by Kim Jones
“God has decided that I’m not needed in this life anymore.”
“I need you,” I say through my teeth, fighting back the burning that is going on behind my eyes. I know what it is, and because I haven’t felt it in so long, it hurts more. Saylor’s thick walls and peace with the situation are failing. The small amount of sadness I saw in her eyes isn’t so small anymore.
“And you have me.” She is smiling. It’s sad, but it resembles happiness and I don’t see the happiness in this moment. Not one fucking bit.
“You lied to me.” The words hurt more when I say them out loud, and I’m searching for anger to replace pain, but it’s not working. She’s shaking her head, panic welling in her eyes.
“I didn’t know how to tell you. I could never find the right time.” Her words help me find the anger I’ve been searching for. I grab her wrists, pulling her hands from my face and pushing her away. She reaches for me and I step back. I don’t want her touching me. I don’t want to look at her. All her actions make sense now. She isn’t a heartbroken woman with a broken past; she is a dying woman that wanted to live on the wild side and mark biker off her bucket list before it was too late.
“You used me.” I’m whispering. The realization of being a pawn in her fucking sick game of limited life did more than slap me in the face. It ripped out my fucking heart. Maybe the next time she prays, she should ask God to shed some mercy on her soul. Because it’s gotta be pretty twisted to allow her to do what she’s done to me.
“I never used you, Dirk! I love you!” Her desperate cries would hurt me, if she hadn’t made me so numb.
“You love me?” I can’t hide the shock in my voice. I should have known love was a fucked-up thing. Black actually did do something for me. He shielded me from the one thing that could hurt me more than anything else. Fucking heartbreak.
“Dirk, please don’t hate me. I need you.” Hate her? I could never hate her. But I had to leave. She knew that.
I find my voice, laced with as much malice and ice I can find. I’m digging into the deepest, darkest, most tainted part of my soul to tell her the last words I ever want her to hear me say.
“Out of all the endless hours I’ve spent with you. All that fucking time and not once you could tell me? You should have told me before I ever let you into my life. I gave you everything and what are you giving me? A six-month notice that what I thought I’d waited my whole life for was going to die?”
I’m not angry at Saylor, but I know I’m taking my frustration out on her. It’s not her fault this is happening. But who else can I blame?
“I need you, Dirk.” I shake my head at her words, wishing I could forget everything.
“I have to go, Saylor. I have a job to do.” I grab my bag and turn to leave. I was a fool. A fuckup. I knew she was too good to be true. I don’t deserve her. I never did and now the universe is proving it. So I do the only thing I know how to do. I run.
“Will you be back?” Her sweet voice hits me right in the chest.
“I just need some time.”
I chance a look back at her, wanting nothing more than to hold her in my arms. I step closer, allowing her scent to engulf me. When I’m close enough, I lean down and kiss her head. I’m giving her the only thing I have left. A good-bye and words that I’ve vowed never to say, but have spoken twice to her. “I’m sorry, Saylor.” Because that doesn’t seem to be enough, I wait until I’m on my bike before I whisper the words she will never hear. “Good-bye.”
—
“Whiskey,” I snap to the Prospect whose lack of eye contact and silence are the only things keeping him alive. For some reason, they put this new blood behind the bar in Houston. I guess they thought it was a good way to break him in. If he could survive me after the shit mood I’ve been in the past week, he could survive anything.
Roach called yesterday telling me that we needed to make a move on Death Mob. It seemed they wanted more of Texas than what we were willing to give. My job was to ask them to leave. I knew it wouldn’t turn out good and Roach did too, but he considered me trained enough to handle it. And I would. Alone. I dared a motherfucker to try and take me out. If I went, I’d take a hell of a lot of ’em with me. Life wasn’t that great these days anyway.
Death Mob didn’t have the relationship with Dorian that Sinner’s Creed did, but Cyrus had a lot of reach. He had several connections in his pocket, and word on the street was that he was sniffing around about our business with Mexico. That wasn’t good for us, but it sure as hell wasn’t good for him.
I finished off the bottle of whiskey, letting it numb the pain I still had in my chest over her—the one whose name we don’t speak. My anger turned to resentment, my resentment turned back to anger, and when I couldn’t find things to get pissed off at anymore, I became sad. That’s where I am now. Fucking sad. Heartbroken. Crushed. Devastated. All those fucking words that express that dying feeling inside of you. It’s more painful than being shot, stabbed, and beaten to a pulp. I’ve experienced all three and none of them can compare to this.
When I walk outside, silence descends and it is a sure giveaway that I am the topic of conversation. But nobody attempts to stop me or say anything. Roach had given them strict orders to let me handle shit. He had put his faith in me this long; there was no sense in doubting me now. When I mount my bike, I look over to find Shady sitting on his, putting his helmet on. I just glare at him. My look speaks more volume than my words.
“Brothers for life. Ride or die. I’m ya boy blue. All that shit,” he says, slapping his chest and throwing up what I’m guessing are gang signs. I don’t need his help, or his love and loyalty. I need his respect. And right now, he needs to respectfully stay the fuck outta my way.
“Don’t.” My one-word warning does nothing. I’m gonna have to fight this asshole.
“Look, man, I push papers. Let me do something,” he says, his voice exasperated. He knew this fight was coming. Paper pusher my ass. Shady has fought plenty of battles. He is sick with a gun. But, if he thinks he is gonna make me feel like shit and I’m gonna cave, he’s wrong. I’m much better at fucking with people’s heads than he is.
“Just what I need. Some-fucking-body else using me to get their thrills.” He knows what I mean and the remorse is on his face. Good. I’ll guilt his ass into staying and save my strength for Death Mob.
I close my shield and tear out, leaving a cloud of dust behind me. When it clears, Shady’s bike comes into view in my mirror. I should have fucking known.
16
IT’S SATURDAY NIGHT at Juke’s Joint and the bar is crowded with Death Mob. More members are pouring in from other states and like Roach said, they’re showing their teeth. And of course, ours are bigger. Only a few cars are out front, which tells me that the only citizens are the people working. They know enough by now to keep their mouth shut. If they don’t, I’ll remind them.
Shady pulls in next to me and I’m sure he is gonna say something stupid to really piss me off. I’m surprised when he doesn’t. I look over at him and his face says he’s ready. Kill-mode ready.
Inside, it’s the typical late-night pool hall. A heavy cloud of smoke hangs in the air, the lighting is dim, and the place smells like beer and piss. I do a quick count and I see seventeen patches. That’s two more than the bikes outside. So either someone is riding bitch or one of the three cars in the parking lot belong to Death Mob.
Behind the bar, a young girl and an older man are working. The owner and a barmaid. That accounts for the other two vehicles. Shady goes to the bar and orders a beer, then says something to the owner, who looks over at me, then nods and steps in the back, taking the barmaid with him.
Only a few noticed when we walked in, but we now have everyone’s attention. Metallica’s “Sad But True” is the only sound, and I can’t keep thoughts of her out of my head. I walk to the jukebox and unplug it from the wall, thinking that it would probably make me feel better if I just smashed the fucking thing in.
The crowd has gathered closer to me, hovering around a pool table, almost closing me in a corner. Good. I like fighting my way out. I put eyes on Shady, who is still at the bar, drinking his beer as if it’s just another Saturday night. He is watching, but doesn’t look the least bit worried. The SA steps forward. I should have known his big ass would be the first one to say something. I’m glad. I like him least anyway.
“I like that song.” Really, motherfucker? That’s the best intimidating line you got? Idiot.
“We think it’s about time y’all get outta Texas,” I tell him, hoping like hell that he takes another step so I can break his fucking legs.
“We?” I hate when they try to play calm. What I want to say is, Control your fucking breathing, dick, then you might actually convince me that you ain’t scared. But I don’t. I let him know so that there is no misunderstanding.
“Sinner’s Creed Nationals. They’ve sent me to ask you nicely to leave. You have your territory and we have ours. We don’t fuck with the northeast and y’all don’t fuck with the southwest. That’s the rules. If you want to expand your business in Arkansas or Louisiana, we can negotiate that territory. But Texas is covered.” That’s how you play calm, and my words are as smooth as satin. I promised to be nice, but only once.
“Sent you to ask us nicely, huh?” He nods his head, looking around the room at his brothers, who all stand stock-still. They’re glaring at me with their arms crossed over their chests. It looks like a scene in an action movie. If I were a laugher, this would be one of my shining moments. When I look over at Shady, he is smiling, fighting hard not to laugh. He sees it too. “So we can stay in the northeast, and we can negotiate for Arkansas and Louisiana, just not Texas.” That’s what I said, dipshit.
“That’s right.” There’s your confirmation, motherfucker. Now, start swingin’ or get the hell out.
“I’ve heard about you, Dirk, but you don’t know shit about me. So, let me enlighten you on something. I don’t just tuck my tail between my legs and run. Regardless of what y’all think, Sinner’s Creed don’t run shit. Now, why don’t you turn around and walk outta here, before your little brother over there has to spend the next few weeks spoon-feeding you.”
I’m ready to put his head through the pool table when I’m caught off guard by Shady’s commotion. When I see him make a dramatic scene trying to get over to me, I know his sarcastic, smart-ass, goofy fucking tactics are fixing to have us brawling. And I can’t fucking wait.
“Dirk! Dirk!” Shady is serious as fuck, pushing his way through the crowd toward me. He’s made a huge circle through all of them, shouting my name and mumbling excuse mes like he is trying to prevent me from doing something stupid.
“One minute,” he mouths to the SA, who looks just as confused as everyone else. Shady grabs my arm and turns me so that my back is to the group. I fight hard not to push him away, but I know there is an underlying meaning to his ridiculous fucking behavior.
“Six are packing heat, others just knives and wrenches. Dude in the back, far left, has a couple of broken beer bottles. I don’t know about SA, couldn’t get my hands on ’em. I got one in the chamber, ten in the clip and a .380 on my ankle.”
He pauses long enough to look at me, and the excitement dancing in his eyes has me smirking for the first time in days. “If it turns into a gunfight, I can get us out the door, but we gotta leave on foot. That’s plan A.” He looks back and I glance over my shoulder, watching as he holds his finger up before turning back around.
“Plan B, we leave alive and come back later. Do it the smart way where the odds aren’t so against us. Your call, brother. I’m down for whatever.” And he is.
If there was a shoot-out tonight, chances were two of the bodies on the floor would be ours. I’d let my personal shit interfere with my club life, and now a brother’s life was at risk. So was my club. If a war broke out between Sinner’s Creed and Death Mob, Dorian would come knocking on our door. We couldn’t afford the heat with the Underground. I couldn’t disrespect my patch. I couldn’t shame my club. And I couldn’t bury Shady with his blood on my hands.
“Plan B,” I say, and no sooner than the words are outta my mouth, the SA is talking. By the time he speaks the first word, I know our plans are about to change.
“Saylor Samson. Maybe you should just run on home to her. From what I hear, she needs you right about now. She sure is sweet too. She tastes just like oranges.”
I’m still turning around when Shady makes his first move and puts a bullet right between the eyes of the SA. Guns are drawn and shots are fired in a matter of seconds. I duck behind the jukebox, using it as my shield as Shady finds cover behind the pool table across from me.
When I hear the first click of an empty clip, I nod and Shady fires over his head while I stick mine out and focus on the remaining targets. I pump two shots into one of them while Shady’s reckless aim, used only for a distraction, drops three and has the remaining diving for cover. He keeps shooting while I reload, then stand, exposing myself, dropping two more while making my way to where Shady is.
The sound of Velcro while Shady unstraps the gun from his ankle is the only noise in the room. I only have a few rounds left, but I slide out the clip and push it back, making it sound like a full reload.
“Ready?” I ask Shady, my hushed word barely audible over the pounding of my heart in my ears.
“Yeah.”
I nod and we stand together, guns drawn, and face a room with several sets of hands in the air.
“Stand up,” I command, and they do without hesitation. They look like they are ready to die, their chins held high in the air with pride written on their faces. Shady scans the bodies on the floor, looking for signs of life and not finding any. I see legs moving behind a table and jerk my head for Shady to check it out.
“Gut shot. He might live.” For the first time, I realize the president and vice president are not here. And four of the five standing are Prospects. I look around the room and find that almost all the bodies on the floor are wearing brand-new patches. Their leather isn’t worn, their threads aren’t dirty, and none of their faces match the ones from the other night—other than the SA.
“What’s his rank?” I ask Shady, who pushes the man to his side despite his painful cries.
“Patch holder.”
“What’s his chances?” I hear the man yell in protest as Shady checks him out.
“Aw shit, he’s good. Lost some blood, but it didn’t hit nothing important. You want me to finish him?” Shady’s nonchalance shouldn’t be comforting, but it is.
“Nah,” I say before turning my gun on the only patch holder standing and put a bullet through his skull. The pride the Prospects once wore is diminishing now that they are looking at what could be their final moment. I should fuck with them, but I won’t. They’re almost innocent. It pisses me off that none of them were packing. Their sponsor probably told them they couldn’t carry.
“Turn around,” I demand, and the lip of one begins to quiver as he obeys. I walk around them so I can look into the face of the wounded man on the floor. “Why are they prospecting when you have been handing out patches to everyone else?” He hesitates to answer and Shady puts the toe of his boot in his side. He yells and when Shady releases it, he starts talking.
“They didn’t come from an MC. The only way you can roll up without prospecting is if you came from a three-patch MC.” His information isn’t enough to betray his club, but if he answers my next question, that information will.
“Why are you building an army?” Silence. Just as I had predicted. He was loyal to a degree, at least. When Shady pushes against his side again, he talks but it’s not what I want to hear. I predicted that too.
“Fuck you! I ain’t saying shit!” he screams at Shady, who looks at me. I shake my head, a move I’ve grown accustomed to here lately.
“You’re gonna talk, but it ain’t gonna be to us. You seem like a smart man, so I’m only gonna say this once. If you
fuck it up, your wife and kids will be getting a visit from us. If you don’t have a wife and kids, we’ll get your mother, your father, your grandma, your exes, fucking mailman . . . something. We will find your weakness and we will torture them in front of you. If y’all been talking about me like I think you have, then you know I don’t make idle threats. Your SA made this shit personal. And he fucking paid for it. This wasn’t an act of Sinner’s Creed. It was an act of Dirk. You tell them that. If you wage a war with our club, you will lose. If the club wants to retaliate, tell them to bring all they got to me, I’ll be waiting.”
I turn back to the Prospects, who wear a look that tells me they are fixing to puke or cry. “When they ask you, and they will, you better let them know what that motherfucker said to me about my ol’ lady. Remind them of the uninvited visit they paid to property of Sinner’s Creed. If you don’t, it’ll be your door I’m knocking on.”
I gauge their reactions and find the one that looks the most guilty. I put my gun behind my back and step up to him, his forehead only a couple of inches from my nose.
“Saylor,” I say, the name burning the back of my throat like a fucking torch. His eyes widen and I know he knows something. “How do you know her?”
The man on the floor starts to say something, but Shady silences him. “Don’t lie to me. I really don’t want to kill you.”
He looks nervously over at the pool table, knowing that although he can’t see the man, he will know him by his voice. “Shady, explain to our friend over there what’s gonna happen if he or any of his brothers puts a hand on one of these Prospects.” I can hear Shady’s muffled voice and the man’s low cries. He won’t touch him. “Talk.”
“I don’t. I was told to follow her and I have been. She goes to this clinic and the club found out she was sick.” He pauses and I know it pains him to say it, but not as much as it’s gonna pain me to hear it. “She’s dying.” The sadness in his eyes is real. And I wonder if he has ever encountered Saylor, or if he is affected by her from a distance.