by Max Henry
“You realize I don’t have a car?”
“You realize we have a few spare?” he counters, one eyebrow raised.
Damn it. If he’s supplying the ride, then that means it’ll be a round trip. “I can bus it.”
“Buses don’t go where you’re headed. Besides, I’d be more comfortable knowin’ you’ve got independence.”
Of course—the vehicle’s probably tracked or some shit. What are you getting yourself in for, Dagne?
“Can I ask what the message is? I mean, why it is I’m delivering it by hand?”
“Nope.” His face is impassive as we head toward the massive house.
“Fair enough.” I rake my gaze over the grandeur that this estate would have once been, imagining the kinds of people who would have been guests of the elite who lived here, the types of people who would have hosted them. “This place is something, huh.”
“You like it?”
“Yeah.” Maybe it’s the hint of a time forgotten, the dreams of such opulence, and the fantasy of that kind of carefree life, but there’s magic about the property that hooks me in. The thought of wanting to spend more time in a single place frightens me, but what if this is actually it? The place I feel right settling in? Easy, girl. Talk about jumping the gun.
Hooch’s heavy boots make a thunderous noise as he climbs the steps to the porch. How he wore those things while sweating it out on the driveway, I have no idea, but I guess when you wear them as much as he does they probably become a second skin. I’m sweating just looking at them.
The members from the bar earlier have spread themselves out as we enter the house, reclined on chairs and leaning against the walls in some places while deep in conversation. And yet, every single one of them stops what they’re doing to look us over as we walk past the parlor and into the heart of the house. I duck my head, feeling more out of place than ever, and flank Hooch as he strides seemingly unaffected to the kitchen.
Guess they didn’t expect us to be getting along. Interesting.
“Just ignore them,” he murmurs as we pass the room I’ve hedged bets on being the chapel.
For a change, the doors are open offering an unhindered view of the invitation only space inside. My feet halt of their own volition and I take in the awe-inspiring masterpiece that is the sculpture encased at the far end in a glass-fronted wall. A naked bike, stripped of all its leather and rubber to leave the bare steel, rests atop a rough bed of broken tarmac. And all that stripped material? It’s been broken down and transformed into a rider, hunched over the bike as he’s poised to kick start it.
“My old man commissioned it the day he became president; the first year our chapter was in operation.” Hooch’s quiet words drift over my shoulder and echo around the enclosed rectangular room before us.
“It’s amazing.”
“He had an artistic mind, but not the hands to see the ideas through. The old man had a ton of visions about things like that, but I guess when you’re busy runnin’ a place like this, you don’t get much time for doing what makes you happy.”
“Who did it?”
“A guy that owed the club his gratitude. A guy who had the skills Dad lacked.”
“Somebody owed them that kind of favor in the first year?” I twist and look at his solemn face.
“Most clubs are born from necessity, not chance.” He shifts his brown eyes to mine, and frowns. “Desperate times call for desperate measures, and the brothers who founded our chapter saw a man who’d run out of options. The man who made that.” He points to the sculpture. “I’ll tell you more about it sometime, maybe.”
“I’d like that.”
He steps away, restarting our trek through the house as I lag behind watching his broad form twist and turn in smooth fluid motions while he walks. I get the distinct impression I’ve underestimated this guy, made assumptions based off his outer shell that in no way reflect the man underneath. The distant look in his eye as he shared with me something so intimate about his club; he hides so much more.
I want to know it all.
THIRTEEN
Hooch
Dagne replaces the fuel cap on the Silverado as I exit the shop at the gas station, supplies in hand. She swore black and blue that she didn’t need anything but the thousand dollars good-faith payment I gave her for the trip, but I get the feeling that if I didn’t buy her food and drink, she wouldn’t either.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.” I round the vehicle to the passenger side, and organize the bags behind the seats. “The address is punched into the GPS. If you lose it, call me. The message is tucked in the sun visor. If you lose that, definitely call me.” I shut the door, and lean on the tray to face her on the far side. “If you need anything, even if it’s a chat to stay awake—call me.”
“Got it.” A small smile plays on her lips—lips that I’ve noticed since jacking this up with her yesterday have a small scar, as though they’ve been split and not healed quite right.
“Do I have your number in there too?” She jerks her head to the cab of the truck.
“Nope.” I round the hood to where she now stands with her hip popped into the side of the extended cab. “It’s in this.”
Her eyes track my hand as I pull out a burner phone I set up for her.
“It has one number only—mine. And I’m the only one who knows its number.” She reaches for it, but I pull it out of range. “You have to promise you don’t use it for anything other than callin’ me, okay? Anyone else gets the number, you’re able to be tracked, especially back to me, and as a precaution I’d like to avoid that.”
Her eyes narrow, jaw set hard. “You said this trip wouldn’t put me in danger.”
“It shouldn’t, but as with anything, you can’t be too careful.”
“Right.” Dagne takes the phone, pocketing it in her plaid shirt she scored from Digits.
I shelve the irritation at seeing her wearing another man’s clothes to unpack on a better day.
“Straight there, deliver, and straight back. Balance of your payment on return. Check in twice a day.”
“Set times?”
I shake my head, opening her door. “Nope. Just when you can. Once in the mornin’, and once at night.”
“Sure thing, boss.” Cheeky bitch smirks as she climbs into the truck.
I close the door behind her, leaning my folded arms on the open window. “Drive careful.”
The engine turns over with a gentle roar. “I might not have a vehicle of my own, Hooch, but it ain’t my first rodeo.”
“Right.”
Her gaze drifts to my arms. “You need to move if I’m to go anywhere.”
“Of course.” I step back between the pumps and watch as, with a wave out the open window, she takes off onto the main road out of town. Fuck, I hope this works. I don’t have enough time for a plan B if it doesn’t.
Satisfied she’s not about to return for any random reason, I make my way across the dirt half of the yard to where I parked the bike out of harm’s way. The leather is hot from the unrelenting sun this morning, warm even through the thick fabric of my jeans as I sit astride and wait. Families pass by, young women on their own, and men carpooling to the afternoon shift in the factories. Life passes me by while I sit in the heat and pull out my tinderbox to contemplate my own.
As an only son, the gavel was promised to my hand from as far back as I can remember. The hours between daycare closing and Mom finishing her shift were spent at the clubhouse on my father’s knee. He toted me around that place like a disciple, showing me everything, explaining what it all meant, before I was old enough to connect the dots.
I lived and breathed club culture. It’s the only thing I knew, and when it came time for me to attend public schooling, I was a lost wolf without my pack. The predators circled, they waited for an opening, but like a wolf, I didn’t go down without a fight—no matter how scared I was.
The school system was done with me by age tw
elve, my first law-issued slap on the hand coming at thirteen, and the first mark on my permanent record at sixteen. I was angry, fighting something I didn’t understand. It took me twenty-eight years to realize what.
That I never had any control over my life.
All my choices were made for me, predestined by the family name on my birth certificate. Good intentions or otherwise, my old man never gave me a snowball’s chance in hell of picking my own path.
It was prison, yet in the outside world—routine etched into the very core of my soul.
And as the plain, unmarked cruiser pulls up to my left I figure out what it was that killed the capacity to feel: the realization that even with my old man’s death there was never going to be any escape, simply a new puppet master.
“Time’s up.”
I stare straight ahead. No point in looking his way; I can’t see him. An open window on the passenger side is all I’m afforded in case of prying eyes.
“Without stepping into Wingmen territory, I can’t get a hold on this.”
“That’d be your problem, not mine.” His voice is clinical, cold, and everything I’d expect from a federal robot like him.
“I still don’t get why you need me for this; you have all the connections.”
“I have suspicions, reasonable doubt—no hard evidence.”
“And that’s my problem how?”
A low chuckle emanates from the car beside me. “Need I remind you?”
Certain he can’t see much above my waist, I scoop out a bump and numb the strain. “Where to from here, then?”
“I need a statement from somebody on the inside detailing who’s at the head of this supply arm—that doesn’t change.” The distinct flick of a lighter punctuates his words. “How you get it is up to you; I can turn a blind eye to that. But I have a meeting in a week with the heads of this investigation.” Smoke drifts out the window. “I promised them a name, and an end game.”
“Another week.”
“I’ll need the contact name, and location within six days at most. Gives me twenty-four hours to do my paperwork.”
Fuck it all. I’m clutching blindly at straws as it is—what’s another week going to achieve? I’m destined to fail, which makes my message with Dagne all the more important to deliver.
“Sure.”
“Don’t come back empty handed this time, Josiah. You fail to get what I need, I put the evidence I have into the right hands and you face the rest of your life behind bars.”
Asshole.
I start the bike and peel away before the fucker can get another word in. His navy sedan fades in my rearview as I open the throttle and find the space to breathe again.
FOURTEEN
Dagne
Cruising on the highway, I reach across and tap the GPS to find out where the hell it is exactly he has me going. The estimated time of arrival is seventeen hours from now—I’ve already been on the road for one. Wherever the hell the destination is, he could have warned me I’d be spending half a goddamn week driving this truck.
Iron Mountain.
Holy hell. He has me headed to Michigan. Better get my ass comfortable then, I suppose. I indicate left and head to the far lane, settling into position as I cruise the light traffic. With one hand on the wheel, I reach around the passenger’s seat and feel my way through the bag of food Hooch bought. I wrap my fingers around something plastic, and square, and pull it into my lap. Jerky. Cool. I can do that.
Five minutes later and my fingers are coated in the delicious mix of spices they used on the meat. I lick each one in turn, returning for a second sweep to catch any hint of what’s left, when a flash of light catches my eye.
Red and blue flicker in my rearview.
Damn it.
I had one job. One job, and I fucked it up.
Apprehension grips my throat, each breath heavy to take, each swallow an effort to push through. I indicate to the shoulder and pull off, the cruiser coming in to stop behind me. Using my mirrors, I track the officer as he climbs out of his car and stands at the tail of the truck. He scrutinizes every damn inch as he makes his way lazily up the side to my open window.
“Afternoon, Ma’am.”
“Afternoon.”
“Just a routine stop.”
My heart slows a little … but not much. His partner exits the passenger’s side of the cruiser and begins the task of checking under the body, in the tray, and looking inside the cab. All the while, the first officer smirks at me from behind his tinted shades.
“License and registration.”
Fuck. I’ve got a license, but registration? Hoping like hell Hooch keeps it the same place as anybody else with half a brain, I reach over to the glove compartment and open it up. Something heavy, something metal, clunks as I pull the door open.
The registration papers sit on top of it.
Holy shit.
I whip the sheets out, pretty damn certain it was the end of a gun I saw peeking out from under the shop manual, and hand them over.
“My license is in my pocket.” I raise both hands and indicate to my hip with my eyes.
The officer nods, and steps back as he opens my door. “If you could step out, and I will retrieve it for you.”
I oblige—what other choice do I have—and step into the warm sunshine. The rays beat down on my head and shoulders as I face the bed of the truck, placing my hands wide on the edge.
The officer pats me down before retrieving my card file from my pocket, and flicking through until he gets to my license.
It doesn’t take long; I don’t have many cards.
“Dagne Alderson.” The way he pronounces my name—Dag-Nay—irritates the hell out of me, but I let it slide. “What’s your reason for travel today?”
“I travel everyday,” I state. “No set abode.”
“Homeless?”
“Sort of.”
He grunts behind me, returning the card wallet. With or without my license, I have no idea.
“You can turn to face me.”
I spin, eyeing the second lawman as he bends on one knee to check the wheel arches. “Do you do this thorough of a search for everyone?”
“Nope.”
“Not so routine then, huh?”
The first officer smirks, casually wandering back to his cruiser. The sun is unrelenting while I wait on him to run my details. I’d kill for a drink about now.
“Okay if I reach into the cab to get some water?”
“Stay where you are, please.” The second officer continues his search of the vehicle after flashing me one hell of a hate-filled stare.
Who the hell do they think I am?
The first officer returns as I run my tongue over my lips in a futile effort to feel refreshed.
“This vehicle is registered to a Melanie Porter. Were you aware of that?”
I shake my head, opting to be as truthful as I can so it doesn’t tangle me in a web of too many lies. “No, I wasn’t. I was loaned the vehicle by an acquaintance I made at my last stopover.”
“You don’t find that a little strange,” the officer grills, “being loaned a vehicle by somebody you’ve only just met?”
“Nope. Each to their own, Officer.”
“Walk to the rear of the vehicle and place your hands on the tailgate, please.”
“Why?”
“Do it.” His tone leaves no room for negotiation.
I reposition myself at the back of the truck and watch as the second officer starts pulling absolutely everything out of the cab and dumping it onto the roadside.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” I ask, frowning as I’m pretty sure he crushed every potato chip in the bag with the force my groceries hit the pavement.
“Let you know when I find it.”
The “raid” on the truck lasts barely ten minutes, and yet the mess the two of them make is unbelievable. Nothing is left untouched. Especially not the handgun in the glove compartment.
“R
egistered to you?” Officer One asks with it held high in his right hand.
“I didn’t even know it was in there,” I protest. “Like I said, I’m borrowing the truck. You know the vehicle’s not mine.”
“Doesn’t mean the gun isn’t either.”
Great. I’ve got one of those ”guilty until proven innocent” types.
“I swear it’s not mine. Confiscate it; I don’t care what you do with it.”
“What about this?” Officer Two asks from where he’s still half in, half out of the cab. “What’s this for?”
He lifts the scrap of paper Hooch tucked into the visor before I left—the message. I never read it, never had the desire to know what exactly I was getting into until now.
“I don’t know what that is, sorry.”
The officer looks down at it as he smoothes the paper between his hands. “An address. Who for?”
“I really don’t know. It must have been in the truck already when it was loaned to me.”
“Guess you won’t mind us taking this too, then?”
Fuck a duck. How much worse can this get? I scowl at the cocky bastard as he walks past my position to put the gun and the note in their cruiser.
“Am I free to go now?”
“Not sure yet.” The first officer proceeds to pat me down, hands taking far too long at the junction of my thighs.
“You think I have a missile launcher smuggled in there or something?”
He chuckles, and then swiftly punches me in the kidney. Motherfucker.
“You tell your biker bitches that we’re keeping a close eye on them.”
“I’ll be sure to send your love,” I sass, short of breath. Goddamn that hurts.
The cops return to their car while I lean against the tailgate of the truck, wincing at the sharp pains that radiate through my lower back. Officer One makes eye contact as he reverses a little to pull out from behind me, and grins.
I lift my middle finger.
Now leaving Texas. Hope you enjoyed your stay.
FIFTEEN
Hooch
Ten years ago, my old man woke me up on my birthday with the biggest smile I’d ever seen on the fool’s face. I remember that day as though it were yesterday: the smells, the feel of the carpet under my feet as I got out of bed, and the matching grins on his brothers’ faces as I walked out into the living room to find half the Fallen Aces Fort Worth chapter seated on our lounge.