside from our pride, none, fortunately.”
“So... where’s your HQ now?”
“The donut shop at Redford.”
This time, I didn’t even try to stop myself from laughing.
“The Big Hole?” I wanted to confirm. “The one that Old Man Bollock gave the club to pay for his debts way back... when was that again? 2007?”
“Yep. That’s the one.”
“You’re meeting up in a donut shop?” I laughed so hard that I had to cover my nose with a hankie just to be sure that nothing unsightly would’ve found their way out. “What a way to strike fear into people’s hearts, eh?”
“It is what it is,” was his rather detached response. His tone told me, however, that he himself had some reservations about the club’s choice for a new clubhouse.
“It is what it is, indeed,” I repeated his words just because I was too preoccupied with a new thought that I didn’t have the time to come up with a more meaningful reply.
I already knew where the club, my dad included, was holed up. No pun intended. It would be such a thrill to actually piss him off by visiting him there, against his express wishes. All I had to do was to get rid of the underling he assigned to be my bodyguard.
An opening came at the bend of Morisette and Starview. It was near a school and there was an ice cream truck parked there.
“Oooohhh. Ice cream!” I barked with feigned enthusiasm. “Can we get a scoop? Maybe two? Pretty please?” I gave him my best impression of a doe-eyed child begging for some sweets.
He grunted a bit before pulling over.
“Do I have to give you money for a cone or did my dad give you an allowance?” I mischievously asked.
“I have cash,” he crabbily said.
He went out of the van and started to walk towards the vendor. “Rocky Road!” I yelled to inform him of my choice of flavor which I didn’t have any intentions of tasting.
He nodded and proceeded to the truck.
That was all that I needed. An opening.
The dumb bloke didn’t even bother to turn the engine off. I hopped over to the driver’s seat and surveyed the panel. The wheel steered smoothly, good. The break pedal was quite tight but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. Side mirrors were well adjusted, excellent. The transmission was...
Wait...
Shit!
I completely forgot that the damn thing was on manual. And the stick was attached to the side of the wheel. How was I supposed to change gears?
It didn’t matter. I knew I’d be able to figure it out once I got going.
I stepped on the gas. The engine produced an unexpectedly clunky sound that caught Lowlife’s attention. His eyes opened wide, shocked by what I was about to do. He started to run back. I had to hurry.
I fiddled with the stick. Up? Down? L-movement? How was I supposed to go to first gear?
A few tries and the stick locked into something. That must be it. I freed up the handbrake and released my foot from the brake pedal.
The van moved.
I stepped on the gas once again and steered Bigalow back to the road. I could hear the prospect screaming. I just laughed at him. Sayonara, bitch!
Driving the old contraption was easier than I thought. I was stuck on first gear, though, as I didn’t know where to position the lever to go to second. And there’s that third pedal that remained a mystery. It didn’t matter. It was moving and I was well on my way to give my father a very unpleasant surprise.
I passed by Canteen Junction which was the intersection near City Hall where the prospect picked me up. It was a few minutes away from downtown. Soon enough, I’d be driving along Redford, parking in front of the Big Hole, and appearing before my father to give him a heart attack. Excitement coursed through my veins, something that I haven’t felt for the longest time. Getting my father mad has always given me an immeasurable sense of satisfaction, an addictive feeling of accomplishment. Seeing his face turn red with rage would never get old.
I took the road to the right of the crossing. I was so near the donut shop that I could almost smell it.
Then I heard my name being screamed, frantically, by someone behind the van.
I looked at the rearview mirror.
And I saw him.
A supposedly badass biker, huffing and puffing as he rode a puny, pink bicycle he probably stole from some kid.
“Samantha! Stop!” he repeatedly yelled in between moments of catching his breath. “You gotta stop!”
I didn’t. No one tells me what to do.
I continued to watch him via the side mirror. I wanted to laugh at him. But I couldn’t. I just smiled the rest of the trip. Seeing him like that... it wasn’t a funny sight at all.
It was an amusing one.
3
LOWLIFE
Fuck!
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
This is gonna be bad. Really, really bad.
It’s not without a piece of good news, though. My boner’s gone. I’ve been trying to repress it to no avail. It’s been clogging up my crotch ever since I saw her. An angelic face with big blue eyes framed by her long, light brown hair... she’s truly a looker. I couldn’t even imagine that she came from one Prez’s little tadpoles. Maybe she got her traits from her mother.
Did she even notice how her tight leggings revealed so much of her splendidly round ass? Or how her loose white shirt fell perfectly over her tits to give a glimpse of their amazing shape? Maybe she didn’t even notice - or perhaps she didn’t even care - that her nips were poking out of the soft fabric of her top? Has she even heard of this thing they called a bra?
She’s nice to look at, but it was her scent that kept prodding at my gut. Fresh straw
berries topped with enigmatic pollens of lilac... I wondered what perfume she wore. Must be something expensive. She looked the type... a girl who indulges in fine things.
What the fuck was I thinking?
I was too mesmerized by her beauty. That was fucking stupid. I allowed her to fool me, and now, she’s on her way to the clubhouse, in a van that I was supposed to be driving, to her father who asked me to keep her far away from the donut shop.
Good thing my fucking hard-on vanished when she pulled that stunt. It would’ve been hellish to ride this fucking bicycle if my dick remained out of control. The seat was too small. I would’ve sat on my own cock.
I pedaled as hard as I could, as fast as I could, just to keep up with the van. I’ve been screaming my lungs out since we passed by Canteen Junction. She heard me alright, but the witch just wouldn’t stop. I bet she’s laughing at me right now.
We were a few meters away from Redford. She’d be arriving at the clubhouse soon, and everyone would see her. Prez would get so pissed that he’d have to punish me. The patches would find this funny and I’d be the butt of their jokes for years.
God damn it! I had the easiest fucking job in the world. I just had to keep an eye on her... and I wasn’t even able to do that. Shit!
The van turned right at the bend leading to Redford. My bicycle followed suit. The clubhouse was within sight.
I was expecting nine Harleys to be parked by the roadside. Ten, if LG was there.
I didn’t see nine or ten Harleys.
I saw around fifty of them. Redford looked like it was Sturgis during the bike fest in October.
A few seconds later and I had a closer look at what was transpiring.
The Filthy Dogs, all nine of them minus LG, were lined up in front of the donut shop. They were being confronted by four or five lines of other bikers, numbering around forty. Red and gray colors adorned their kuttes. A closer inspection divulged the emblem that was stitched on the back of their vests.
A burning cross.
Shit.
The Godless.
They’re here.
I made one final push to overtake the van, to warn Samantha not to proceed to the clubhouse, to block her path with my bicycle just to make her stop even if it meant having to suffer some very serious injuries. I was that desperate. The situation was that grave.
I failed.
She hurriedly parked the wagon beside a row of bikes that have settled in front of the second building from the donut shop. I jumped out of the bicycle to give chase on foot. But she had a sizable head start. She walked briskly towards the throng of leather and denim-clad men who looked like they were about to rip each other’s heads off. That didn’t bother her. She had her own war to wage.
Everyone saw her coming. The Dogs were shocked beyond belief, Prez most specially. The Godless had varied reactions. Some gave her a surprised look. Others showered her with lustful stares and a sputtering of catcalls. A handful looked irked by her sudden intrusion.
She went straight to her father.
“What were you thinking?” she screamed at him. “The warehouse? Really?”
She did that in front of a rival club that wanted to suppress us. Big fucking mistake.
“Sam, you shouldn’t be here,” Prez muttered, still in shock. It was a sentiment echoed by Razor, the veep, as he adjusted his dark-tinted glasses and clicked his tongue.
“I know you don’t want to see me,” she continued to bellow. “I mean, when did you ever want to see me anyway? You sent me off to LA just to get rid of me, for God’s sake! Well, guess what, dad? I’m here now, so deal with it.”
“Sammy, I’m happy to see you,” Rotten interrupted while forcing himself to smile. He dashed between her and Prez in an attempt to diffuse the situation. “But now ain’t really the right ti-”
“Oh, look! It’s Mr. Fuck Machine himself!” she scolded at him, making Rotten the new target of her fury. “Do me a favor. Actually, do all of us a favor. Keep your dick inside your pants. And, Jesus Christ! If you can’t, just... just... just ask how old she is before you screw her. Don’t knock her up, specially if she’s young enough to be your great, great, great granddaughter! We don’t want to lose another clubhouse now, do we?”
Rotten looked at her with his mouth agape, wondering how she knew about that incident. He figured it out quickly, though. Soon enough, he was giving me a mean stare.
She kept bawling at the top of her lungs. Prez raised his eyebrow and motioned something to both Screwdriver and Specs. They nodded. The patches grabbed her arms and dragged her, literally, inside the donut shop. That didn’t stop her from screeching like a mad woman, however. I could still hear her shrieks even after she was gone from everyone’s sight.
That girl... I wasn’t expecting her to be that aggressive. She’s feisty, yes... but crazy? I doubted it. Somehow, she gave me the impression that her recent outburst was all for show, an effort to provoke her father for whatever misgivings she thought he had. Her issues with him may be far deeper than I initially perceived.
Prez turned his attention to me. He gave me a disgusted and disappointed look. It was like a knife that struck my chest and took away my ability to breathe. Few were the times when I felt that bad my entire life. I knew I fucked up. Seeing him - the only man who I respected as much as my late father - that disgruntled was a shitty moment for me.
But there was business at hand and Prez was quick to return his focus on the unwanted visitors.
“As I was saying before we were, uhm, rudely interrupted,” a reed thin, man who was wearing plaid long sleeves underneath his leather kutte, said. He was smiling but it was easy to discern that it wasn’t genuine at all. His small, slender eyes conveyed a lot of smugness. His snapped back, gray hair, combed to perfection with some kind of antiquated pomade, made him look like a treacherous politician. His nose, long and crooked, suggested a shady kind of temperament. His voice, hoarse but firm, indicated that he was in a position of absolute power. “About this patch over shit. You game, Cross?”
I knew who he was. Everyone knew who he was.
Johnny Talos. International president of the Godless MC.
But why was he here? One would assume that a man of his stature wouldn’t be involved with local matters such as the one that his club was proposing.
Indeed, Talos was the undisputed leader of the Godless’s numerous charters. But he wasn’t the most feared figure in their organization. That distinction belonged to the person who was standing next to him. Bigger, taller, more menacing with his bald hair, Cholo “Cannibal” Kreed was, by far, the largest man in the crowd. He’s the sergeant-at-arms of their Tulare chapter, but he was a more recognizable character than their own president. He was the most intimidating, too, and his ugly looks made sure of that. Cannibal’s most distinguishing feature wasn’t his bald head or his sheer size, though. It’s the lower half of his face, burned beyond identification. Skin of decaying black replaced the color of flesh. It was like he was wearing an artificial jaw made of dark metal. His eyes weren’t lovely, as well. Cursed with huge irises, they looked like spheres of coal that floated above his nose. It’s because of genetics, obviously, but that didn’t stop many people from coming up with wild stories. Many say that his dark eyes were the consequence of his inhuman preference, that his road name wasn’t really a monicker. Rather, it was a title that proclaimed who, or what, he really was... a cannibal.
“Sorry, Johnny,” Prez replied as he put up a brave and confident front, his arms crossed over his chest. “We ain’t interested.”
“Oh come on, Jonas,” Talos pleaded. “You know we need San Mateo, right? I mean, look at this place. It’s fucking beautiful! And you’ve got a pier, too. A damn, fucking pier! How cool is that, right?”
“Save the pretenses, Johnny,” Prez shot back. “You want San Mateo because of the pier.”
“Hey, you got me, Jonas!” Talos’ smile got wider. “You’re underutilizing this city’s harbor. You got connections w
ith the local customs office, right? Solid connections, as I was told. And you’re using them for what? Smuggling car parts? Bike parts? Some gadgets from Japan that kids are crazy for these days? That’s a little small time for your club, right? I mean... that’s not where the money is... you know that, Jonas.”
“We’ve gone legit since the 1998,” Prez told him.
“Bullshit, Jonas! Smuggling garbage to avoid taxes ain’t really what I’d call as legit.”