Tread: Biker Romance (Ronin MC Series Book 1)

by Morrow, Justin

  He continued. “The old timers want Mac to continue runs. I talked to them about it. That’s what they want. I know they’ve been there and done that but everyone is different, and my experiences downrange aren’t the same as Macs. I don’t know what he went through.” He looked to Hendrix and snapped his fingers. Hendrix stuck his head out of the door.

  A prospect entered the room stumbling, clearly drunk. He carried with him a case of beer and set it in the middle of the table.

  “Call it a night, guy,” VP told him and pointed out the door.

  “It’s uh, Dale, sir,” The ’spect spoke back.

  “It’s uh . . . it’s uh a fuckin ass beatin’ if you don’t take your happy ass to bed. Shut your fuckin’ cock holster,” Royal said angrily.

  The prospect seemed to melt with embarrassment, as if we’d just taken his blank cut or something.

  “All right, without any fuckin’ interruptions, Hendrix. Tell us about the night ya’lls platoon sergeant died. Make me understand.”

  Royal twisted the top off two fresh beers, slid one to Heni then took a large pull of the other before setting it down in front of him. With his elbows on the table, he stared at Hendrix, his hands interlaced in front of his mouth.

  “VP, come on, that’s some serious shit.”

  Royal’s gaze was solid. Hendrix started shaking his legs, his eyes wide now as he fumbled in his pocket to retrieve his glass pipe and a fresh ounce of weed. He packed one and hit it twice, eviscerating both his beer and his packed bowl. He cracked out another beer and brought his hollow gaze to the wall again.

  “All right, so we all know that Mac was tight with our platoon sergeant.” He stuttered, starting to choke back a hint of pain.

  “No, we don’t. Explain it,” I said, leaning forward, breaking Hendrix’s connection with the wall and meeting his gaze.

  “All right, all right, all right.” Hendrix was getting skittish. “It started when we showed up at the unit. We had our BDUs pressed and ready, fresh jump wings sewn on our uniforms, the whole deal. We got into the training room, were processed, and I guess the fuckin’ platoon sergeants smelled fresh meat and came for supper.” He took a swig.

  “So they started bustin’ our balls and shit. Cherry this, cherry that. Then there was Sergeant Norse. He walked in while we were doing flutter kicks and eyed us, finally saying, ‘These fuckin’ cherries our mine.’ And the other platoon sergeants just stared at him while they left.” Hendrix lit a cigarette and took a hard drag as he leaned back in his chair.

  “Sergeant Norse was the man. He smoked the fuck out of us, taught us everything from demo to battle drills. Then he would have us over for like, Thanksgiving and shit. Always having cookouts and drinkin’ Kraut brews. His wife was nice, and never gave a shit about how much we drank at her house. Hell, she was usually just as wasted. They would talk to us about the hard times they had during past deployments and warned us to be careful what we wished for with this one. Apparently, Sergeant Norse was having issues with losing one of his soldiers a couple years ago. Sometimes we’d be drunk, smoking cigars, and Sergeant Norse would just stare into the fire we made, all lost and shit.” Hendrix choked again.

  “All right, so Sergeant Norse was like Mac’s pops out in Germany. Home away from home, right?” Alt asked. “I get that.”

  Hearing Sergeant Norse’s name took me back. Everyone and everything drained out of the room as I recalled my own history. I remembered standing at his death ceremony at Forward Operating Base Airborne. When I walked up to that Soldier’s Cross, an M4 with dog tags hanging on the handgrip and a helmet set on top, I gave Sergeant Norse the most crisp salute I could muster. I quickly swiped away a tear on the way down, made my proper left-face turn, and moved out.

  Outside of the gym where the ceremony was held, I was smoking a cigarette, listening to some of their platoon mates tell their version of the story. They portrayed Mac as a hero. Apparently, their medic triggered a dismounted bomb and was vaporized, but his platoon sergeant got fucked in the explosion. He had no legs.

  Mac went all badass, shot some jibs, pulled Sergeant Norse back, and treated him. They medevac’d Sergeant Norse but he didn’t make it. He flat-lined on the way to the combat surgeon.

  DOA . . . Dead on arrival.

  I hated this shit. I didn’t want to be here for this conversation. I didn’t want to start going there with my own shit, too. This was why I couldn’t go to group back in Germany. I got almost as fucked up hearing other peoples stories as I did reliving my own.

  Hendrix’s voice was watered down in the background. I couldn’t listen to it. I couldn’t go there. I couldn’t. It was about Mac right now, and the fucked up spot his head was at.

  “All right, Hendi, thanks.” Royal held up his head, noticing how uneasy everyone seemed. “Look, fellas, some of the choices we make in church . . . well, I think they need further debate. Just between the second gen.” He looked around the room, his palms flat on the table for effect, “That’s why I called this, and why I’m going to call a meet shortly after, every time we go to church. We’ll call it . . . fuck, I don’t know . . . choir practice.” He smirked, earning one from everyone else.

  “You got it, VP,” Alt said, putting his hand on Hendrix’s shoulder to give it a shake before standing up to leave the room.

  “Yeah, you got it, VP,” Hendrix parroted as he fucked with his bowl and weed as he walked out.

  “You know what this means?” I sparked a cigarette. I had some words for my VP once we were alone. “You know what this’ll do to the club if the old timers found out.” I added.

  “Yeah, I do, and I got a plan for that,” Royal explained. “I’m not undermining church at all. I just want to brainstorm afterwards.”

  “You got it, VP. I ain’t gonna say shit. Is Mac coming to the next one?” I jested.

  “Yeah, if that bastard can stay sober enough.” He chuckled dryly and stood up.

  I followed him out of the room.

  THE NEXT DAY WAS THE brightest fucking day on the face of the earth. Coming out the old timey hotel that we used for a clubhouse, I felt like I was staring into the damn sun. Holding my palm out and in front of my face, I blocked the blinding light. I lit my morning cigarette, as always, and trotted over to the saloon to escape B.O.B.—Bright Orange Ball, the fucking morning asshole.

  Inside, the saloon was dimly lit, and I was stumbling over shit as my eyes adjusted. I noticed the new girl from yesterday was behind the bar working the coffee. Taking a seat in my favorite chair at the bar, I asked politely, “Heyah . . . yen . . . cof . . . coffee . . . yea. Thanks, miss.”

  “Have a little hang over?” she asked.

  “Yup.”

  “Here, I found some ibuprofen under the bar.”

  She slipped me four pills that I popped into my mouth, washing them down with perfect, scalding hot coffee.

  “Thanks, love. What do they call you ’round here.”

  I expected to hear some stupid made up name: Lexi, Cherry, Sherry, Ivana, or some dumb shit.

  “Grace.”

  Nice, but was it fake?

  She was nervous. I could tell by the way she retreated back to the coffee maker and held her back to me like I was going turn her to stone with my gaze. Not the usual Soiled Dove I’d gotten used to. I wasn’t attracted to that past the second I got off.

  This girl took herself too damned seriously. A waste, if you ask me. I wasn’t tryin’ to live that life, at least when we weren’t talking about war and brothers.

  “Mac,” I whispered, flashing back to the conversation last night as I searched the room for him. Alt was off by the pool table watching news and eating pancakes. Other than that, the room was empty.

  “Is Veesa back there, Grace?” I threw the name out with a slight amount of discontent. This chick wouldn’t do, even though I liked the taste of her name on my lips. She reminding me of a scared little mouse I wanted to stomp.

  “Yeah, do you need something?”


  Even the G at the end of somethin’ was pissin’ me off.

  “Yes, please. I would love for you to ask Veesa to make me the breakfast scramble, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

  I pulled my hand back on its wrist and flung out my pinkie, mocking her uppitiness, plastering my prettiest fuck-you smile on my face.

  “Okay.”

  She seemed perplexed. There was no way she didn’t realize she enunciated every fucking syllable. Curling my hand around my coffee, I took a look over my shoulder at Alt.

  “Mornin’, brother. How’s the cakes?”

  He couldn’t respond with his mouth that full, instead lifting his coffee over his head and moaning something through his food before returning his attention back to the news. If you could call that news. I don’t know why, but Alt had always had a thing for “Good Morning America” like he needed to know the weather in Seattle or some shit.

  “So what were you lookin’ for in my garage?” I turned my attention back to the object of my aggression. My temperature was rising, probably over halfway due to the hangover, but this chick wasn’t helping. “You got some kind of porn fetish?” I tossed out just to see her feathers ruffle.

  “No. Marley told me to go in there and look for a chart.”

  “Ooooh, Marley told you, did she? What did you need the part chart for?”

  “To see why you guys are charging me five thousand dollars to fix my stupid car.”

  She was getting frustrated, and I loved it. I wanted to poke and prod until she flipped. It had been awhile since I’d gotten to do the passive aggressive thing.

  “Five thousand bones, huh? You got that much?”

  “No, I don’t.” She blushed. No, no, Grace. I need you peeved. Not shamed, honey.

  “So how you gonna pay for it? You turnin’ tricks around here, Grace? What’s your angle?”

  Leaning back, I eyed her for the first time now that my eyes fully adjusted to the light. Behind my bar was a plain-Jane, spring chicken. She must have been eighteen? Nineteen? She didn’t wear makeup, which was about the only perk, but she dressed like a 1960s librarian. Read: Not the hot kind.

  “Tips? I’m helping Kit with the bar.”

  “HA!” I slammed an open palm on the bar top, making her jump. “Doll face, you’re not gonna get shit for tips dressed like that.”

  I purposefully eyed her up and down. She wore a plain, white button up shirt. Not form fitting at all. And what was this? Baggy khaki pants? The fuck? Then it hit me, the thing that could go fuck itself the most about what she was wearing.

  Fucking flats.

  “Wow, did you start dressing like that after graduating from the University of the Dewey Decimal System?” I stroked the beard at my chin as I pondered.

  “What are you talking about?” She put her little hands on her hips, finally giving shape to the tent she probably called a shirt.

  I dropped my hand to the bar, my watch ringing out a sound that punched me straight between the eyes. “Doll, you look like you just got your doctorate in librarian studies and they shoved the diploma up your ass. Is it comfortable?”

  “My clothes? Yeah, I guess so.”

  “No. The diploma.”

  I couldn’t help but chuckle. This girl had no clue. What was she even doing here? She was going to get fried if she stuck around. Literally, her pale skin would sear in the New Mexico sun. I checked her out for the third time as she was bringing me my food.

  She did have a figure on her, though. Her hips swayed from side to side as she walked, the tent catching on her ass. The bounce in her step was so prim, so proper. It wasn’t lazy and bow legged like all the dirty bitches I’d been with in this town.

  I didn’t know what to make of it. As I ate Veesa’s badass breakfast, I kept eyeing the lamb chop in front of me. Back and forth behind the bar, she poured cups for my brother’s coming up in droves. I wouldn’t let her catch me watching her. I knew I made her feel uncomfortable and didn’t want her burning anyone.

  Who the hell was she? She wasn’t from around here, that was for fucking sure.

  After I finished, I grabbed my coffee cup. I was about to steal the TV from Alt.

  Oh yeah, I had to tip. I gave her a lot of shit, and she hadn’t broken. I slipped a twenty under my plate, then reconsidered. Pulling the twenty back, I left a ten instead. I chuckled on the way to the TV. I’d meant what I said. She wasn’t going to get a single fucking tip dressed like that. I’d better not get the girl’s hopes up.

  “Move over, fucker. Your show’s over. Time for some Looney Tunes.”

  I nudged Alt as I sat too close to him. He pushed me away, so I hopped up on his lap.

  “Come on, bro, snuggle huddle.”

  “Fuck off, ya weirdo.”

  I moved over and lit a cigarette. Tom and Jerry lit the screen and I relaxed, letting the greasy food cure me of my woes.

  About the time the Jetsons came on, a light burst into the saloon, causing a kneejerk reaction that got me to my feet and facing the door. A tall figure barged in, long hair, tight pants. It was a lady for sure. The figure slammed the door and as my eyes adjusted, I came to realize who had barged in.

  “What the fuck, Tatum? You know you got vets in here, right?” I scowled.

  “It’s Kit,” was all she said as she stormed in my direction. “I need you to go over there and check on her.”

  “What do you mean? Benny and Kale are on babysittin’ duty,” I explained, then called over my shoulder, “It was Benny and Kale, right, Alt?”

  “Dunno,” Alt replied nonchalantly, apparently chalking this up to women craziness and went back to the Jetsons.

  “No.” Tatum grabbed ahold of my arm and pulled me close to whisper in my ear, “Her fuckin’ car is gone. Benny and Kale weren’t there when I went to pick her up. No one was.”

  “Who slammed my g’damned door! I swear someone’s about to get a broken neck.”

  A grumpy Harvey stomped down the stairs. He was clearly hung over, keeping his shades down indoors. I turned to Harvey then back to Tatum. She was staring a hole through my head like she wanted me to do something. Oooh, that was what she wanted me to do.

  “Mornin’, boss man. Everything’s good. Klutz here lost her grip on the door and it slammed the wall.”

  “All right, all right.” He waved us off. “But next time, doll face!” He jokingly shook his fist and smiled slightly. “Veesa! Gimme the scramble, pretty please!”

  “You got it, Harvey.”

  “And good morning, new Dove. I heard you had a little run-in between a Hyundai and a custard stand. Musta been rough?”

  I could see Grace from where I stood, see the whites in her eyes as they bulged. I knew I better intervene.

  “Hey Harvey, new girl can’t pay the tab on the Hyundai. Hell, the repairs alone are worth more than the car. Cracked block.”

  “Well, what are we gonna do? We can’t just make her walk to . . . Where are you headed again, doll?”

  Tatum squeezed my arm.

  “Hey, Harvey, I’m goin’ out for some . . . fish . . . tacos? Do you want any?”

  Harvey spun on the stool to look at me.

  “Fish tacos at ten in the damn mornin’? In New freakin’ Mexico?”

  Shit.

  “Yeah, Prez.” I smiled. “When the craving hits you, it hits you.”

  He turned back to the bar and my arm was squeezed again.

  “Smooth,” Tatum mumbled under her breath.

  “Sorry, long night.”

  I strolled out the front door with Tatum not too far behind me.

  “Call me and let me know as soon as you get there.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Don’t you ‘mom’ me, boy!”

  I hopped in my ‘69 Corvette that I hadn’t driven in a good while and roared out of town.

  On the road, my mind wondered what had Tatum all worried. The club didn’t have hard feelings with anyone right now, so it couldn’t be a kidnapping. Where were fucking Be
nny and Kale? They had better be dead if they weren’t physically with Kit when I found her. Those drunken fucktards were batting a thousand for fuck ups lately.

  I made the turn down Kit’s row. It was a small neighborhood with plenty room between houses. If suburbs didn’t make me sick, I wouldn’t mind living out here. It was upscale but not yuppie-scale. Kit’s place was in the back corner.

  I pulled into her driveway, only seeing one bike, and it didn’t belong to Benny or Kale. Heads were going to roll back at the clubhouse. Kit’s truck wasn’t there and the door hung wide open. I killed the motor and coasted the rest of the way up the drive. I stopped the car and popped out as quiet as I could. Drawing my gun, the barrel trained on the open door, I stole peeks into the windows but all was dark inside. I rotated around the doorway bit by bit, trying to see the intruder without entering the front door. Nothing.

  Pressing onward, I used my non-shooting hand to push the door slightly. Stepping in, I swiveled around the doorway to the right as smooth and fast as I could. The dining room was clear, so I made my way into the kitchen, trying to systematically clear the house in a counterclockwise pattern.

  Kitchen was clear. As I looked around the wall of the kitchen, I acquired a target. He was sitting on the couch with his hat on backwards. I edged a little closer. It was Royal. Come to think of it, I should have just looked closer at the damn bike outside. I eased behind him and saw he held a piece of paper.

  “Hey, bro, what’re you doin’ here alone?”

  Dude didn’t even jump. I walked around the side to see Royal had a serious expression, coupled with a blank stare.

  “You all right?”

  “She’s gone,” he finally replied.

  “Who, Kit? Where did she go? What does the note say?”

  “She got a job. Packed her shit and split.”

  “Where are Benny and Kale?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Those fuckin’ guys, man. What’s the damn note say, already?”

  “She got a goddamned job, just like I said.”