by Brook Wilder
But she had good memories now. Memories of Joel. Memories of the club, and her friends. And now, memories of the farm. It had been a surprisingly easy thing to buy the farm after Maurice had been arrested. The price had been drastically lowered because of the violent crime that had happened there and Joel had been right about one thing. Selling marijuana legally was a hell of a lot more profitable that selling it illegally.
Joel had loaned her the money to buy the farm and they ran it together now, her and the Dirty Cruisers. Joel was even talking about taking the club straight, although there was some pushback from the rougher members about that. The steady, and impressive, paychecks kept everyone quiet though for the most part.
And she finally got to do what she loved to do. Work with plants. She spent all her days in the greenhouse, or the small research lab they had built on the grounds just adjacent to the office. She didn’t have to worry about rent anymore, about losing her house, or having to work for anyone else.
Carla put the paper weight down just as the door to the office swung open.
“Hey, you ready yet? We don’t want to be late,” Joel walked around the desk until he was facing her, his eyes catching on the paper weight as well before flicking back up to her gaze. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” he asked softly.
“Of course I’m sure. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Carla cleared her desk, rising to her feet at the same time, “Let me just grab my bag and I’ll be ready to go.”
Joel nodded, waiting patiently while she gathered her things. She knew she was stalling and she hated the wave of nerves that washed through her but they didn’t stop her from turning around with a smile and nodding to Joel that she was ready to go.
As Joel got on his motorcycle, and Carla behind him she couldn’t help but think about what was coming. There were so many ways it could go bad. She didn’t even see the beautiful mountains pass by them as her thoughts circled the different scenarios. What if she blamed her? What if she hated her? What if she never forgave her?
Over and over in her head the thoughts tumbled, not stopping until they reached the clubhouse and parked. The lot was packed with various motorcycles and trucks and she could hear the muffled noise already coming from inside. Everyone would be in there. Everyone. And she would have to face them.
“Hey, it’s going to be okay, alright? Better than that. It’s going to be great.” Joel leaned in, one hand cupping her cheek like precious china and gave her a sweet, hard kiss before helping her off the bike and towards the doors.
Before she could say anything to stop him, they were walking inside and Carla made a beeline for the bar.
“Hey, Carla!” Honey’s face broke into a huge grin when he saw her.
“Whiskey. Now,” she whispered fervently, trying to stem her nerves and Honey poured her a glass and slid it over. She took a large sip, coughing slightly at the burn as the liquid went down and only then did she look up and return Honey’s smile, albeit weakly. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe it was a mistake to come here, she thought to herself. But it was too late now.
“So, ah, Carla,” Honey said casually. “About Elle–”
“Not now, Honey. Please?” she begged him and he looked at her face, shrugging but staying silent. She wasn’t sure what had happened between them the night of the showdown with Maurice but something had, and neither was talking about it.
There was a roar through the crowded bar and Carla slowly turned, dreading what was coming next, but it was the last thing she expected. She caught just a glimpse of Hot Wheels’s white blond hair and light green eyes smiling at her a second before the woman was throwing her arms around Carla’s shoulder in a massive bear hug.
Several minutes later she finally pulled back and Hot Wheels gave her a slobbering kiss on the cheek.
“So…you’re not…mad at me?” Carla asked hesitantly and Hot Wheels gave her a confused look.
“Mad?”
“You don’t…blame me? For getting arrested? Because I led Maurice to us?” she finally said, saying the fear that had been with her for the past six months out loud.
“Are you kidding me, sugar?” she asked, incredulous. “I knew the risks. We all did. And Joel filled me in on what happened. Of course I’m not mad, Carla. It was that recording of yours that got me out of prison. And sure, six months was a long time, but I’m back now, and it’s because of you. So don’t think that for a second I blame you for anything, alright?”
Carla sighed in relief at her words, finally letting the last of the weight from that time fade away. Carla smile at her, opening her mouth to speak but Joel’s voice cut across the room. He was walking towards them with a smile shining in his silver eyes.
“Everyone, shut up! I have two announcements to make!” his voice dimmed all the other sound to a muffled rumble. “First, I would like to welcome Hot Wheels back. She is free and we are going to keep her that way!”
There was a roar as everyone started yelling and whistling and Hot Wheels gave them all a good natured middle finger, which only spurred them on more. Joel waved them to silence once more.
“And secondly,” he said, just a few feet away from her now and Carla could see the warmth, the love shining in his eyes. It sent joy shooting through her, “I would like to officially welcome the newest honorary member of the Dirty Cruisers, Bluebird!” Joel held out a leather jacket towards her and she stared at him in confusion.
“That’s you, sweetheart,” he finally explained with a chuckle. Carla looked around at the crew with tears in her eyes as they all cheered and whistled for her now. Never in her life had she ever felt more accepted, or more at home. She had finally found where she belonged. She held out her arms and Joel slid on the jacket with an approving look.
“It looks good on you,” he said roughly and Carla reached up, impulsively kissing him and the crowd roared again at that.
“I love you,” she whispered against his mouth, sighing in utter contentment. She didn’t think she could ever ask for more in her life. That was until Joel replied, his voice soft and sweet and Ernest, barely heard above the ruckus but she felt it move all the way through her to settle in the vicinity of her heart.
“I love you too, Bluebird.”
THE END
OUTLAW’S BABY
CHAPTER ONE
Prescott wished he could remember the exact moment when he realized everything was going to go wrong.
It had all started out innocently enough. He was in the clubhouse with his old man going over the last six months of purchases and shipments they’d made.
“Are you paying attention?” his dad asked.
“What? Yeah,” Prescott said.
“You’d better be. When you’re president, you’re the one who’s going to be taking point on things like this.”
Prescott’s father, Charles Graves, was the president of the Hell’s Reavers motorcycle club. His leather kutte was as old as the club itself. He was one of the founding five. Prescott wasn’t sure the president patch was going to look right on his own kutte. Road captain suited him just fine. But his father had other ideas.
“Due respect, Pop, you’re gonna live forever. I’m not looking to take over as president any time soon.”
Charles laughed, a throaty sound that Prescott found comforting. “You’re going to be taking my place before you know it. These old bones only have a few rides left in them.”
“Whatever you say. Where were we again?”
Charles sighed and shook his head. He pushed the leather-bound ledger he’d been perusing across the table to Prescott.
“Try to spot the discrepancies,” he said. “Someone’s been skimming. I’m just trying to figure out where and how.”
“Isn’t this a job for Hank?” Prescott asked, aware that he sounded like a whiny kid.
Hank was the club’s secretary. He was generally in charge of their finances and making sure that the Reavers were keeping their heads above water.
“It woul
d be a job for Hank,” Charles said, smiling at his son. “But…”
He didn’t finish his thought, leaving it open for Prescott to fill in the blank.
“But… what if Hank did it?”
“Phew,” Charles breathed. “I knew you had to have a couple of brain cells rattling around up there.”
“Fuck off,” Prescott grumbled, but he was smiling. He loved his father’s easygoing nature, the sense of humor that carried him through thick and thin.
“Hank is a good friend,” Charles said, his tone becoming serious. “I don’t want to suspect him, but I can’t call him innocent just because it’d be easier.”
“I get it,” Prescott said, running his finger down the lists of numbers. He grabbed the calculator Charles offered him and started doing some calculations. “The first of every month…” he mumbled.
“There it is,” Charles said.
“Doesn’t amount to much,” Prescott commented. “Few hundred dollars. You think whoever’s doing it is just pocketing a little extra?”
“I did consider Shaft for it,” Charles admitted. “He and Kayla have a second kid on the way. Maybe they need the money.”
“Shaft would never,” Prescott growled, shoving the ledger back over to his father.
Shaft had been Prescott’s best friend since they were both in diapers. Prescott absolutely refused to suspect him of a crime against the club. They both lived for the Reavers.
“Like I said. Hard being president,” Charles said quietly. “But the culprit isn’t necessarily pocketing it. Maybe they’re paying someone off. We can’t know until we figure out who did it.”
“How do you want to play it?” Prescott asked.
His father shrugged. “First of May is only a couple weeks away. We’ve got a shipment coming in on the thirtieth. There’s a good chance we might catch wind of some clues if we just keep our eyes and ears open. And our mouths shut.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I’m serious Prescott. You breathe one word of this to Shaft…”
A knock on the door interrupted him. Charles called for whoever it was to come in, and Hank poked his head inside.
“Sorry to interrupt. Al just got here, says he needs to talk to you.”
Prescott frowned. He didn’t know why, but his gut twisted whenever Smilin’ Al was mentioned, or when he entered a room, or when he spoke.
Or when he smiled.
That smile poured ice into Prescott’s veins.
He’d told Charles about it, but his dad had brushed aside Prescott’s concern. Al was another one of the founding five, had been with Charles and the others from the beginning. Prescott tried to put his fears to rest, but he couldn’t help hating the man. He hated the way he treated the club girls, and especially his smile which seemed to be hiding a dark secret.
“I’ll be right back,” Charles said, pushing himself out of his seat.
Prescott leaned back in his seat and tried not to let his discomfort show. Charles disappeared, leaving him to stew in his thoughts. He tried to consider what Charles had been trying to say about not letting friendship get in the way of being a good leader. Charles and Hank were good friends, yet Charles was willing to admit that Hank might have been stealing from the club. Prescott was sure he could never accuse Shaft of anything like that. Maybe he wasn’t cut out to be president at all.
Charles stayed away for quite a while. When he finally returned, he looked ten years older. His expression was tight, and his eyes seemed to look right through Prescott.
“What happened?” Prescott asked, now on high alert.
“Trouble across the border,” Charles mumbled.
“The Varangians?”
The Varangians were a rival MC from Canada, and had been a thorn in the Reavers’ side for years.
Charles nodded. Prescott waited, but he didn’t offer any more information.
“What’s going on?” he asked finally.
“Al got wind of something going down on Varangian turf. They’re catching some trouble, and Al thinks this would be the perfect time to get in there and take what’s rightfully ours. Establish our territory for good, and move in on theirs at the same time.”
“You don’t think that’s the best move,” Prescott observed.
Charles shook his head. “It’s not the right time, and the Varangians are a minor threat. We shouldn’t be getting mixed up in their bullshit. Not right now.”
“I’ll bet Smilin’ Al loved hearing you say that.”
“He thinks we could expand our reach and our products. Not just guns anymore. Drugs maybe.”
“That’s bullshit. The Reavers move guns. That’s our market.”
“Exactly what I told him,” Charles said, nodding. A spark of approval shone in his eyes, despite his tired expression. “You’ll make a good president, son. I can tell you that for free.”
Prescott shrugged off the comment. He didn’t want to get into this discussion anymore, especially not now when Smilin’ Al was making moves, testing Charles’ authority.
“Dad… I don’t like Al,” Prescott said into the silence. “I know I said it before, and I know you told me to let you handle it, but I can’t. He’s bad news, and I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him.”
“That’s not your call to make,” Charles said, his voice hard. “Al and I both want what’s best for this club. We just have different opinions about what ‘best’ might mean.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Prescott insisted, not dropping the subject. “He’s bad news. I’m worried he’s got something up his sleeve.”
“I’m still club president, right?” Charles said, getting impatient. “You worry what I tell you to worry about. I’ll handle Al and the Varangians. Your only concern should be figuring out how you’re going to run things when I’m gone.”
Prescott could tell he wasn’t going to get anywhere with this argument. Charles was a kind man, but stubborn and hard-assed when he needed to be. Lately he’d been showing the stubborn, hard-ass side of himself a little too much for Prescott’s liking.
Charles sighed and shook himself a little. He got up, walked around the table, and clapped Prescott on the shoulder.
“It’s late, and we’re clearly both tired,” he said to his son. “We can take this up in the morning. Let’s get out of here for now.”
“You’re the boss.”
Prescott stood up and stretched. He followed his father out of the meeting room and into the clubhouse proper, where a couple of the guys were hanging out. Prescott saw Shaft in the corner, drinking a beer, and headed in that direction.
“You and your father have a good talk?” someone asked.
Prescott stopped short as Smilin’ Al himself stepped into his path. He was a big guy, an inch or two taller than Preston, with several rings and tattoos. Surprising no one, he was flashing Prescott a big, shit-eating grin.
From the corner, Shaft glanced over, taking note of the exchange. He stayed right where he was, but Prescott knew he had a friend on his side.
“Nothing important,” he said to Al. “Just father-son stuff.”
“Touching. You guys gonna stick around?”
“We’re heading out actually. I was just gonna say hi to Shaft. You have a problem with that?”
Al made a big show of gesturing Prescott onward and stepping out of his way. Again Prescott was flooded with a feeling of dread. He walked over to Shaft and flopped down on the couch beside him.
“Long night?” Shaft asked.
His friend didn’t look at him. He was watching Al, who was currently speaking in hushed tones with Hank and Charles.
“You have no idea,” Prescott said.
“So tell me.”
“You hear the Varangians are having trouble up north? Al wants to move in on their turf. My dad’s against it.”
Shaft shook his head. “We shouldn’t overreach. Charles is making the better call.”
“I know he is. It’s Al I’m worried abou
t.”
Shaft shrugged. “He’d need a unanimous vote to do anything anyway. As long as you and I are here to say no, who cares what he does?”
“Good point.”
“I know. I was always the smart one.”
Prescott punched his friend’s arm. “I’m heading home.”
“Cool. I should probably do the same.”
They got up together and went to the door. It was pitch dark outside and the April chill helped to wake Prescott up for the ride. Everyone else left the clubhouse with them, and they all swung onto their bikes.