by A. C. Bextor
“Ciro Palleshi took James in, made him a home, then he turned on him.”
“Turned on him?”
Mom nods. “He forced Elevent to run drugs for the family.” She says family as if the notion is poison. After, she rattles off in Spanish.
“I didn’t know any of this,” I admit, attempting to dissuade her anger.
My luring does no good. She continues, “Elevent was trained like one of those soldiers. He had no choice but to do as he was told. At the time, he had nowhere else to go.”
I’m not only going to shake Vlad’s hand for helping to kill Ciro. I’m going to hug him. Tightly.
“Even when Elevent found his way to this club as James Scott, Ciro followed him. James kept taking his orders because he felt he owed the man something.”
Correction. I’m going to kiss Vlad Zalesky.
“When Elevent was able to break free of Ciro, he found us,” Mom goes on, her tension slowly ebbing.
“I’m happy for that,” I tell her and she smiles.
Dropping the knife, Mom’s hand reaches toward me until she holds my cheek. “And you can know how happy I am to know he has you.”
My nose stings at the warmth of her statement. I’m certain Mom doesn’t know how Elevent has had me or in the variety of wonderful ways. Nor am I not about to tell her.
Walking to the kitchen table, pulling out a chair, Mom sits. She crosses her arms in front of her and eyes the seat next to hers.
In a no-nonsense tone, she points to the chair and says, “Now, Mia, now you know where Elevent has been, you can tell me where you come from?”
With this, I have no choice but to tell her everything.
And I do.
“You look fuckin’ old, brother,” Hem jabs from across the table.
“Maybe, but I’m still years younger than you,” I return straight-faced.
Shame, Hem, and I are sitting in the main room in the Lights of Peril clubhouse. Two other members of Peril were introduced, Gunner and Honor. I thought they’d stay for this, but they were called away not five minutes after sitting down.
Peril clubhouse is set up a lot like Saint’s, but women have had their way. The floor, tables, and furniture are clean. The décor matches, from the black furniture to the black picture frames. Just the fact there is décor says the old ladies have taken charge.
When I called Hem, after so many years of nothing between us, I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome. Turns out, it was as if a day hadn’t passed.
“Fuck you, asshole,” Hem replies, holding a bottle of beer to his lips. “But I wasn’t kidding. You look like hell.”
“I feel like hell,” I confirm.
Furrowing his brow beneath his black baseball hat, he asks, “You been keepin’ busy?”
“I’ve been keepin’ frustrated.”
“Doesn’t sound good,” Hem returns.
“I’m down to a skeleton crew of seasoned men and have the devil on my ass, ready to take all there is.”
“I heard somethin’ about that,” Shame pipes in, leaning to the center of the table to grab another beer. “Also figured that was why you called. No word from you in a long time.”
“I’ve been busy,” I tell them. Lifting the tip of my beer in his direction, I remind, “And you’ve been pretty busy too, I hear.”
Shame smiles a grin only Lucifer would have the balls to muster. Even all these years later, Shame Carrick is still built like a brick shithouse. He’s a man who says only what he means to say, pulling no punches, and not giving the first fuck about who he insults, or how his message comes across, just as long as it does as he intended.
“How’s the family?” I ask, curiously, goading his reaction.
Shame holds those he loves in a guarded vest. He lives and breathes each day, if only to protect them from the harm of this world. And I remember specifically a woman…Mace, who also happens to be Hem’s kid sister.
“My son, Ryder, doesn’t appreciate prospect life,” he starts. “He’s fightin’ it. Which means I’m not seein’ a cut as a life for him.”
I was young, about Ryder’s age, when I met Shame and Hem. The two were hard, life handing them as much shit as they were able to handle. They were young then, yet walking through life’s roughest fires to come out as men on the other side.
I can’t imagine Ryder Carrick not wanting to follow in Shame’s footsteps on his way to manhood.
“And my twins are driving me fuckin’ nuts.”
“Girls, right?”
“Of course I got fuckin’ girls,” he clips, his dark, deep voice reverberating from his chest. “Goddamn iPhones, iPads, shoes, clothes, everything that don’t matter those shits seem to obsess over. And when I say obsess, I mean when I take that shit away for any reason, a galactic meltdown erupts.”
“And your wife?”
“Mace is mine as always,” he replies, so goddamn typical of Shame. “But she’s good. Still perfect.”
Hem laughs at his best friend’s side. God, but the two of them haven’t changed.
“My sister…” Hem shakes his head. “She’d be barefoot and pregnant every damn day of her life, if Shame had anything to do with it. The woman used to be gorgeous.”
“Fuck you, bastard. She still is,” Shame sneers.
“How’s Sadey?” I point the question to Hem to avoid their clash.
Shame sighs, looks to the ceiling and prays for patience. Hem smiles.
Sadey is, and always was, Mace’s best friend. Together, they drove Hem and Shame nuts before stealing their dignity and running away with their hearts. From the stories I’ve heard, the guys never had a prayer against the determined duo.
“She’s the same Sadey girl she’s always been. Our boys are grown and she’s hintin’ for more.”
“Sounds like her,” I agree.
“You still don’t have a woman of your own?” Hem returns.
Old friends know too much, they remind you of where you’ve been, and in this case, where I’m going. And that if I don’t get my life and club together, I may be going it alone.
“It’s complicated,” I tell them, instead of the truth.
“Women are all complicated,” Hem correctly returns.
“All right. We done chattin’ like bitches over our domestic shit?” Shame cuts in. I nod. The man gives no fucks. “Well, thank hell for that. Now tell us what you need, El.”
Getting to the heart of my visit, I advise, “I need a couple leads on where to find decent recruits.”
“Tough call there,” Hem advises.
“Also, I’m lookin’ for some outside club presence.”
“Things that fuckin’ messy?” Hem queries. I nod. “Fuck, El. Who’s after Saint’s? Last I heard, you all held down the market on just about everything. And held it down there in the big city.”
“Someone owes the club their revenge. And we’re expecting they’ll take their opportunity soon.”
“No good,” Shame touts. “And your club isn’t ready.”
“Not even close,” I give the truth.
“Who we talking about here?” Shame queries.
“Dark Arrows.”
Hem sits back in his chair, drops his gaze, adjusts his ball cap, and whistles low.
Shame sits up, ready to go head-to-head with challenge. “What the fuck did you do to piss off Jesse Bynes?”
Jesse Bynes is the leader of Dark Arrows and apparently more known than I realized if Shame’s dark expression is telling.
“One of his own is Cricket’s old man. But she’s part of our club.”
Hem laughs, smacking my back.
“This is about a woman,” he jokes. When I don’t respond, his jovial expression falls and he utters a string of, “Fuck, shit, damn it. You’re serious.”
“You took one of the club kids away?” Shame questions. “What the fuck? That doesn’t mesh. No matter what club.”
“Not like that. Her father had her on the selling block. One of my boys interrupted the ex
change, and her old man went to prison for it.”
“Ah, fuck. Bynes was always bastard. Cricket’s old man sounds the same. Was always glad Arrows never had many chapters.”
“Yeah, so now he’s coming to get her.”
“And you’re not gonna let him,” Hem assumes.
“Fuck no. Not on my life or the lives of anyone who loves her.”
“Peril has a few brothers to spare. They aren’t polished or seasoned. Most are new,” Shame offers. “But outsiders won’t know that. Peril cuts in and around your club will no doubt help.”
“You could take Ryder,” Hem offers. “My son, Patrick, too. If you think it’d do any good.”
Fuck no. I don’t need the worry of protecting the two most important members of the entire Peril organization.
“No. You need them here. I’m busy and they won’t learn shit from my VP.”
“Leglas,” Shame recalls, eyes narrowed. “He still a fuck?”
“Can be. He’s also the man who’s fuckin’ but hasn’t committed to said daughter.”
“Dear God,” Hem grouses. “A grown woman, a daughter of a rival, in your club, and she ain’t spoken for?”
Shaking my head, I think of Gypsy. Fucker needs to decide what’s what and do it fast.
“We’ll help. We’ll do what you need. I’m not leaving Mace, though. And Sadey would have fuckin’ puppies if Hem picked up and left for Chicago.”
“I’m not asking that, but I get it.”
“But we won’t do this without guarantees,” Shame rebuts. “This is a one and done, Elevent. I wanna know if we do this, you won’t be sittin’ at my fuckin’ table in a few months or a year askin’ us to do it again.”
“I’m workin’ recruits. I’ve got a man inside Arrows who reports back what he can and when.”
Shame nods. “You talk to us, you talk to other clubs. New clubs if you can find ‘em. They’ll be more apt to stand with you.”
“That’s where we’re headed from here,” I tell him.
“Good. Once done, set your sights long term, El. I’m not in your shit, tellin’ you you gotta keep clean, but you gotta have somethin’ in way of money to keep things goin’.”
“Pop’s back for now. He’s got ideas,” I reassure.
Like me, Hem and Shame weren’t always alone.
Later in life, the two found a man Pop knew as Doc. He started Peril and built it, as I’m trying to build mine; with good, trusting men, hard work, and dedication. This didn’t come without problems, though. As nothing does. By giving me their help, and their advice, Peril is taking our back while we’re working through it.
“We’ll call a meeting, talk to our boys, and see who’s up for a field trip,” Hem asserts.
“Appreciated.”
“On this, you owe us. I’m not only talkin’ you, but the entire club,” Shame states firmly.
In for a favor, out with an owe. No fucks given.
“Understood.”
“’Cause we have our own shitshow stirrin’ here. And it’d be good we had some help if needed.”
“You have my word.”
Standing, Shame pushes his chair back. “Good. Now, it’s Sunday. Mace is happy on Sunday ‘cause the kids aren’t home, and we’re not interrupted. So, if that’s all we got, I’m out.”
“That’s all I got,” I reply. “Enjoy your Sunday.”
“Fuck knows I will.”
I’d share my thoughts on Shame being pussy-whipped but I’d be an idiot. He may be older than I am, but going at him with fists, there’s no guarantee I’d win. The last thing I want is to go back to my club with my ass whipped.
“You gonna hang here for while?” Hem questions. “We’re due for a party this weekend. You may find some other brothers, not local, who wanna help.”
“Should get back. Club’s got its hands full doing Russians a favor.”
“The Russians?” Hem croaks in surprise and Shame stops midstep to turn back. “What the fuck you need us for, if you’re workin’ deals with Russians?”
“Vlad Zalesky has taken a bit of shine to Saint’s.”
“Christ,” Shame hisses, rubbing his hands over his face. “You’re shittin’ me.”
Shaking my head, I explain, “We’re keepin’ watch on one of theirs while he deals with his own problems.”
“Seriously?” Hem laughs. “You fuckin’ people are all over the place.”
“Who needs watchin’?” Shame queries, as ever down to the dirty detail.
“A woman who’s about to marry into his family.”
Shame’s abrupt laugh reverberates from his chest. I remembered this about him. Shame rarely smiles, but when he does, it’s typically over the craziness of a woman.
“Christ, you have an MC and the Russians tying your hands over women.”
It’s hard not to smile as he is, but instead I nod. “Isn’t that the truth.”
Back to serious, Shame gives, “We’ll be in touch, El.” When he extends his hand, I stand to accept. Shaking it firmly, he orders, “Go get your shit sorted with Bynes and take care of yours.”
“We’ll talk soon, brother,” I return, thankful as hell that we will.
“I’m not wearing that,” I direct, firmly standing my ground.
I’m surrounded by a small group of excited women, crowding me inside the dressing room of a biker store in downtown Chicago.
The first is Sunny, whom I’ll say has been bringing back much more leather for me to model than cotton.
I’ll admit the leather bodice I tried on earlier was nice. So were the chaps she picked out. The buttons that were lined up the sides were much cuter than Cricket’s I had borrowed for the ride. The leather boots were nice, too. I’ve kept most of those she’s brought back in a pile I’ve mind-marked as ‘maybe.’
The second incessant woman I’m dealing with is Cricket, who has been coined the resident accessorizer. As in, if this career path truly existed for biker babes, she would easily be the CEO of her own successful corporation.
Without being consulted, I’ve been fitted with a leather choker, several bangle bracelets, and a pair of small silver earrings she insists go great with my hair.
Surprisingly, Lane decided to tag along. She’s been quiet, but not standoffish.
When we pulled up to the store ‘Biker Babe Haven,’ my scowl was transparent. I’m not a biker, nor am I considered one in any way.
As we entered, there were a few women standing around the checkout. A few more were scattered with men around the store. The place was busy and looking at all they carried, I understood why.
Helmets, gloves, hats, shirts, pants, and the like were in wide variety along every wall. Bike accessories, camping tools, and riding gear could be found as well.
Lane caught my glare and laughed, swearing once I tried on a few things, I’d have a change of heart. And to be honest, so far she’s been right. I’ve come to quickly appreciate the smell of leather.
I’ve also decided, it won’t hurt to change up my wardrobe.
“Honey, you are wearing that and you’re wearing it tomorrow night,” Sunny insists.
“Out with the old, in with the new,” Lane suggests, pointing to my sad little dress laying over the chair in the corner of the family dressing room. My depressingly lonely sandals sit on the floor beneath. They used to be my favorite pair.
“Mia,” my sister calls, standing near the far wall with her back plastered against it.
She’s wearing her red silk blouse and plain black pants. Her elegant, and no doubt expensive, high-heel boots give her three more inches to her already tall frame.
“You don’t have to get any of this,” she says reassuringly.
Sunny frowns. Cricket stays quiet. Lane stops hanging up the last shirt I tried on. All heads turn, eyeing my sister. Not in judgment, but admiration. Myra is gorgeous. She’s easy to envy.
“You want her to fit in with us, right?” Lane snaps in my defense, not giving Myra room to reply. She gra
bs the leather chaps from Cricket’s grasp and points out, “Well, this is her fittin’ in.”
“I see you’ve made new friends,” Myra scolds, sneering at Lane, the stereotypical biker woman from hell.
“Elevent gave me the club’s card,” Sunny puts in. “He told me to get her whatever she needed. No matter the cost.”
“No matter the cost?”
Turning to me, she replies, “Yep. He said you needed clothes that covered as much of you as they could. The guys like your dresses, honey. But Elevent shared he does not.”
Well then.
“I’m gonna check on the guys,” Cricket declares, at the same time standing. “They’ve gotta be getting bored and no doubt hungry.”
Lane and Sunny gather their bags and start to follow Cricket out. She’s right about Sty and Leglas. The two weren’t overly happy about being on shopping duty in the first place, let alone missing a meal for it.
“Wait a minute,” Myra calls, grabbing my arm before I make it through the door. “Are you sure you’re doing okay?”
Holding a small pile of leather in my arms, I look down. “I’m fine. Why?”
Myra tilts her head to the side in thought. Her features soften, uncharacteristic of how I’ve always known them to be. “Because you’re in a store for bikers—filled with bikers. And because you seem to have made friends with the women who love them.”
“They’re not just bikers, Myra. They’re people.”
“You mean that, don’t you?” she poses, coming to her own conclusion. “You aren’t still upset at me for agreeing to send you to them?”
Shaking my head, I laugh. “Not at all. I mean, the clubhouse isn’t home and I really miss my apartment because it was always clean. And I miss being around my own things. I miss my job at the church. But—”
“Mia, you’re happy,” she proudly notes. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Are you okay?” I query back, can’t help wondering what’s wrong with my sister, who is usually so hard at the core. When her expression is reduced to insult, I try to cover. “I’m not saying you are, but you’re—”
“Honey, I’m fine,” she tells me. “Just relieved now that I’ve seen you’re okay.”