That dilemma resolved after a few minutes when a woman brought a plate filled with pulled pork and slaw, and George made himself a sandwich with the roll that sat alongside the meat. He ate standing, leaning against the wall beside the door. Without thinking about it too much, he reached out two or three times, trying the knob, just to make sure it hadn’t locked itself in the interim.
The woman smiled at him when she came to retrieve the plate, telling him in a soft voice to, “Rest now, honey.” But he couldn’t. His mind wouldn’t let things go, and knowing that Papaw seemed to know what had been happening was steadily eating away at him. He turned the scene in Mama’s bedroom over and over again in his head. Maybe Ralph would have an idea what he could do; George could try to call him tomorrow.
Right now, however, he needed to get through the night.
George sat on the floor opposite the door, gun resting in a loose hold, forearms propped across his knees, waiting for the worst. He waited a long time, but no one else came. Raised voices sounded from the room under his feet, waves and crashes of anger and outrage beating their way up the stairs to bounce off that unlocked door.
At eight the next morning, with dry, burning eyes, he opened the door to Papaw’s insistent pounding.
“Fuck, boy. You sleep at all?” A headshake his only response, he was stunned to the core by Papaw’s next words. “You’re amongst real family now, boy. No need to guard your back because every man in this house will defend it for you. I called a couple of the ole ladies to take you shoppin’, get you some jeans, but I’ll put ‘em off a spell. George, you gotta rest. You need me to, I’ll stand here all day, let you get what you need. But if you trust me…if you believe me, you’ll know you can rest easy here. I am Incoherent, and Incoherent has your back.”
A quick hand to his shoulder, a reassuringly tight grip, and then Papaw pulled the door closed, and George heard the latch click into place as it seated. He stood, frozen, shocked by his grandfather’s words. Maybe I can do this, he thought. Maybe this is where everything changes for me.
“Rest, boy.” The instructions came through the wood, accompanied by a creak as Papaw leaned against it, doing what he said he would. Guarding George. Having his back. Making him feel safe. I’m among real family now. George moved to the bed and fell down exhausted, asleep nearly before he shoved the gun underneath the pillow.
***
“No,” George whispered incredulously, gaze glued to his grandfather’s face, waiting for Papaw to continue with his story.
Solemnly, Papaw gave him a single nod, his hair rustling against the back of the swing. They were in the clubhouse’s backyard, Papaw in a porch swing hung from an oak branch, heels of his boots digging into the soft dirt, holding the swing motionless against the whipping winds. Foot crossed on his knee, George sat slumped into a metal chair at the outskirts of the flickering light from the bonfire. Incoherent members had been feeding the fire for hours, periodically placing new logs into it, laughing as flames licked up around their hands, scorching the hair from forearms.
“Truth, son. Wasn’t for the club, I wouldn’t be here talkin’ to you right now. Wasn’t for Whitewall, I’d be a dead man, and this after he saved my life a dozen times in Nam.” Papaw had just told him a story about the early days of Incoherent, a moment in time so far removed from today that it seemed eons ago.
“Why’d you name it Incoherent?” Papaw didn’t have his own home. He had lived in the clubhouse for years, at least since Coralie moved out. Listening to stories, George had found out that transition had been less Papaw throwing her out, and more her moving out to be with a man she’d fallen for. That man had turned her loose after only a few months, at which time she’d migrated to Ollie’s house and stayed.
Without a home, and never really having had one, it didn’t seem odd to him that he’d been living here in the clubhouse for the past several months. After that first night, George hadn’t lost any sleep over the changes in his life. In time, he had settled in like he’d been born into this huge extended family to which his grandfather had introduced him.
“Long story.” Papaw laughed, and matching laughter came from near the bonfire. George turned to see one of Papaw’s friends standing there. He knew most of the Incoherent members regardless of their chapter affiliation, but this stranger was from a different club altogether. Papaw’s voice was spiked through with tolerant humor when he replied, “Shut it, old man. It’s a long story, and you fuckin’ know it.”
“Yeah, but it’s a rich one, and one well worth telling.” The old guy’s beard hung halfway down his belly, full and white, framing his teeth when he smiled as he was now. When he moved, George saw the back patch was a raggedy man, stick and a poke over his shoulder: Caddo Hobos. “Kid deserves to know you’re a fuckin’ hero, James.”
“Another time, Michael.” Papaw stood, stretching with a quiet groan and looked down into George’s face. “Bed, young’un. Party’s about to get loud.” Leaning in, he told George quietly, “Lock your door tonight, son. Bagger’s a friend, but we’ve strangers in our house. Incoherent’ll keep you safe, but you do your part, too, yeah?”
That was one of the things he loved most about his grandfather. The man pulled no punches. He told it as it was, told it like you needed to hear it. This was him treating George like an adult. Giving reassurances that everything was the same, and the club would protect him, but just in case, “Under my pillow, Papaw.”
“Good,” Papaw nodded. “Just right, you gotta watch out for your own ass sometimes, too.” He stood straight again, and George watched as his gaze swept the clearing, assessing and evaluating everything as if he were still leading men on a battlefield. “And, we’ll never know when I’ll need you to watch my back, George.”
“I got you, Papaw.” George’s voice never wavered. “You need me. I got you.”
“Know you do, son,” Papaw looked to his friend. “Next generation, Michael. Standin’ right here, this boy is my future. Couldn’t ask for better.”
“Keep him close, James, he’s a good’un.” An unfamiliar sound came from the other side of the bonfire, and both men came alert.
Papaw repeated himself, not taking his eyes off whatever it was he saw. “Night, George.”
“Night.” Without looking back, George took himself into the clubhouse, earning a few “goodnights” called from groups around the yard and backslaps from the men as he passed nearby. As he had every night since that first one, he slept deeply, secure in the knowledge that he was safe.
Chapter Three
Ralph, age sixteen
“You get the best pussy.” Ralph laughed as he whispered this to George, leaning back to look at their dates sitting on the hood of his truck. They were waiting for him and George to get the snacks and make their way back down the aisle of cars parked on the back lines at the drive-in theater.
George slapped his shoulder and nodded, finishing paying the cute blonde at the window. She took a minute, scribbling something on the ticket before handing it to George. As they moved to the next window to wait for the food, Ralph looked at the piece of paper in George’s hand, leaning over his shoulder to do so. “Shee-it, man. That’s Sabrina’s little sister. Tell me you ain’t goin’ back there?”
“How about I say I ain’t goin’ back there…again?” George’s grin was sly, pulling his mouth sideways, and Ralph laughed hard. “Papaw’d have my ass if I fucked anyone in that family again. He said we’re done with the Rotain’s rulin’ this parish. Judge lost his last election, so they’ll be movin’ soon anyways.” Leaning his shoulder against the wall, George stared at him. “Tell me what you think about the club.”
Incoherent. Something George was full-on certain about and Ralph was draggin’ ass, pulling in last place as usual. “Man, I don’t know. If it were just ridin’ bikes, that’d be one thing. They do a lot of shit, George. Not even a little bit legal.” He looked around, verified no one was near enough to listen, and still lowered his voice to say, “
Shit that needs doin’, in some cases, but they do a lot of different shit.”
“So? You do that same shit, but you’re out there swinging on your own accord. At least club has patches at their back.” George waited, then continued when Ralph didn’t have anything to say in response. “I’m gonna do it. Next year, when I turn eighteen, Papaw said he’ll let me prospect. Then I’ll be IMC for true.”
“You want it that bad, I don’t understand. Why you waitin’ if you’re that sure?” Ralph heard the sounds of the movie starting up behind him, glanced over his shoulder at the enormous screen, seeing the wavering blue and green images were just fading away. Cartoons would be up next, plenty of time before the show. “Why not just join now?”
“Papaw wants me older. Wants me to be sure about everything. Said it gives me time to grow into my balls, learn what not to do with ‘em.” They both laughed at that because neither had been known to back down from a fight. And they hadn’t lost in a long time; alone, or together, the George and Ralph team seemed unbeatable. “I can’t wait, Ralph.”
At the longing running through his friend’s voice, Ralph made a decision. “Think he’d let me come in at the same time, or will he make me wait, too?” They were a year apart in age, but of a similar place in everything else. Maybe in this, too.
“Won’t know if we don’t ask,” George shrugged, feigning indifference, but Ralph saw the glitter in his eyes, knowing it meant something to George that Ralph wanted to stick with his friend.
Their number blared over the speaker, and George was getting ready to move when Ralph stopped him. “We’d be brothers, finally.” He stuck out his hand, wrapping his fingers around George’s thumb, receiving the same grip in response. “Brothers for life, man.”
“Brothers for life.” George agreed, then grinned. “Now, let’s grab our food, then go get some o’ that pussy you were talkin’ about. Did you see the titties on your girl? Pretty titties.”
***
George, age eighteen
Hissing at the pain, George looked down at the tattoo artist’s hands moving across the inside of his bicep. My first tattoo, he thought, without realizing he’d just promised himself more ink, even as he lay in the chair, rigid with pain.
He watched as the club-sponsored guy wiped away excess ink and oozing blood, revealing the lines and whirls of the marks left behind from his rattling gun. Ride or Die. As a biker’s motto, it could mean so many different things. Riding was living, freedom and being in the wind all rolled into one. Ride or die could mean turning your back on the citizen world, leaving their rules and laws in the dust. In his case, it was a promise to Ralph, someone he considered his true brother.
The week before had seen them in a situation, and Ralph had once again proven beyond a single doubt that he had George’s back. They’d been strolling up an alleyway over in Baton Rouge, working their way along the docks that lined the Mississippi River. One wrong turn and they wound up facing down half a dozen men, each looking meaner than the next.
There hadn’t been any need for words between them, he and Ralph had moved as one, backs pressed together, protecting the other with their life. And together they had cleared the alley of all opponents. Each man presenting a different challenge, but one that they bested. Their hours spent sparring together paid off, and George had been surprised at the ease with which they dealt with the danger. In the end, he and Ralph were the only ones left standing, and when they walked out of that alley, it was with the confidence and understanding that together, they were so much stronger than they were alone.
Papaw heard later that one of the men died. Evidently had a heart condition, was taking blood thinners and Ralph’s pounding of his head into the wall had him bleeding into his brain. George had determined he wouldn’t be passing that knowledge on, would keep it to the grave because if Ralph knew, it would throw him off. He was set to be voted on this weekend, the officers all gathering around the table in the back room to see if they wanted to bring Ralph into the fold as a prospect. George didn’t want anything to derail that, wanted Ralph to be where he was more than he’d expected. Only three months since George took up the prospect mantle, and he already knew Ralph would take to the life like he’d been born to it.
The artist slid his stool back, and George watched as his broad swipes with dampened gauze revealed the entirety of the tattoo George had picked from the front counter sketchbook. Embedded within a tangle of blood-tipped barbed wire were the words, Ride or Die. For my brother. Standing at the counter after paying, he was tucking his chained wallet into his pants and listening with only half an ear to the practiced aftercare jabber from the artist when the door behind him dinged, announcing a new customer. Out of habit, he moved, putting a wall at his back while he swung to see who was walking in.
A young man stood in the doorway, short sleeves showing a plethora of tattoos on his arms. George was studying them and was about to offer the guy a chin lift when he heard the artist’s panicked voice saying, “Don’t need no trouble, man.”
George’s gaze raised and focused on the massive pistol the gangster wannabe had in hand, watched as he flicked the end of the barrel at the room in general and demanded, “Gimme everything you got.”
Oh, fuck no, George thought, moving on frantic instinct to duck behind the counter next to the cash register. He’s standing in my house. This is ours, he thought, as only halfway committed to the action, he changed his mind and bent to pull his piece from his belt instead. Standing straight, George calmly leveled his gun at the kid. “You’re standin’ in Incoherent’s tat shop, dude. You wanna live? Turn the fuck around and walk. Step out like a man, because you don’t know where you are. Guaran-damn-tee you don’t want to buy this trouble.”
“Fuck you,” the guy said, not looking around as he tipped the barrel of his gun down towards the register. He ignored George, focusing on the artist when he ordered, “Empty the fuckin’ thing.”
“Dude,” George said, reaching up with his off hand to pull the slide on his gun; his stomach churned, but he couldn’t let this go unanswered. My patch, my family. That included the ones under their protection, like the tattoo guy who owned this shop. Incoherent got a rate break but didn’t take any skim. Their role was to safeguard, and he’d damned sure do his part today. “You do not need the flash that bad.” Sweat had broken out across his shoulders and back, he felt a stinging burn under the bandage, salt mixing with the still oozing blood. “Turn around.”
The guy shifted, his eyes coming to George and in an instant, he saw it was a kid. Not a man but a kid decked out to look older, his eyes terrified and shining with tears. “I gotta. Gotta nut up. Man’s gonna kill me if I don’t.” This guy’s younger than me. Maybe even younger than Ralph, and probably got no idea what he’s doing.
“Naw, kid,” George drawled, trying to hold on to cool and keep things from spiraling out of control. “Don’t matter who you’re afraid of outside this shop, because in here? I’m gonna kill you if you do.” He shrugged, the gun rock steady in his grip. “Needa turn the fuck around and walk away while you still can, man. I don’t gotta nut up; I’m Incoherent, and you’re in my house. You wanna walk away breathin’,”—he leaned forward, the gun steady and on point—“then you need to walk the fuck away.” He drew in a deep breath, then said, “Now.”
Their gazes locked, the kid stared at him for a long minute before whirling and running out the door. As it squeaked and squealed on its way back to its place in the frame, he told the artist, “Call the house, man. Let them know what’s going down.” The guy obediently picked up the phone and George was already on the move, catching the door and pushing it open wide, stepping from the chill of the shop into hell.
He was just in time to see what happened next. In time to experience it, really, because he was too close for comfort, caught in the blowback as a man not much older than the kid lifted his shortened over-and-under scattergun and pulled first one, then the second trigger, hitting the screaming kid squar
e in the chest with each blast. Without thought, reacting on instinct, George lifted his gun, sighted, and squeezed the trigger twice, the first shot going wide as the shooter lunged for cover, George’s second bullet clipping the man’s arm.
Downed boy on the sidewalk was now silent and still. The bleeding man hunkered behind a car parked at the curb, yelling, but the words were incomprehensible through the ringing in George’s ears. A growling sound penetrated and George shifted position to turn and look up the street, where he saw a vehicle approaching fast. Near where the guy was crouched out of sight, the lowered luxury sedan scarcely paused as its back door opened and closed, gunman escaping with help. Motherfucker. George stepped to the center of the street, lifted his gun again and pulled the trigger in rapid succession until he was out of bullets.
Fuck, he thought, watching as the sedan disappeared into the distance. Police sirens wailed from not too far away, and he heard the tattoo guy call with urgency in his voice, “George, you gotta get gone.”
Tucking the gun into his waistband, he threw a leg over his bike parked one space away from where the kid lay bleeding. One glance at the sidewalk and George knew the boy’d bought it, so didn’t bother to look beyond that. He also didn’t acknowledge any of the bystanders beginning to filter out of the shops on either side of the tattoo parlor. They didn’t matter. Only getting away before getting tagged did. Papaw would be way beyond pissed if George got picked up. Not only didn’t he have a license to drive anything, much less the bike, but the guns on his person would also be an automatic trip to Angola.
Two kicks later, his bike roared, and he shoved his toe on top of the shifter, pressing down. Twisting the throttle hard, the bike skidded sideways on the street as he gave it too much gas, then settled down. Toe to the bottom of the shifter, lifting, he twisted the throttle again, lifting. Jamming the brakes on so he could angle around the corner as he downshifted, gaining blocks of distance between him and whatever the cops would be wanting to know.
This Is The Route Of Twisted Pain (Neither This, Nor That Book 1) Page 4