Drifter

by Janine Infante Bosco

  “You cut my sandwich into triangles,” I point out.

  “Did you want me to cut the crust off too?”

  I lift one half of the sandwich and devour more than half of it with one bite before I lean back in my chair and stare at her as I chew.

  Swallowing, I lift the rest of the half to my lips pausing before I shove it into my mouth.

  “She’s not just a pretty face but a smartass too,” I state, winking at her. “You might just be my dream girl,” I add, popping the rest of the sandwich into my mouth as she laughs.

  I never realized how sexy a woman’s laugh could be.

  “They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach…” She points, eyeing the fancy plate in front of me, “…do you love me yet?”

  “Sweetheart, I’d get down on one knee if I thought you’d say yes,” I tease, lifting the bottle of water to my lips as I wink at her.

  “I’d never marry a man without knowing his last name. A girl has to practice writing it at least a thousand times before she even considers taking it as her own. I mean what if it’s something godawful like Cornbanger? Can you imagine? Gina Cornbanger.”

  The water flies out of my mouth and she shrugs.

  “What? It can happen. My fifth grade teacher’s name was Iris Dick.”

  “You’re lying.”

  She leans over the table and takes the other half of my sandwich from my plate and takes a huge bite.

  “My mother saved all my report cards you want me to whip them out for you?”

  I feel the smile tug the corners of my lips and realize I haven’t smiled this much in a really long time.

  “Kincaid,” I blurt, watching as she narrows her eyes in confusion. “That’s my last name.”

  At my statement her eyes widen in surprise but she quickly recovers testing my name on her tongue.

  “Gina Kincaid,” she says, before shrugging her shoulders. “I don’t know…what do you think?”

  “Sounds good to me,” I say flatly. “But maybe you should practice writing it a thousand times before you commit.”

  “You’re probably right,” she replies.

  “You ate my dinner,” I accuse, pointing to my empty plate.

  “I did,” she confirms, before shrugging her shoulders. “What can I say? I’ve got a thing for bologna and cheese.”

  Winking at me, she leans over and takes my empty plate, stacking it over hers before dropping both of them into the sink and turns back to me.

  “Now that I’ve fed you what am I supposed to do with you?” she questions, crossing her arms under her chest as she fakes a frown. “I mean I wasn’t really expecting to entertain, especially when there’s a Patrick Swayze marathon on TBS.”

  Pushing back my chair, I stand and make my way over to where she’s leaning against the sink. I brace both hands on the counter, caging her in and dip my head so my eyes become hypnotized by hers.

  “Sorry to cramp your style, pretty girl,” I rasp, mesmerized by all the different shades of green her eyes turn with every word I say. “I’ll make you a deal.”

  “That’s my line,” she whispers.

  “Not with me it’s not,” I tell her as I lift my hands from the counter and push them through her hair. “I’ll give you one movie but when the credits start rolling, you take your clothes off and do as I say.”

  “Does that line really work?”

  “I don’t know ask your panties.”

  “Point for Mr. Kincaid.”

  I may have scored the point, but she won the fucking game, making me sit on her couch with a hard on while I pretended to give a fuck about some guy named Johnny and the shy girl who carried a watermelon. I’ll give the Swayze guy credit, he could fucking dance, and I swear that song Hungry Eyes was made with Gina in mind.

  Especially after the movie finished, and she held up her end of the deal.

  One look at her naked body, the come hither expression planted on her pretty face, and she knew what the expression hungry eyes truly meant.

  The next day we started our routine.

  Me and my big mouth.

  I didn’t think it through. I figured she’d hop on the back of my bike, we’d take the Brooklyn Bridge to Manhattan and I’d drop her off at her office. I’d check out the area, scope out the douchebags she worked with and once everything was copasetic, I’d get my ass the hell out of dodge and return when the stock market closed for the day.

  My bike, or what was left of it was part of a crime scene.

  Not that it mattered because her wardrobe consisted of a bunch of skirts. Lots and lots of skirts, all of which are sexy as fuck but not something you wear to take a ride on the back of a Harley.

  And my pretty girl, the modern woman she is doesn’t own a car. Nope, Miss Independent Woman was all about the Uber app. So, I took her to work in an Uber…a fucking Uber.

  You better believe my ass got on the train after that.

  Only to repeat the same shit the next day and the day after that. By the third day I felt like I lost a nut. Thankfully, Cobra called me on my way to the train station to tell me Blackie pulled some strings and got us access inside the compound. I’d be able to dig through the debris and get what was left of my shit and hopefully find my bike had survived the blast.

  No, such luck.

  Peeling back the yellow tape that line the gates of what was once home to the Satan’s Knights, I freeze in my tracks, finally understanding what the term ground zero means. Most think it originated after the towers collapsed in Manhattan, but ground zero originated after the atomic bombs in Hiroshima. It’s what we call the point of the earth’s surface directly above or below an exploding nuclear bomb.

  It might not have been an atomic bomb but staring back at the Dog Pound, I think it’s safe to use the term.

  Snapping out of it, I walk further into the destruction, passed what used to be the parking lot. Now, one couldn’t decipher what was the parking lot and what was the remains of the clubhouse. There were mounds of dust, rubble, debris that had to be sifted through. Tall mangled pieces of metal I assumed was the frame of the Dog Pound stood tall, reminding us that there is resilience in some things.

  I spot Deuce first, hoisting a huge piece of wood over his shoulder and throwing it on top of a pile. Cobra appears next, a bandanna tied around his head, wearing a tank top covered in black shit, the same black shit we all inhaled that day.

  “It’s about time you came up for fucking air and helped us,” Deuce greets. “I reckon a man can only keep his head between a woman’s thighs for so long before he turns blue.”

  I shoot Cobra a glare and he shrugs his shoulders in response as he wipes his hands down the front of his shirt.

  “He was wondering why you never showed up at the motel,” he explains.

  “What can I say, girls love the damaged guy with nowhere to go,” I say, playing it off. The clubs focus needs to be on making whoever is responsible for this pay. My focus needs to be on keeping whatever shit Rocco is expecting away from his sister and when I’m summoned to fuck motherfuckers up then I’ll transfer my focus, but now, now she’s it.

  Not something these two fools would understand.

  Especially since I’ve barely have had a chance to wrap my own head around it.

  “Well good for you. Now, get your privileged ass to work. I promised Wolf we’d find the fucking table,” Deuce says, pulling the baseball hat from his head to run his fingers through his wild and sweaty hair.

  “What’s the deal with the table anyway?” I ask, climbing over a mountain of Lord knows what to help them. “Wolf nearly died trying to save that fucking thing.”

  “It means a lot to Jack,” Cobra informs us. “I don’t know much, but I know the Bulldog’s predecessor was a guy named Cain. He may have been a junkie that got the club in over their heads with drugs but he saved Jack’s life, talked him off the ledge after his son died. Anyway, Cain and his old man bui
lt the table from scratch and that fucking thing has survived the exchange of power and…lets fucking hope it’s survived a bomb.”

  “For real, dawg. Losing his hearing and his table might be what sends Jack to crazyville again,” Deuce attempts to joke, but there isn’t anything funny about using a man’s weak mind as the butt of a joke.

  I keep my mouth shut and silently make it my mission to find that fucking table, because like Jack, I know mental anguish and I also know what it’s like to have something symbolic you treasure.

  My flag.

  I needed to find it.

  First the table then my flag and maybe my underwear.

  My bike is as good as scrap. I wonder what Don Jon’s Recycling is paying these days. Metal isn’t worth shit these days, even copper is down, we’d probably get ten bucks for what’s left of all our bikes.

  Three hours later, we were covered head to toe in soot and coughing as much as we had the day the blast went off. We recovered a bunch of superficial shit, mugshots that once lined a wall, a twenty year-old bottle of whiskey, someone’s boots, another’s jacket but no fucking table and no flag.

  “Yo, Blackie’s here,” Deuce calls out.

  I lift my head as Cobra passes a joint to me and see our vice president’s truck roll through the gates, pausing in front of the glass enclosure where Mack was killed and his blood remains painted. I inhale the herb, holding my breath to get the most of my high as Blackie finally parks his truck and gets out. Lifting his sunglasses and sliding them on top of his head, he bends down about twenty yards from where we are and begins to move pieces of glass and Sheetrock. He straightens up and appears to be holding something in his hands. What? I have no idea because the sun temporarily blinds me until he’s standing in front of me holding my flag in his hands.

  “Think this belongs to you,” he says, offering me the flag.

  “Shit,” I hiss, taking the worn fabric from his hands, running my fingers over the stars and stripes. After a brief pause, a moment of reflection on what this flag means to me, I lift my head and nod in appreciation to the man who found it for me.

  “This flag survived Afghanistan and now this. It’s indestructible,” I say as I glance down, my hands expertly folding the flag into a triangle, mimicking the one I watched each one of my men’s loved ones receive.

  Tucking the final corner away I offer it to Blackie.

  “Fix this shit, Black. Show every motherfucker from here to the West Coast the Satan’s Knights are just as resilient as that flag.”

  “Deep shit, bro,” Deuce chimes in.

  “And if that’s not enough incentive,” Cobra begins, nudging my shoulder as he points behind Blackie and we all turn our attention across the lot.

  “There’s a man hurtin’ over there that is desperate to make that message clear.” He finishes as we all stare at Pipe. I hadn’t even noticed him creep inside the gates, but now, I can’t tear my eyes off the widower as he solemnly walks over to the slab of wood and what is left of the bar. The very spot we found Oksana and where Pipe held her until the paramedics peeled him off her.

  I watch as he raises a flask to his lips and takes a seat upon the rubble.

  It’s a picture I’m sure I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

  A man sitting on top of the ruins, mourning his wife.

  Blackie turns his gaze back to us and his dark eyes pause on each of us, sending the message we’ve been waiting to hear.

  Whatever it takes.

  However it has to be done.

  We will get our retribution.

  The Satan’s Knights MC isn’t dead

  We’re just getting started.

  Blackie gives us a nod, tucks the flag under his arm and heads toward Pipe. If I had to guess he’s delivering the same message to the man who needs to hear it the most.

  “C’mon,” Cobra says, throwing an arm around my shoulder. “We’ve got a table to find.”

  Message delivered, brother. Message delivered.

  Chapter Eighteen

  We didn’t find the table that day, but we came back every day after and sifted through everything until we did. Five days later we pulled it from deep inside the frame of the clubhouse and loaded it into a cargo van that Cobra and Deuce were using to get around.

  Blackie called church and ordered us to drag our asses to Pipe’s garage. The club owned a nice piece of land two blocks away from the compound, and years ago Pipe and Jack built a mechanic shop on it. Pipe ran it and it was one of the legit sources of income for the club, but now it would also double as our chapel.

  When Cobra pulls into the lot, there’s a flatbed parked right in front of the garage unloading over a dozen brand new Harley’s.

  “Tell me this motherfucker robbed a delivery of bikes,” Cobra mutters as he kills the engine on the cage.

  “Don’t sound so bent out of shape, bro. If one of those bikes has my name on it, I’ll get down on my fucking knees,” Deuce says, sliding open the side door of the van.

  Curiously, we climb out of the van and walk toward Blackie and Riggs.

  “A present from the Bulldog,” Blackie supplies as he hands over a clipboard to the trucker delivering our precious cargo.

  “Guess today is a good day for the Satan’s Knights,” Cobra adds, tipping his chin toward me and Deuce and leads us to the back of the van. We open the doors and pull out the large, splintered slab of wood and prop it against the side of the van. The reaper that Cain and his old man carved by hand on display for Blackie and Riggs to see.

  I wish Wolf was here.

  I make a mental note to pay him a visit and tell him if it wasn’t for him that table probably wouldn’t have been salvageable.

  “We need to put some legs on it and sand this beast down but next time you speak to the Bulldog, tell him we dug his fucking table out of the rubble,” I tell Blackie, trying to act like I’m annoyed but the grin on my face gives me away. Running my hand carefully over the splintered edges an unfamiliar sense of pride runs through me. Something I haven’t felt since I first put on my fatigues.

  “You called church didn’t you?” Deuce asks, reaching behind him to pull the meat mallet from the back pocket of his jeans.

  Yeah, we stopped at Bed, Bath and Beyond.

  And yes, we looked as out of place as a nun at a male revue.

  “It’s not the original, but it’ll do,” he adds, handing the silver mallet with the tags still dangling from the handle to our vice president.

  Blackie smirks as he reaches for the mallet and Riggs leans over his shoulder.

  “That’s it, go on, you know you want to,” he urges, and we all watch as Blackie takes the mallet. Lifting it slightly before slamming the head down against the wooden table top.

  “Let’s tag some toes, motherfuckers,” Riggs cheers.

  I get it now.

  I understand why Wolf came looking for us. I understand the passion I saw in his eyes when he talked about his club and more than that, I feel it.

  The moment is tarnished when the distinct sound of pipes blaring vibrates through us. Instantly, Blackie draws his guns and aims it for the gates. Riggs mimics his stance and it isn’t long before the rest of us are locked and loaded waiting to put a bunch of holes in anyone who dares to fuck with us again.

  The first bike turns into the lot and I spread my legs, shoulder length apart, as I steady my aim but I lift my head when I realize its Pipe leading the pack of motorcycles. He pulls directly up in front of Blackie, drops his kickstand and removes the helmet from his head before he settles his bloodshot eyes on our acting president.

  “Brooklyn, meet Bergen County,” Pipe introduces, diverting his eyes to Blackie’s gun. “Are you going to shoot the men here to help you or are you going to invite them to your table?”

  We keep our guns steady, all except for Blackie who slowly begins to lower his as he turns his attention to the man straddling the Harley next to Pipe. The man wi
th a patch declaring him the president of the Bergen County charter, who goes by the road name of Smoke.

  “Word on the street is there is no Brooklyn charter,” Smoke says, throwing his leg over his bike.

  “Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to believe everything you hear?” Blackie retorts as he tucks his gun into the front of his jeans.

  Smoke shrugs his shoulders as he steps toward Blackie.

  “Better off letting them believe you’re dead that way they don’t expect to see your ghost,” he counters, holding out his hand for Blackie to shake. “Time for you to put the rumors to rest and show everyone what you’re made of, Blackie.”

  Lowering our guns, we watch as Blackie takes the hand Smoke offers and shakes it. Moments later both charters are sitting around Pipe’s garage planning our attack on the Corrupt Bastards. I learn that Jack and Blackie have been meeting on the down low and linked Charlie Teardrops to the G-man, the same man Victor Pastore killed. Jack thinks Charlie was trying to settle the score, knowing most of Victor’s family would be in attendance at his wedding, the bastard figured blowing up the clubhouse was the best way to send his message to both the mob and the Satan’s Knights.

  I’m not sure where that leaves Rocco. If he’s even on Charlie’s radar or not but after this ride Blackie’s planning, Charlie Teardrops won’t be a threat to anyone, not Rocco, nor his sister.

  After the meeting with the club and all the details are ironed out Blackie orders us each to pick out a bike. He gives us two days to do whatever we want, to unwind however we choose, and tells us to meet here on the third day prepared to draw blood and rob teardrops.

  Thinking about how I will spend the next two days, I decide first and foremost I’m going to break in this new beauty of mine and I will break it in with Gina wrapped around my back.

  Yeah, we’re going to ride.

  Me and my pretty girl are going to ride.

  Walking into my office, I kick the door closed and balance on one foot. Slipping off one shoe and then the other before chucking them onto the couch in my office. I spent all day on the trading floor and my feet are killing me. I stare at the mountain of paperwork on my desk, deals and portfolios that all need my attention and groan. Chewing on my lip, I round my desk and plop my ass into my leather chair, pulling open my top drawer and reach for my candy stash.