by Chiah Wilder
“I’m not working and Andrew is still acting up. He needs to see a therapist to help him with any unsolved issues he has. The school has recommended it many times.”
“Fuck, woman,” he hissed, then stormed out the French doors, shutting them behind him. The chilly air made his eyes water. Taking out a joint, he cupped his hand around it and lit it. Inhaling deeply, he held in the smoke and then slowly exhaled, releasing some of the tension in his body. He had to calm down before Andrew got home so he wouldn’t do something he’d regret.
Staring at the snow-covered grass, his mind floated back to his childhood and the beatings his father had given him and his siblings. I don’t want to raise my hand to Andrew. I promised myself I’d never do that to any of my kids. Why can’t I control him? I’m the club’s sergeant-at-arms, yet I can’t do shit with Andrew.
The door opened behind him, and he stubbed out his roach with the toe of his boot. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Clotille come outside, zipping her jacket up to her chin.
“You know, asking for help is neither a sign of weakness nor a sign you’re throwing in the towel. It’s simply another path to finding a solution,” she said softly.
Clenching his teeth, he stared straight ahead without answering.
“We need to be honest with ourselves and with Andrew. He has to know that we’re not perfect parents and we’re scared we’re losing him. We have to tell him we worry and feel inadequate as parents.”
“There’s no fuckin’ way I’m saying that,” he gritted.
“Anger is a part of him and a part of you, and we have to go beneath it. Your dad was always mad, never taking the time to listen to you, and you resented it like hell. My mother was the same. Your dad and my mom only knew how to communicate with their hands, and anger was the only emotion they ever showed us. I remember how I adored my dad and always responded so positively to him. I know you had the same experience with your mother. We can’t fuck this up. We have to be better than your dad and my mom. And maybe we don’t know how to be that way because our childhood was fraught with anger, beatings, and no communication. My mom never listened to me, and it made me feel shitty and unloved.”
“There’s no damn way Andrew doesn’t know we love him.” He didn’t turn to look at her, but he heard her footsteps clack on the stone patio.
“He does, but he thinks you’re unapproachable and I take your side all the time.” She wrapped her arms around his waist. “And that’s a horrible feeling for a teen. It’s hard being a teenager. We have to put ourselves in his shoes. And we have to figure out why he’s skipping school and acting out. We need to find the source of his behavior. Right now, all we’re doing is treating the symptoms by punishing and lecturing him, and it’s not working.”
Rock leaned back against her and placed his hands on hers. “Fuck. I thought if I was the opposite of my old man, everything would be great with me and Andrew. It’s hard to think I fucked this up when all I’ve been doing is trying to be the best dad I can.”
“And you are an amazing dad. Don’t think you’re not. And you haven’t fucked anything up. It’s challenging to be a parent, especially of a teenager. Andrew has issues we probably should’ve addressed when I first brought him to Pinewood Springs to meet you. I was so wrapped up in loving you and our family unit that I thought everything was good with him. Obviously it’s not.”
He blew out the breath he was holding. Puffs of icy white vapor mingled with the cold air. “We need to make this right, ma chérie.”
“We need help in doing that, and we have to be together on this. Andrew has to know we’re a united front, and we’re doing this because we love him and are scared of losing him.”
Rock nodded. It was hard for him to ask for help. He knew Clotille was right, but a big part of him felt like he’d done something wrong. He went through so much shit in his life, but he’d survived, and he hadn’t needed a damn shrink to get him through it. But Andrew wasn’t him. And if he was being honest, he was still pissed as hell at his old man for treating his mother like shit and for beating him too many times. Maybe getting Andrew therapy will help him deal with whatever’s going on inside him.
He turned around and pressed Clotille close to him. “Que je t’aime, chouchou.”
“I love you too, sweetie,” she whispered as she gripped the back of his neck and pulled his face toward hers.
They kissed deeply, only breaking away when they heard the creak of the patio door. Rock locked gazes with Andrew, who stood in the doorway. Grasping Clotille’s hand, Rock walked toward him.
Andrew lifted his chin, a defiant gleam in his dark eyes.
Rock knew he expected him to flip out, but he wouldn’t get sucked into the old familiar pattern. He stopped in front of him. “Let’s go inside. We gotta talk.”
Andrew’s eyes widened and he stepped back into the house.
Rock went into the study, Andrew close behind him. That night, no matter what, they’d have a long talk. He’d fight down the inclination to raise his voice, he’d listen to everything his son said, and then he’d tell him he loved him. The following day, Clotille would find someone to help them.
He had no intention of losing his son. No matter what happened in his life, he’d fight to the end to save Andrew, and he wanted him to know that. It was something he never had from his own father.
Rock sank down onto the couch and gestured for Andrew to do likewise. He looked fixedly at him. “We’re gonna talk. I’m gonna listen to you, and you and I are gonna come up with a solution. Why don’t you start first by telling me why you keep skipping school?”
Andrew hesitated, but Rock didn’t say anything. Then the teen cleared his throat and looked downward. “I’m not sure.”
It was going to be a long night, but Rock had time.
He had all the time in the world.
Chapter Ten
Banger
It was the seedy part of town. Pawnshops, junkyards, strip joints, and dive bars filled the spaces between the run-down homes and trailer parks. It was where the forgotten people lived, too strung out on drugs or booze to give a damn. It was the hiding place for the ones who gave up on living for whatever reason.
Banger drove up and down the icy streets. It didn’t look like a county snowplow had touched them. A rusty, crooked sign up ahead read “Buena Vista Mobile Village,” and he slowed down to take the sharp turn. The sign lied. It wasn’t a mobile village like the ones his cousins lived in, where the yards were pristine and the mobile homes were well-kept. Buena Vista Mobile Village was a first-class dump. Piled in front of several residents’ trailers were junk cars and a slew of broken appliances.
Winding around the narrow, icy roads, Banger looked out for lot number 356. Some of the men who sat on cold porch steps smoking cigarettes and joints eyed him suspiciously as he drove around. He knew his presence didn’t sit well with many of the residents; he was a newcomer, piercing their veil of anonymity.
Spotting the faded lot number on a blue trailer in disrepair, Banger parked in front of the curb, lit a joint, and took in Lynn Horace’s mobile home. Rust patches dotted the blue metal walls, and it looked like the wooden porch was falling apart, the white paint on the two pillars peeled and chipped. A beat-up old Buick sat under the carport.
He inhaled deeply, the anger he’d been feeling ever since he learned of Sketcher’s death bubbling under his skin, threatening to burst through. Whenever he thought of the young man, he got a burn deep in his stomach. The kid was only a few years older than Kylie. He knew Sketcher was trying to survive and help his mom out, and Banger respected him for that. Most of the punks he saw only gave a shit about themselves, leaving family behind, but Sketcher was there for his mom, supporting her the best way he could. Sure, he fucked up sometimes, but who the hell didn’t? All Banger knew was the Insurgents let Sketcher down. He let the kid down. He should’ve seen what was coming.
“We’re gonna get whoever did this to you, Sketcher. You got my fuckin’
guarantee,” he said under his breath, flipping his roach out the window. As he walked to the door, the neighbor next door, sitting on his porch steps, beer in hand, watched his every move. Banger rapped on the door and a woman’s voice, amid wheezing coughs, yelled out, “Come in.”
The stale, hot air hit him straight in the face when he walked inside. The house was messy and cluttered and in total chaos. Several cats scampered away, and the odor of grease, soiled kitty litter, and Bengay permeated the cramped quarters. Sucking in his breath, he took a few steps toward a woman sitting in a worn-out recliner and staring at him through weary and swollen eyes. She pushed back her lifeless gray mane that limply framed her aged face.
“Who are you?”
“Banger. I’ve come about Sketcher.”
“The police were already here.” She turned from him and stared at the dark TV screen.
“I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry about your boy. He didn’t deserve that.”
Tears filled the lines on her face, and she reached for a tissue from a box on a TV tray beside her. “He was a good boy.”
Banger stared at the carpet, wondering why Sketcher never had it replaced; it had worn through in many spots. He’d been on the club’s payroll, and they’d been generous. Glancing at the scratched kitchen cabinets and the broken wooden chairs piled in a small space he was sure was the dining room, he wondered what the hell the informant had done with all the money he’d earned over the last five years.
“Youse with that club he worked fer, aren’t you? I can tell by your jacket.” She blew her nose and threw the used tissue on the tray.
Sketcher was known to have a big mouth whenever he was drunk or high, but Banger didn’t figure he told his mother about his covert operations with the club. Instead of answering her question, he folded his arms and stared at her.
“He told me he had something big going on with youse. Told me youse would pay him real good.”
“What did you tell the badges?”
“Nothin’. I’m not stupid.” She coughed and wheezed, grabbing a tissue and spitting into it. “You wanna know what he said?”
Banger shrugged. “I just came over to give you my sympathies. I tried to help your boy out with some jobs at some of the businesses I own.”
She narrowed her eyes. “If youse wanna play it that way, okay. It’s just that Tommy was a good son. He took care of his mama. He knew my disability and food stamps didn’t go far in paying the bills. I don’t know what I’m gonna do without him. I loved him. He was the only one of my kids who was worth anything.” Wet streaks trickled down her cheeks.
Prior to going over to Lynn Horace’s home, the brothers had agreed with Banger’s proposition to give her a lump sum of money. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a rolled wad of bills. Wiping her nose with the palm of her hand, she stared at the money. Banger handed it to her. “I hope this helps. I know it won’t bring your son back, but it’ll help you get by for a long while.”
Lynn took the money and shoved it down her housecoat. “It’s Chad Bridgewater and his no-good son who done this to my boy.”
Chad Bridgewater? Banger didn’t move a muscle or say a word. He simply stood there waiting for her to talk.
“Tommy told me he thought it was bikers bringing in the bad drugs to sell, but he found out it was Chad and the guys who stay with him. They bought the drugs from Texas, I think, and they’re making a shitload of money selling them. They’re already doing it in Silverton. Tommy smoked weed, but he didn’t do the hard shit. He was good to his mama. Very good.” The tears welled up in her eyes again.
“You take care of yourself. I’ll come around again. You had a good boy.” Banger turned around and walked to the door.
As he stepped out, Lynn yelled out, “Thank you. Youse a kind man.”
He put his fist in the air and then walked out, closing the door behind him. The anger simmering beneath the surface rose to the top. Looking at the trailer next door, he was glad the guy who’d been staring at him earlier was gone because he wanted to hit someone real bad. Gunning the motor, he peeled out of the dilapidated trailer park and headed back to the clubhouse. Pressing the Bluetooth button in his car, his phone dialed Hawk.
“Dude. What’s up?” Hawk said.
“I got some news on Sketcher. His ma told me he’d found out Chad Bridgewater’s bringing in the shit. Already set up shop in Silverton.”
“Chad? Is this reliable?”
“Fuck if I know. Remember we shut him down before with the meth and the gun smuggling when he was trying to fuck with our turf.”
“Yeah. I thought he was done.”
“According to what Sketcher told her, he’s just getting started.”
“You guys went to high school, right?”
“Yeah. He thought his shit didn’t stink back then too. He was always competing with me when it came to girls.”
Hawk chuckled. “Who won?”
“Do you have to ask?” Banger laughed. “And he was pissed as hell when he didn’t patch into the Insurgents. I prospected a year before he decided to. He was a fuckup and never learned what loyalty and respect meant. Stinger threw his ass out after less than a year.” Stinger had been the founding president of the Insurgents MC and reigned for twenty years before he handed over the gavel to Banger.
“Yeah, I remember you telling me that. It was before my time. I heard Stinger was tough.”
“And I’m not?”
Hawk laughed. “You’re tough and grouchy as all fuck.”
“Anyway, get the brothers together for an emergency church. I’ll be there in a half hour. We gotta move fast on this. Tell Blade to do some digging on this asshole and his goddamn son. What the fuck’s his name?”
“Reggie. Getting forgetful, old man.” There was a smile in Hawk’s voice.
“Old man, my ass. Ask Belle about that.” Both men laughed. “You better start rounding up the brothers. See ya.”
An hour later, Banger watched as the brothers filed into the meeting room. Dressed in black leather cuts and jeans, many of them pulled out chairs, others preferring to stand. Banger wasted no time getting to the point, turning to Blade to see if he could find out anything about Chad and his pansy-ass son.
Blade stood up. “I did some quick searches and some surface digging because I didn’t have much time, but there’s something going on at that Chad’s spread. I saw a lot of movement when I zeroed in on it from an aerial view. It looks like there’re several metal buildings on the property that could be used to house shipments like guns or drugs. Some of them look like small warehouses.”
“I thought we shut his fuckin’ ass down with the gun smuggling a couple of years back,” Throttle said.
“We did, but he may be at it again,” Hawk said.
“Guess we’re gonna have to kick his ass again,” Chas said.
“How many people live at his place beside his puny-assed son?” Banger asked.
“Looks like the ones who are there for the most part are Beau Larker, Randy Lyon, and Calvin Schwind.”
“I went to school with all those assholes. Fuck. It’s like a damn high school reunion.” Banger folded his arms over his chest.
“All reports indicate the Deadly Demons aren’t involved with the drugs coming into Colorado. Looks like they’re running drugs to northern Texas, Oklahoma, and Missouri.”
“That’s what Sketcher’s ma said. He told her bikers weren’t involved with this. I can’t say I’m not happy knowing that.”
“Our old ladies would kill us if we had a turf war right before Christmas,” Axe said. The group laughed. “And can you imagine what they’d say with a lockdown?”
“I don’t even want to think about it,” Chas said.
“So what are we gonna do?” Rags asked.
“Pay them a visit.” Banger looked around the room. “We’re gonna have to be prepared for a fight, so we’ll take machine guns and grenades in addition to our usual guns. I want Haw
k, Rock, Jerry, Throttle, Wheelie, Chas, Axe, Bear, Cruiser, Billy, Ruben, Tiny, and Helm to come along on this one. I know they’re cooking meth. The fuckin’ badges know they’re doing it. We’re there to stop acid, crack, and H from hitting this area. Chad’s too stupid to be doing this whole operation on his own. Who’s supplying him?” He looked at Blade.
“From my preliminary investigation and the shit’s that been tweaking over the grapevine, it’s the Los Asesinos in Northern Texas.”
“They probably need the cash flow since they’re in a turf war with the Deadly Demons. I heard they were selling to small-time dealers. They need the dough to buy more guns to fuel their war,” Jax said.
“Reaper’s gonna be pleased we stopped one of their flows,” Hawk added.
“We gotta stop this shit now. If we have to air condition their compound, we’ll do it. We’re gonna treat this as a hostile visit, and if any of them draws a gun first, they’re fuckin’ dead.” For outlaws, “air conditioning” a standing structure meant riddling it with bullets, and Banger was prepared to do that and more to the men who threatened Insurgents’ territory and killed a person who worked for them.
“When do we move in?” Rock asked.
“Soon. I’ll let you know. We got the element of surprise, which is the best advantage.” Banger brought the gavel down on the wood block, indicating church was over.
He went into the great room and picked up the bottle of beer Rusty had waiting for him on the bar. Across the room, Jerry, Jax, and Axe were talking. Remembering how Kylie had been upset after he questioned her about what was going on with her, he went over to the trio and put his hand on Jerry’s shoulder.
“I need to talk to you,” Banger said.
“Sure.” Jerry followed him to the other side of the room where it was quieter and no brothers were around.
“Get the fuck off Kylie’s case about grad school. She wants this. It’s all she talked about when she was growing up. She wanted to be a teacher. She’s got enough pressure with school. Back the fuck off.”