Rock Bottom

by Manda Mellett

  “You’ll all be wonderin’ why I’ve called you in.” Prez’s voice sounds strained, weary. “Fuck it,” he suddenly snarls. “In all the time I’ve been in this chair I’ve never had to say anything of the sort I’m fuckin’ about to. It fuckin’ kills me, brothers. And this will be hard hearin’ for you all.”

  It’ll be something to do with the Chaos Riders. Have they declared war?

  Suddenly Drummer’s stare fixes on me. Oh shit. No, it can’t be. Can it? It’s too soon.

  “Do you have anything you want to say, Rock?”

  I paste a dumbfounded expression on my face and shrug. “Can’t say that I do.”

  Dollar’s eyes fix on me too. As do all those of the others around the table. I keep myself relaxed to stop shrinking back into the chair as the treasurer starts speaking. “Oh, I think our brother here has plenty to say. And I can well understand why he doesn’t want to say it.”

  Drummer strokes his beard that seems even more flecked with grey today. “You going to come clean, Rock? Can’t see you’ve got an explanation or excuse to offer up. But for all the years you’ve sat around this table, I’m prepared to hear you out.”

  Again, I shrug.

  Prez nods at Dollar, who takes over. “You all recall the two hundred thou Ma, God rest her soul, left us in her will?”

  Everyone nods.

  “We’ve got plans to use that to buy a tattoo shop.” Blade recalls the details. “Road and I have been out lookin’ for premises.”

  “Well you better fuckin’ stop,” Drum snaps. “Can’t buy a business without the funds to do it.”

  Eyes now go to Dollar, who manages the money. I’m also one of those who have knowledge of the accounts. Details shared in case anything happens to the others. “Money’s been taken out of the account. Two hundred thousand dollars.”

  Drum slams his fist on the table. “Mouse might not be here, but I got in touch with him and got him to dig into it. He came up with some interestin’ info. Turns out Rock here has gamblin’ debts. All one hundred and eighty thou of them.”

  “And you used our fuckin’ money to pay them off?” Peg snarls at me down the table. His head moves slowly side to side.

  Beef’s eyes are wide open. “No, Brother. You didn’t.” He too shakes his head. “Tell me you fuckin’ didn’t.”

  I shrug. I can’t contradict what’s been said. I just hadn’t expected it to come out into the open. Not so soon. “I was on a bad roll. My luck’s going to change soon. We weren’t spendin’ it, so I borrowed it.” I look straight at Drummer. “I didn’t steal it, just took it as a loan.”

  Drummer rolls his head back. “Why the fuck didn’t you come to me when you first got into trouble?”

  Again, I raise and lower my shoulders. “Didn’t seem like much. I lost a little, went back to win it. I’m just on a bad losin’ streak. Needed to pay what I owed so they’d let me back in the game. I know what I’m doing. I took the extra twenty so I had a stake…”

  “You fuckin’ thief!” Viper’s moved fast for an old man. He’s around my side of the table and has me by the throat.

  “Sit down, Viper!” Drummer thunders. After punching me in the stomach, hard enough to steal my breath, Viper goes back to take his seat. Once he has, Prez continues. “This will have come as a fuckin’ shock to us all. For one, I would have trusted Rock with my life, let alone my money. Now we’ve got a decision to make.” He shakes his head and seems to age in front of my eyes. “Can’t believe this of you, Rock. But I tell you, it’s fuckin’ serious.”

  Fuck.

  After a very pregnant pause, Drummer instructs, “Joker, escort Rock to the clubroom and get a prospect to stay with him. Rock, you gonna give me your word you’ll not be a problem?”

  I stand, knowing I’ve said all I can. They’re not going to listen to my promise that I can win it all back. Fuck. All I needed was more time. Can’t they understand that? Judged and found guilty, that’s what’s happened here. Now they’ll pass sentence. I send a plea with my eyes to all my brothers around the table, knowing I’m leaving my fate in their hands.

  “I won’t be a problem,” I give to the prez.

  Chapter 4

  Rock

  Like I’m going to stay put like a stupid fuckin’ asshole. I’ll be out in bad standing for what I’ve done. They won’t have a choice about kicking me to the curb. However long I’ve been a member, what they have decided was stealing from the club, and taking away their chance of buying another business is too great a crime for a slap on the wrist.

  No one has to tell me what will happen. I’ve seen it before, though thankfully not often. First they’ll slice my cut into pieces, then, and far worse, they’ll burn my full Satan’s Devils tattoo off my back. If I survive that, no club will ever take me in again. Not unless they want war with the Devils.

  Nah. Only a pussy, or perhaps someone braver, would hang around waiting for that to happen.

  Matt, our newest prospect, and who’s only been here a couple of months, has been called away from his post by the gate. Instead he’s given a different guard duty, and is now warily watching me. Joker issued strict instructions that he wasn’t to let me leave. With Truck, our other prospect, on his firefighting shift, that means my route of escape is unguarded. All I have to do is…

  I settle myself down at a seat by a table. “Any chance of a beer, man?”

  Matt, not knowing why he’s been asked to keep an eye on me, relaxes at my easy approach. “Sure.” As the sweet butts haven’t yet appeared, he leans over the bar to grab a bottle.

  I move fast and have him in a choke hold before he knows it. I’m stronger than him, and he’s yet to muscle up. He fights, but his face goes red. I let him go when he passes out, checking for a moment that he’s still breathing. Killing a man, even a prospect, would mean the Devils would never stop chasing me down.

  Without wasting a moment I take off my cut and disrespectfully throw it down, then I’m outside, astride my bike and walking it down the incline. When I’m far enough away I start my engine, pressing the remote to open the gate and get away cleanly. I’ve escaped.

  I twist the throttle once I’m on the highway, increasing my speed without a clue where I’m going. After a while I pull up and realise I’m shaking.

  I’ve been a Satan’s Devil for sixteen years. I’d signed on in Bastard’s time and escaped being rounded up with the rest of the brothers in the police raid that ended in a blood bath, as I’d been doing a stint in jail for possession. That a patched member had handed me, a lowly prospect, a bag of something which would be a misdemeanour for a man like me with a clean record, but a more serious repeat offence for him, I kept to myself. During those twelve months I kept my nose relatively clean, just bided my time until I was out, my silence earning me a full patch on release. The lesson learned was that I never want to go back to prison again.

  I came out to find a much-changed club. One with Drummer, Bastard’s son, at the helm. Until recently I hadn’t looked back. Now it hits me. What the fuck do I do now? For the first time the enormity of my situation sinks in. It’s not only mental but physical, my body feeling lighter now I’ve left behind the cut which hasn’t been off my back for nearly fifteen years. Already I miss the creaking of the worn leather and the weight across my shoulders. More than that, I feel deeply the loss of the men I called brothers. I shouldn’t be riding alone on the road. I should be sitting around the table with them. Drinking or fucking with Beef. Christ, what a fool I am. How the fuck did I get myself into this mess?

  There’ll be no more sitting around the table. The only thing they’ll be discussing is how to catch up with me and make me take the punishment I deserve. Blade will be sharpening his knives, Wraith and Peg bunching their fists. They’ll all want their turn with me, the turn I denied them by running rather than staying and facing the music. There will never be a way of putting this right. I’ve compounded my crime by escaping.

  I put my hand in my pocket, pull out m
y phone and stare at it. Then, take the sim card out and break it. To be extra cautious, I throw it away. Mouse might not be there, but Drum may be able to get him to track it remotely. Next, I reach for my wallet and peer inside. I’ve got a total of five hundred dollars in cash on me. Feeling glad I don’t trust plastic, as I didn’t have time to detour to my suite to collect clothes or more money, at least it’s something to be going on with. First thing to do is to get to some shady motel where I won’t be asked for ID and can get my head down and start thinking where the fuck I go from here.

  I wouldn’t put it past Drummer to already have people out searching.

  Restarting my engine, wanting to put as much space as possible between me and the compound, I start riding again, going through Tucson and continuing to the southern outskirts, where I turn off the main drag and head on into the area where I know I’ll find somewhere to hole up for a while.

  A motel sign flickering as it attempts to blink vacancies comes into sight. It’s run down with weeds growing in the parking lot. I ride in, pass cash over the counter with no questions asked, take the key and enter my abode for the night. The cover on the bed is dirty. When I strip it off, the sheets underneath at least look clean. Without getting undressed, I lay on the bed on my back, my hands under my head. When moisture appears at the corners of my eyes I’m not surprised. I’ve lost my family. With no blood relatives living, they were like real brothers to me. Beef, of course. I’ll miss him the most. Fuck, the loss of our friendship hurts so much. Then there’s Viper, Slick, even Road and that strange pair, Joker and Lady. FUCK IT! All lost to me now. How could I have been so fucking stupid? So fucking dumb.

  I really hadn’t thought it through what would happen when they found out, or how it would feel. Now I know it’s fucking killing me. I sniff, angrily wiping the tears away. I’m thirty-four years old, a fucking man. Now I’m blubbering like a fucking baby. Don’t look back. Look forward.

  But what the fuck does the future hold? What does it look like? Right now I have no fucking idea.

  They were never going to listen to me. Wouldn’t give me a chance to explain. After all the years I’ve done whatever my president—either Drummer or Bastard before him—had asked, without question. Look where it’s got me. At least I’ve still got the tattoo on my back instead of charred skin. If I’d stayed, that was the least I’d have been left with. And a fuck load of other pain to go with it.

  I’d have given my life for the club… But it was clear they weren’t going to help me out. I could see that in their eyes. A brother in trouble just thrown to the wolves. I could have sorted it. I’d have suggested just a few more goes at the high rollers game and I’d have won the money back. But they hadn’t listened, shown me no support or sympathy, weren’t going to give me a chance.

  Well, fuck’em. It’s me for myself now. Rather than looking at what I’ve lost, the company of those self-righteous pricks, I should look out just for me. For my future.

  I’ll miss riding with my brothers.

  I turn on my side as I think about the last time I was around that table. Not today, but at Friday’s church. Particularly about what Prez—no, not my prez anymore—what Drummer had said about a new club starting up in our territory. It’s somewhere south of Tucson, can’t be far from where I am now.

  A biker can’t just walk in and ask to join a new club. It’s not that easy. I’ve still got my Satan’s Devils’ tat for a start. No club would have me without first checking with Drummer. Then when they discovered the circumstances I’d left in, how I had run instead of waiting to take the punishment that would have been handed out, that would probably have them handing me over to the Devils.

  Unless… What if I could offer them something? Pulling myself into a sitting position, I draw up my legs and place my arms over my knees. If they’re looking to take out the Satan’s Devils, I’ve got something to give them. Something that would be worth one fuck of a lot. Information about the club.

  Could I do that? Betray my brothers? Only…they’re not my brothers anymore, are they? They’re men who hate me. Would probably kill me with no questions asked if they saw me…

  I toss and turn all night, unable to sleep. Instead I try to sift through the thoughts in my head. Foremost, the danger I might be in by approaching the Chaos Riders. I know fuck all about them. They could shoot me on sight without giving me a chance to explain. Is there another option? Could I leave Arizona, try and get in with another club? No, that’s impossible, no one would take in an out-bad member. If I want to ride with brothers, the Chaos Riders are the most likely club to approach. My value to them might get me an in. Then all I’d have to do is prove myself.

  If that’s the route I’m taking, I know it will be a hard road ahead. It won’t even be easy making contact with them. I can’t just saunter into a new club. Mean motherfuckers, isn’t that what Drum had said? They won’t trust me on principle. To stay alive, I should steer well clear. But what other choice have I got? I’ll die anyway. Riding alone would destroy me. Life’s not worth living without brothers. What else can I do?

  When morning comes I rise, get my travel kit out of my saddlebags—which means I can at least brush my teeth—then, sweeping back my hair, look into the mirror and splash cold water on my red-rimmed eyes. Sometime during my restless night the decision’s been made. I’m going to betray the Satan’s Devils.

  Stopping briefly at the nearest mall, I pick up a couple of pairs of jeans, socks, boxers, and tees to tide me over. Eyeing my rapidly depleting funds with disgust, I get back on my bike and kick up the stand with new resolve. No point hanging around. Today’s task, to find where the Chaos Riders are holed up. I eye the sun rising in the sky, knowing there’s a good chance I won’t see it rise tomorrow. A bullet to my head might be the best I can expect by way of welcome. Sure, I’ve got info I’m prepared to give freely, but there’s a strong possibility they’ll prefer to torture it out of me instead. This path I’m taking is risky.

  Before I can find out what greeting I’m going to get, first I’ve got to find them.

  Riding to the area where Drummer had indicated they were located, I pull up at a gas station, and there have my first bit of luck. The attendant divulges the direction bikes seem to come and go in, so I set off, heading further into the outskirts of town, and then out into the desert. I’m almost at the point of turning back when I spot a track off to the righthand side of the road, tyre marks in the sand suggesting it’s used by bikes. Lots of them. As I proceed carefully down the unpaved road my heart is in my mouth, expecting every second the sound of a shot which might be the last thing I hear. My body is taut with tension.

  In the distance an old two-storey farm house comes into sight. Surrounded by saguaro and with an ancient wooden veranda around it, it looks like something out of a Western. But the bikes parked up outside show it’s used now for more modern purposes. Although the location seems idyllic, I can see why they’ve got their eyes on the Satan’s Devil’s compound. It’s not a good defensive position, and they don’t seem to have guards posted. Anyone can approach unhindered.

  Warily, I ride closer, then hear the unmistakeable sound of a bullet entering a shotgun’s breech. Fuck! I am in the Wild West.

  I slow right down. A bullet landing about a foot in front of my bike makes me stop.

  I wait on my bike, my head bent forward. My first job, finding the Riders’ lair, seems to be complete. Doubt enters my mind. That warning shot could be my last chance to turn around. Though I thought I’d come to terms with the notion, suddenly comprehending heading on could mean this is the day that I’ll die, I realise I want to live.

  They’ll be suspicious. They’ll be right too. Perhaps they won’t even ask questions, just shoot. And this time, to kill. I thought I had my whole life ahead of me. I may have thought wrong.

  My internal discussion continues until I pluck up the guts to start moving forward again. As a man appears on the veranda, heavily armed, I reach the point of no return.
One thing’s for certain. There’s no turning back.

  A gun waves at me, and interpreting the action I cut the engine, kick down the stand and get off. I’m not surprised. I wouldn’t let a strange rider anywhere close to our compound. My old compound, that is. The man says something over his shoulder through the doorway. As he turns I see one word on the back of his cut, Prospect.

  It takes a good minute or so until the man standing on the veranda is joined by another of their members. I take a good look at the leather he’s wearing as he waves at me to step closer. He doesn’t appear to be an officer, but he is holding a gun pointed at me.

  “Search him, Squirt,” he instructs the prospect.

  The prospect, who close up looks about sixteen, his face covered in pimples, approaches. He might appear young, but I admire his steely expression, how he gestures, then, when I open my arms, expertly pats me down. He finds everything, lifts my tee to check for a wire, even discovers the gun in my ankle holster. When my knife joins his collection I feel as naked as the day I was born.

  As soon as he’s finished he steps away with my weapons and goes to stand by the other man, awaiting further instruction.

  “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  They know I’m unarmed, so I step forward and hold out my hand. “The name’s Rock.” There’s no point giving him a fake one. I keep my voice confident.

  He disregards my hand. “And?”

  Shrugging, I tell him, “I want to become a member.”

  The man stares, then asks incredulously, “A member of what?”

  I realise I’ve passed no signs. “Of the Chaos Riders.” Again, I keep my voice even. “Heard you were around here.” I point to the prospect. “Reckon I’ve come to the right place.”

  “You might have, you might not. Remains to be seen. Don’t know an MC that you can walk up and just demand to join.”

  I shrug. “Appears that’s what I’m doing.”

  “Just like that?” His eyes go wide, then he starts to laugh. “You might ride a Harley, son, but that don’t make you Riders’ material.”