by Cat Porter
His brown eyes beamed at me. I knew the signs. Boy wanted to prospect. Eager to sit on a huge burning piece of metal and wear leathers, colors that would make feeble humans sit up and take notice.
I adjusted my sunglasses on the bridge of my nose. “Yeah, I’ve heard of Meager.”
His eyes widened under my silent scrutiny, his teeth scraped his bottom lip.
“Why should I trust you, Drew Reigert from Meager, South Dakota, home of the One-Eyed Jacks?”
I’d become wary of the Jacks now that Jump was their President. And he certainly kept out of my way.
“You shouldn’t trust me,” Drew replied.
I cocked an eyebrow. Well, that was refreshing.
“Until you put me through the paces, that is. Do what you got to do. I get it. I’m good with it.”
“Glad to hear it.” I kept walking.
He strode alongside me. “I’ve been going from shit job to shit job. I came up here months ago to see if I could talk to you guys.”
“What’s the matter, tired of Mommy’s cooking? Sounds like you get bored easy. That’s real life, ever heard of it?”
“That’s true, I do get bored easy. But that just tells me that I haven’t been challenged properly yet.”
Now I was listening. “That so?”
“Yep.”
“I’ve seen you around here before,” I said.
“I’ve come to a couple parties, and I’ve helped out here and there.” He held my gaze. “I’m serious about wanting to prospect for the Flames. For you.”
Not many hanger ons ever dared talk to me.
“You never prospected for the One-Eyed Jacks, hometown boy?”
“Nah, they aren’t the Flames of Hell.”
“Come by today and I’ll have our housekeeper give you a toothbrush. You can get that grout between the bathroom and the kitchen tiles all white and sparkly. The way I imagine it used to be in the eighties.”
“I could do that.”
“Did you ever do it for your mother?”
He laughed. A full belly laugh. The kid was relaxed, sure of himself. I wasn’t sure I liked it. I could spot bullshit a mile off, and as President of my club I had no time for it.
“I’ll take that as a no. Shame. What do you got to offer me, though, other than potentially clean white grout and shiny tile?” I asked him.
He shook his hair out of his face. “Anything you want. Whatever you need. I’m a quick study.”
He held my gaze, his brown eyes unwavering. All eagerness and sincerity. Maybe what he needed was the right direction for a change.
“Other than getting bored easy, you got any disabilities, quirks that would affect your work performance?”
“No quirks, not really, except for enthusiasm.”
“Being a prospect, you’re on call 24/7. Participation is mandatory at all functions, no exceptions. Club comes first before all things, even your dick, maybe even your mommy.”
“Right, understood.”
I gestured at the decked out Shovelhead chopper a few yards behind him. “That your bike?”
“Yeah. Got it last year.”
“You got a trust fund maybe?”
“No, not me. I got a brain, and I use it to get what I want, and I wanted that bike. The previous owner placed it in a bet. Owed someone else a lot of money. I swooped in and won it fair and square.”
“You come by in an hour. That toothbrush will be ready for you.” I strode toward my bike, giving him a final look.
A grin broke across his face. “Yes!”
“I’m calling about your brother.”
“Drew? What about Drew?” Tania’s voice grew higher. “Is he okay? Is he in trouble?”
“He’s been with me for a few months.”
Silence. A sharp exhale of breath. “What does that mean exactly?” she asked.
“He came to me on his own. Wants to be a Flame.”
“You’re joking.”
“Would I call you to joke?”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
“I don’t know if he’s told you, he doesn’t talk about his family, but I wanted you to hear it from me that he’s getting patched in. Didn’t want you to think I set out and recruited him, targeted him on purpose.”
“Okay. I don’t know if I should say thank you or be careful.”
I laughed.
“Look, he’s been quite the anarchist since high school. My mom’s real upset about his brushes with the law the past few years.”
“He’s proven himself a solid worker, capable. It’s going up for a vote next week.”
“Good luck to the both of you,” Tania murmured.
“You mad?”
“I don’t know. No. You might be just what he needs. You run a tight ship from the little I know. My mom and sister are going to freak, of course. Are you still vice-president?”
“No.”
“Oh, sorr—”
“I’m president.”
“Whoa. Oh boy. Congratulations, Finger.”
“How are things with you, Tania?”
“I’m getting married.”
“To that guy?”
“Yes. Kyle.”
“So it’s good?”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s very good. We’re happy.”
She knew better than to ask my relationship status. I had none, anyway. Women frequently tried with me, but I was never interested enough. There was no point in exploring any “thing” with anyone.
“Stay that way, Tania.”
She let out a dry laugh. “I’ll try.”
“You’re doing good work, man. You caught the mistakes the accountant made last year, now you caught a prospect ratting out our business to a fucking cop. You keep catching shit for your club, well appreciated.” I leaned back in my chair in my office, our German Shepherd, Leper, curled at my feet.
My office was no longer the mildewed former bedroom that Kwik’s office had once been. We’d completely renovated the old farmhouse, as well as the detached barn out front, and the large shed at the other end. The old farm was an excellent location. Feds who constantly tried to do surveillance on us, and there were many, were easily spotted.
Even better, we’d finally stopped renting the property and bought it outright with the cash I’d insisted on putting to the side. There had been plenty of groaning among the men about the money crunch when I first presented the idea. I explained to them that you couldn’t blow everything you had on partying or let it slip through your fingers on the usual expenses just because you happened to have some extra one month or two. Planning ahead was a good thing.
The memories of my dad always rushing to scrape cash together at the last minute not only for his old lady, their house, their kids, but even to pay his own club dues, had never left me. Misery. I detested it.
The cost of the farmhouse wasn’t too bad as the family we got it from had sold off almost all of the property over the years in an attempt to keep up with expenses, taxes, their loans, and they were eager to sell. There was just enough land for us to have privacy for both our business and our good time. Now, my brothers were proud that we actually owned something. The “Farm,” as we called it, was ours.
Over the past few years, Tania’s little brother had proven his dedication, loyalty, and capabilities as a Flame. He’d settled in just fine with the bros, and now he even had an old lady, Jill. He had worked a lot of construction in his time, and spearheaded the final section that had to be done on our clubhouse and the adjoining garage we’d started building a few years back. He’d pitched in on security, too, setting up an improved alarm and camera system on our property. He’d then recruited a prospect, Den, who was a computer and electronics freak to maintain it. I’d been right about Tania’s brother. He was all raw potential. He’d just ne
eded the right opportunity and some guidance.
“Catch keeps catching.” Drac ruffled Catch’s hair, handing him a glass of whiskey. He filled my glass and his own, and hiked himself up on the edge of my desk.
“I still can’t believe he did that, Prez,” said Catch. “Mikey seemed like a good guy. He seemed all right. Always on time, positive attitude, never complained. He’s insisting he just shot his mouth off when he shouldn’t have. That cop was working undercover as a college kid. I mean, she was really hot, but—”
Drac cracked up laughing. “A female cop got his tongue flapping?”
Catch took a healthy gulp of his liquor. “Yeah.”
“He did it, and you need to believe it,” I said. “People seem to be a lot of things. You need to be ready for all those possibilities.” I leaned back in my chair and enjoyed the sweet searing heat of the whiskey in my mouth.
“Really shouldn’t be trusting the hot chick with her lips around your cock,” said Drac, raising his glass to Catch.
I glanced up at Drac who shot me a grin. He was one of the very few people on this planet I did trust. I’d built my club up in the world of the Flames of Hell with him alongside me and Mishap in the shadows. We were now an island fortress in our piece of the USA.
“Yeah, trust is a very, very fine line,” I said. “A fucking high wire.”
Catch shifted in his seat. “So, uh, Mikey...”
“Tonight.” Drac finished his drink and poured himself another. “Tonight he’ll get what’s coming to him.”
Once the sun fell, the bonfire was fed and burned hungrily in the center pit of the compound. The flames crackled, darting and licking around each other. The heat rose in the crisp night air, lighting up everyone’s faces. Glimmers and shadows. Anticipation and dread.
I motioned to my men and they brought out the informer: Mikey the prospect. His face was bruised and marked. His fingers broken. I had a thing for broken digits. Everyone needed a brand.
He stopped in front of me. “Please! Please, don’t do this!”
“Beg.” Drac shoved him forward.
Mikey’s legs buckled underneath him and he dropped to the ground ten yards in front of me. The crowd quieted.
“She tricked me, man! I didn’t know who she was! It was an honest mistake! I’m sorry.”
Sorries, mistakes. I didn’t have wiggle room for those notions.
“We don’t talk to outsiders. We don’t talk business to nobody.” My voice boomed over the buzz of the fire. “Fucking simple. You don’t get it. You never will. Your weakness and your vanity put our club at risk.”
“Please!”
“We are one percenters, boy, and that isn’t some clever label. But it seems you didn’t realize that on the other side of that coin, we are one-hundred percent in with all our blood, all our fire. We are the fire. That takes strength and character that you obviously don’t have.”
Drac handed me our old Marlin 1894. Murmurs rolled through the crowd at the appearance of the long rifle.
Mikey shuffled back on his feet, stumbling onto his back. “No! Please! I’ll do anything! Anything you want! Please.”
“There’s no coming back from this shit. The damage is done. You’re useless to me now. You’re fucking scum.”
I raised the Marlin and aimed at his face, my heart quieting; an odd quiet, a noiseless hush I relished. I took in a slight breath, and that satisfaction zipped through me, streamlining, focusing my every sense on my target, on the perfect weight of the firearm in my hands.
I snapped the lever down and pulled the trigger. The explosion silenced everything, the vibration shuddering through my shoulder, my arm, my chest. Mikey’s body jerked back, quickly dropping in a pile. That split second of sweet ferocity possessed me, sating me.
There was a hush in the courtyard, except for the fire in the pit. Those flames roared and leapt to the drum of my heartbeat. I pitched the Marlin back at Drac who caught it with a lift of his chin.
I let out a whistle and Leper trotted to my side, head raised, eyes on me. “There’s my boy.” I rubbed his head, and his tail wagged back and forth.
Catch stood alone at a distance, his eyes on what was left of his prospect, a brooding expression on his face. Members took turns kicking and smacking at the lifeless body in the yard, until they lost interest.
The party took on a life of its own. The corpse was finally gotten rid of and forgotten.
41
Beck had changed everything for me.
He was my precious miracle, and I was a mama bear wanting to cuddle with her cub in a quiet cave all our own and experience the world again through him. Spending time with Beck was satisfying, and fulfilled a part of me that had been empty for so long. He was my center, my joy. I could let go of my many fragments of unhappiness by focusing on him and his happiness.
Eric and I separated, and he and Pam got married within months of the divorce. I can’t say it didn’t hurt, it did, but I was glad he was happy. Pam quit cheerleading, opened a children’s dance studio in Brentwood and had a baby girl the following year. A part of me envied Eric and Pam’s getting on with it and moving full steam ahead with their lives.
Although I enjoyed my work as a stylist and wardrobe designer, I decided I wanted something other than the LA rat race for me and my boy. All that celebrity crap and the constant shifting waves of what was trendy and what was not didn’t intrigue me the way it had initially. Eric let me have the house in Rapid where I stayed and raised Beck. I’d grown to love the area. Rapid City was an odd combination of mountain city with desert sand. Beck and I enjoyed hiking and exploring in the Black Hills. The dense, sweet, earthy smell in the air from the variety of evergreens, the dirt actually shining and shimmering from the mica were magical to us. It was our special corner of the world.
At home, I designed and made my own clothing line, a few expensive pieces both formal and more funky casual, and sold them in LA via trunk shows and through stylist friends, especially Kelly who had gone on to great success. Whenever I was back in LA to bring Beck to see his dad for winter break or the summer, I’d stay for several weeks and network with Kelly’s help.
From the beginning it was obvious that Beck was a born musician. Playing the guitar and the piano were instinctive for him. He had an ear for music, and he composed and played all the time even before he started taking formal lessons. His talent was something special, something beyond an ordinary aptitude. He wanted to follow in his dad’s footsteps, and I knew deep in my gut he would surpass his dad’s level of artistry, and hopefully, success.
Eric was doing well as a producer based in LA. Whenever Beck visited him, he went with his dad to work and met lots of people and saw how the industry operated. The music business became second nature to him.
After finishing junior high in Rapid, Beck auditioned for an arts high school in LA. He was over the moon when he got it, and Eric and I were so proud. Beck moved to his dad’s in California, and I endured an empty nest much too early. I desperately missed my son, but I wouldn’t deny him his dream. I would never do that. It was his time. It was also the way of parenthood, wasn’t it?
I needed to focus on moving ahead with my own life and work.
I took the plunge and sold the house in Rapid and bought a much smaller one in Meager. Meager was small, quiet, an old pioneer settlement in the Black Hills that had seen better days when ranchers and farmers were more plentiful in these parts. There was a sense of comfort to me that this was Tania and Grace’s hometown, even though neither of them lived here any longer. The town seemed sleepy and worn around the edges, yet there were signs of some renewal. We were a good fit.
With the extra money from the sale of the house, I opened my own store on the main street of town. My shop was one of the first new businesses to open up on Clay Street after decades of the traditional stores dying a slow quiet death. The pr
e-war general store had eventually become the five and dime and now, it too had been silenced. Only a post-war family-owned gas station and Peppers, the Western boot shop that had served generations of families, remained sturdy fixtures. A diner that still had tables and chairs from the fifties had closed recently and then quickly reopened as a trendy coffee house complete with freshly made baked goods. The locals loved it, and so did I.
Meager began to get noticed on visitors’ tours through the Black Hills, especially during Sturgis Rally time. Younger families were moving in, and the town seemed to be on an upswing.
Opening a store was a risk I was willing to take. Hell, the rent was very low to begin with. My own boutique with my own designs was a dream come true. I started out with clothing for special nights out, hoping to attract a lot of the thirty-somethings who were looking for something different and had the money to spend. The bulk of my stock was loungewear—robes, sexy pajamas, slip dresses, a few unique accessories and the lingerie.
I’d kept working on corsets. I loved working on cut and silhouette and also the finer details, the fastenings, the decoration. Every time I was back in LA I’d find amazing new fabrics and forged relationships with the suppliers. My focus veered to creating lingerie—fantasies of delicacy and the sublime, intimacy come to life.
The first month I saw next to no business. One afternoon, as I lit a cinnamon incense stick on the small table I had in the center of the store, a tall, attractive, African American woman strode in. She was beautiful—long sleek black hair, no makeup except for deep red lipstick. I blinked. Naomi Campbell had nothing on her.
“Isn’t this a novelty?” she said in a velvety voice full of genuine wonder as she explored the boutique, her gaze darting over every display.