An idea occurred to her. “I’m giving myself until the bruising is gone to be okay. Then we’ll try. Okay?”
When he looked up, his eyes were wet. “As long as you need. You come to me when you’re ready. Christ, Sid. Christ.”
She leaned over and kissed his forehead. “Take your clothes off and come to bed. I want to sleep on your chest. It’s after midnight, so it’s my birthday. That means I get what I want.”
He did as she’d asked, and she settled back onto his strong chest and fell asleep to the rhythm of his steady heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Sid laid her head on Muse’s back, and he closed his eyes for a second and took a breath. She wasn’t the first woman he’d ever had on the back of his bike, but she was the first woman he’d been in love with, and riding with her made a whole new kind of freedom. After the days they’d just had, this ride home on 57 was just the cleansing they both needed.
Her family was something else. No wonder she’d been so wary of what she had with him. He was used to getting his way with women, but it wasn’t necessarily something he needed, not for its own sake. After seeing the complicated layers of control among her and her mother and father, he understood why she’d kept a guard at the door of her life. Everybody seemed to want to control her in some way.
Her mother was the most obvious—and infuriating—but her father did it, too. He hadn’t seen it so much at Thanksgiving dinner, but the next day, this day, Rajesh’s own needs for control had become obvious. There were only certain places he’d go, certain places he’d park—though he hadn’t been driving—certain tables at a restaurant he’d sit in. Even certain ways he’d walk along the sidewalk—no more than two abreast. He’d actually drop out of a conversation in mid sentence and step back if a third person came up. He expected Sid to conform to those quirks. He expected everyone to, but he insisted that Sid do so.
Sid seemed to take it mostly in stride, but Claude and Rajesh had done a muted tug-of-war all day. Muse felt bad for Sid. It was her goddamn birthday, and they’d followed her fractious family around an outdoor holiday arts and crafts thing and then had a prissy lunch at a prissy restaurant where the guy up front had tried to give Muse a tie to wear.
The guy had tried to insist. He’d failed.
As a gift, after they’d finished dessert, her mother had handed her a check. Sid had handed it back.
After that, the day, never very healthy, died. All in all, she was having a crappy birthday.
Muse took the next exit. He felt Sid sit up behind him and take notice, her arms tensing around his waist, but the Knuckle was loud, so she didn’t even try to ask why the change of plans.
Good. She’d get a surprise on her birthday, then.
~oOo~
He pulled up on the side of the PCH near a rough-looking bar across from the beach in Malibu. Bikes were lined up along the front of the bar and on both sides of the highway. Sid was going to get a taste of her first genuine biker bar.
They were far out of their way now, and it would be late before they’d be ready to hit the road again, but there was a motel nearby, cheap, by Malibu standards, but clean. He knew the chick who ran it. ‘Knew’ in the biblical sense, but Ivy was good people and harbored no delusions or grudges. She’d put them up tonight. Cliff was with Hoosier and Bibi, so they could be a little spontaneous.
He helped Sid off the bike and then dismounted and turned to her. She was taking off her helmet. “Where the hell are we? Besides Malibu, I mean.”
“You need a much better birthday, and I got distracted by all our shit lately and didn’t get you a present.” He took her helmet from her and locked them up.
Her hands on her hips, she looked at the modest building. The heavy beat of down-and-dirty blues pulsed in the chilly evening air. “This is my present?”
Grinning, he took her hand. “This place is famous, hon. And your present’s inside.”
He led her over the gravel lot and into the dusky dark of the bar.
It was loud and crowded, and the vibe was so diametrically different from the way they’d spent the last thirty or so hours that Muse laughed aloud. When Sid looked up at him, her smile was bright and wide, despite her damaged face. He bent down and kissed her, hard, and felt a heart-stopping rush when she looped her arms around his neck and kissed him back.
“This is how I celebrate,” he murmured in her ear before he set her back and took her hand again and headed for the bar.
Though there were a goodly number of looky-loos, the bar had a lot of regulars, too, and Muse knew them. He’d been a regular here before he’d gone Nomad, and he still dropped in as often as he could. They stopped frequently so Muse could greet old friends and introduce his old lady. In this bar, her face barely got a second look. They would assume it was as likely that Sid got hurt fighting as anything else. Bruises were no scandal here.
Yet every last one of these guys would have ripped Green apart if they’d known what he’d done. Even the men who might not be so gentle with their own old ladies would tear the parts off a man who went at another man’s woman.
It was a kind of honor Muse knew Sid wouldn’t fully understand, but it was still a kind of honor. These people were his people. Newport Beach? That was another fucking galaxy.
They got to the bar, and the bartender, a fat old guy nearly covered in ink, met him with a hand extended. “Muse! Brother!”
Muse grasped his hand and leaned in so he wouldn’t have to shout quite so loudly. “Igor. Been a minute.”
“Indeed it has. Jack?”
“Cuervo for me and the lady. Willie around?”
Igor poured the shots. “She is. In back.”
“She busy?”
“Always. But she’ll kick a fella to the curb for you. Head on back.”
Muse handed Sid her shot, and they both drank. “C’mon, hon.” He hooked his arm around her waist and led her through a door at the back of the bar.
Once the door was closed behind them, they could talk at a normal level. They were in a narrow, dark hallway. Sid stopped and tugged on his kutte. “What the fuck, Muse?”
“You’ll see in a minute. It’s good, I promise.” He hoped it was. He was pretty sure it was. Feeling pleased with himself and enjoying the furrows of confused irritation on her forehead, he couldn’t control his grin. They went down the hall, and he pushed open a dented black door.
His old friend was sitting on a stool, inking a smoking revolver into the upper arm of a muscular biker. “Hey, Willie.”
She lifted the machine from her customer’s arm and looked up. “Muse! Jesus hell, how ya been?”
“Good, darlin’. How ‘bout you?”
“Can’t complain. You want some work?”
“You got time? Me and my lady, both.”
Both women jerked their heads to him at the same time. Willie got a huge, gap-toothed grin. Sid simply looked stunned.
“Well goddamn. Muse got hooked. Goddamn.” She smiled at Sid. “Caught yourself a keeper, baby.” She looked around the guy she was working on. There were two men sitting in a makeshift waiting area. “Guys, hafta be another time. VIP just came in.”
The men groused but didn’t fuss much. It wasn’t wise to piss Wilma George off, and everybody knew it.
Sid was still gaping. Muse leaned down. “This okay? She did all my work. I know the place isn’t much, but she’s quality talent, and it’s clean like a hospital.”
“A tattoo is my birthday present?”
“My tattoo is your birthday present. If you’re not ready for one, I get it. I’m springing this on you.” Willie was covering with plastic the revolver she’d just finished. Muse watched Sid look around. “You ever been in a tattoo shop before?”
She shook her head, still looking dazed, and he brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “It’s okay, hon. Like I said, you can just watch.”
“You’re getting a tattoo for my birthday.”
“I am. I’m getting your in
k. I told you I’d wear your name. Where d’you want it?”
And finally, all the pieces fell into place. He could see it happen, understanding dawning over her face. She grinned. “Holy shit. That’s amazing!”
“Got a place in mind?”
Still smiling, she pushed her hand under his kutte and rubbed his chest, just over his heart. He picked up her hand and kissed it.
“That’s where I was thinking, too. If it’s okay, I’ll get your whole name. Not sure how it’d be to have just ‘Sid’ inked on my chest. Could be some confusion.” Fuck, if he landed back inside at some point, confusion would not be the word.
“No, that’s great. That’s…amazing. I already said that. I can’t think words right now.”
He liked that, that he’d knocked her back like this. He had another idea, too. “Do you know how to say ‘love’ in whatever they speak in Nepal? I want that under your name.”
“They speak Nepali.” Her voice broke, and he saw that her eyes were blurry. “It’s māyā garchu. But it’s a different alphabet. It’s in Devanāgarī, and I’m not exactly sure how to write it.”
“I can handle that.” Willie had been settling up with her previous client. Now she turned to a big Mac desktop. She went online and did some searching. “I want to be sure I don’t end up writing ‘dickwad’ on you or something, so gimme a minute. C’mon on over, baby. See if you see what’s right.”
Sid went to Willie’s side, and they looked together. Muse busied himself shedding his kutte, hoodie, and beater.
“That’s it.”
“Okay.” Willie blew up an image of elaborate, alien script on the screen. “That’s nice. No sweat.”
As Willie sterilized her work area, she looked over at Sid. “How ‘bout you, baby? You putting his mark on you, too?”
Sid looked at Muse. He smiled. If she needed to wait, he’d understand. He’d be disappointed, but he’d understand. Her life had taken some big spills this past week. It was a risk, he supposed, taking ink without getting her commitment to do the same right now, but he didn’t feel exposed at all.
And he had no reason to. She smiled back. “Absolutely.”
~oOo~
Muse watched Nolan struggle for a few seconds, then walked over and grabbed him by the top of his vest, pulling him close and ripping open the Velcro tabs. He reseated them and got the vest straight on his shoulders. “You gotta wear it as tight as you can. You don’t want any space between you and the Kevlar. This is your first time in the fire, huh?”
The kid gave him a sharp, defensive look, but when Muse just cocked an eyebrow, he nodded. “First time I might take fire, yeah.”
He was a pretty big guy, lean but tall, and he looked strong, but he was really fucking young. Muse had just been prospecting at that age, and Nolan was more than two years into a patch. Every time Muse took a look at him, he felt shock about that. But the Missouri Horde was legit. The danger they faced was probably minimal—as had been the case for SoCal, too. But not anymore. He wondered if Showdown had made a mistake letting this kid get his first taste of heat facing off against a cartel.
“But you shoot? You have skill?”
In answer, Nolan picked up an assault rifle. “Yeah, I know my way around.”
With a loan from Bart and Riley, the Horde was well stocked for the outlaw life now: guns, ammunition, Kevlar, explosives. And today, they would make their first skirmish, answering the challenge from the Castillos by taking out their shipment.
It was a big move. But they were backed now by a big player: Isidora Vega, La Zorra. Hoosier, Bart, Connor, and Sherlock had met with her and come to terms, and now they were working with her new version of the Águilas cartel. Working with her, or for her. Muse didn’t understand it all, but he didn’t need to. He was a soldier. He did what he was told.
This move had been Hoosier’s idea, though. Before La Zorra pushed the Castillos back from her border, Hoosier wanted the chance to answer for their ‘message’ at the shop. He wanted to make sure they understood that the Horde was back, and they were not simply hiding under La Zorra’s skirts.
Their take of this job would easily be what the club made in four months of their straight work. Muse’s work for Hollywood could now be just enough for cover. And frankly, he’d rather face AK fire than deal with that crowd.
“Different when you’re in play, kid. Tin cans don’t shoot back.”
Nolan checked the magazine and shoved it back into place. “Muse, no offense. But I don’t need a mentor. You don’t know me. You have no idea what I can do or what I can handle.”
Muse nodded and picked up a spare magazine. “Okay then. Carry at least two spares. For your own piece, too. And you keep track of your brothers. Do exactly what you’re told, and don’t get separated.”
“I got it, brother. I got it.”
Muse hoped that was true.
~oOo~
Nolan turned out to be a good shot, and, more importantly, he was steady under fire. Though the kid had Double A at his back, too, Muse had always been one to watch out for the young guns—it was how he and Demon had become close, when he’d taken the psycho kid under his wing and helped him try to find a cap for his emotions—so he stayed as close as he could to Nolan and made sure to mark his place on the field.
Most of the club was making this run. They’d left behind Demon, to protect him from law as he fought for his kid, and Diaz, P.B., and Lakota. They were all working other club business elsewhere. The Prospects were still on the old ladies, who were spending the day in a crowd, doing some kind of charity thing. So they had two patches, Jesse and J.R., in the van on this run. The shop was running a skeleton crew of non-patched mechanics.
They’d intercepted the transport on a solitary stretch of road through the Cleveland National Forest, opening fire on the move and forcing the truck off the road and into a sheltered copse of trees. The cover served them well, but also aided the Castillo soldiers and their six associates on bikes, wearing Dirty Rats colors.
The Dirty Rats were a bogeyman MC—the kind of club politicians, lawyers, and cops used as an example of the evils of the biker world. They were notorious even in the life, known for not discriminating between innocents and players, and for ‘jumping in’ their club pussy with a club bang that had left numerous girls ‘missing’ afterward. It was a big club, with charters across the country. Most large one-percenter MCs had mainly self-governing charters with individual personalities, running the gamut from barely to hardcore outlaw, from light to dark, but in Muse’s experience, all the Rat charters were…rats. Survivalists, Aryans, or just plain assholes, they were bottom-of-the-barrel human beings, the lot of them.
The Horde had known ahead of time that the Rats were in the mix. According to Sherlock, Ferguson had saved his own skin with the Castillos by bringing them a club he’d known would show no reservations about anything the cartel demanded. But Muse had faced off against the Rats in the past. He knew them. No alliance with them was stable. They’d fucking sell each other out if the upside was decent.
Knowing who they’d be up against, the Horde had come prepared for a dirty fight, and that was what they got.
The firefight was wild and hot for about ten minutes—an eternity when automatic weapons were filling the air with bullets. Despite the years away from this kind of work, Muse felt no rust. He put his gun up, took aim, and fought, as he had for years, as if he’d last done so only the day before.
As always, he kept one eye on the entire scene and the other on his own targets, so he saw Nolan suddenly stand from his sheltered position at their van’s rear fender and move more deeply into the fray, firing as he strode to a cluster of struggling pines. Muse ran to the spot Nolan had just left, covering him and trying to figure out what he was doing.
Then he saw. His view had been blocked at his first position, but now he saw that Double A was down. Alive but bleeding from either his gut or his hip, below his vest. If that was a gut shot—fuck. Nolan reloaded behind
the scanty shield of those thin trees and then left cover, moved to Double A, and bent down to grab his arm and pull him back.
From his right, Muse saw a Rat take aim at the two Missouri kids. Muse fired and took the asshole down.
A minute or so later, there was no one left to shoot. All the Rats and the Castillos, ten in all, were down. Eight were dead. Two Castillos were badly injured but still breathed. Muse figured that not to be a long-term status.
They regrouped and took stock. Sherlock had dropped his bike, firing at the same time, and he was banged up, but ambulatory. Double A had been shot in the upper thigh, but it wasn’t bleeding enough to have caught an artery. He was insisting that he only needed the slug out and didn’t need the hospital. J.R., who’d been a Marine medic in Afghanistan, wanted to get him back to the clubhouse and see if he agreed.
Strength & Courage (The Night Horde SoCal Book 1) Page 31