FOUND: A Motorcycle Club Romance Novel

by Korin, Scarlet

  He was talking about the horrible leather ones my mom insisted on buying because they were cheap and practical. I hated going to school in them.

  “Yeah. Times have changed. I go everywhere barefoot these days.”

  He laughed when I wiggled my toes.

  I cut in and got serious, “Sorry to hear about your dad... Blanche kind of mentioned... I know what he meant to you.”

  “Yeah... It's hard. My old man meant a lot to me. Still, if he's looking down,” Boyd pointed to the sky. “I know he'd be wanting to ride alongside me today. I am what I am because of him.”

  “He always treated us kids so good.”

  “Yeah... and he always liked you. I think he saw you as a good influence for me.”

  “Me?”

  “Definitely. You always had the book smarts I didn't.”

  “I'm not so sure about that... It's not like I ended up at college or anything.”

  “Know the feeling. Got my diploma from the school of hard knocks. How about your mom and pops?”

  “Car crash... Happened soon after you left. Ended up moving across state with family.”

  He shook his head, “Bad fucking world we live in... Your parents were too good to die that young. I guess it's like my dad used to say: 'life can be mean and twisted, but you got to always pick yourself up to fight again.'”

  “Wise guy your dad.”

  “Yeah,” he chuckled thoughtfully. “I learned from the best.”

  “You as girl crazy as he was?”

  “Me?” He mock acted shocked. “I've always been good.”

  “All married up then?”

  He shook his head. “Never found a woman up to my high standards.”

  We laughed together.

  Boyd, though reminding me exactly of that same defiant boy who I knew then, certainly now had wisdom far beyond his years. Especially obvious in this day and age where no one ever seems to really grow up.

  “So what are you doing here at my motel? I know we're old friends, but going stalker this quick is a surprise.”

  He didn't crack, “You're too cynical for your own good. Your old man up?”

  “Asleep,” I replied keeping a poker face on. It's a sure sign that a relationship is bad when you don't like old friends knowing you are with your boyfriend.

  “I've come to give your old man something. He mentioned last night that he didn't have a GPS to get down to Crenshaw with.” He lifted a brown papered package from behind his back and passed it to me. “I picked one up from the shop we run.”

  I reached out and my hand froze on the box.

  He joked, “What's up? Never seen a GPS before, or something?”

  No. No it wasn't that. Again it was him knowing I am together with Jerome.

  I shook it off, “Thanks. I'll give it him... I... I, uh, thought you were going to pull out a gun or something...”

  “Me? You must think I'm Al Capone.”

  “Well...”

  “You are too cynical.” He sat down on his bike. “You know me, I got my soft side and weaknesses like anyone.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well... I fall in love too easily for one.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “Sometimes... You making the trip or staying up here?”

  “Yeah... We're... making a holiday of it. He's promised to show me the big LA lights when we get down there.”

  I lied because the truth pained me to much to consider revealing. My evening would be another crummy hotel with Jerome partying on what he could steal from the deal. I would bet money on it.

  Boyd lifted his helmet up. He was leaving. I couldn't bear to see him go this quickly. I didn't want him to go.

  Stepping forward, I placed my hand on the leather of his jacket. “What does that mean?”

  “Oh this?” His fingertip touched mine over the patch below his club logo, the skull I caught a glimpse of above the club door, and the one reading president. “FTW. Fuck the world. It's like that sometimes.”

  “Yeah, the world can be a hard place. But... fuck the world? That's extreme. How far does that feeling go?”

  “Getting serious now, are you? Alright... Sometimes the world should be fucked, but not always. You've got to never forget the people you hold dear and always keep them close to your heart.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” he replied, placing his helmet on and pulling down the visor. “Once you lose someone they're gone forever.”

  “Got a busy day planned?”

  “A few errands.” Behind his dense black helmet I couldn't make out his expression. “Seeing a few friends.”

  “Friends in the way your dad used to mean it?”

  He lifted up his visor. “Him and his friends... Nah, not like he meant it.”

  “I don't believe it. I know you Boyd. I bet you're a heart breaker. I bet you have half the girls round here going crazy.”

  “Maybe a few... You coming back with your man to drop off?”

  “I wouldn't miss it.”

  I thought of Jerome lying there across the bed with his mouth open wide and drool dried to his lips. Reunions with friends weren't exactly his sort of deal.

  “Good. It'll be great to talk proper. It really has been too long.”

  “Too long.”

  Boyd kick started the engine and began wheeling it backwards towards the lot's exit.

  I waved before crossing my arms and watching him tear away down the highway. Dust rose all around his bike as he slowly disappeared out of sight. Soon the only thing left behind was the smell of oil. The day was well and truly here, though no one but us was stirring around the motel.

  Suddenly a door above me crashed open. It was Jerome. He shouted down, “What the fuck was that? One of them bikers?”

  “Yeah... One of them bikers.”

  Jerome stood bent over the railing wearing only his underwear. “What were they sniffing round here for?”

  I shook the parcel in my hand up to him. “They thought you might need a GPS for the trip and just dropped one off.”

  I avoided any mention of Boyd being the one who brought it here. Jerome doesn't know we were friends, let alone childhood loves, and I thought it wise to keep that fact under wraps. The less he knows the better. If he knew the truth he would have gone crazy. Especially since I greeted him in nothing but a long shirt.

  If you turned the page to the definition of jealous in the dictionary you would have seen a picture of Jerome's face. He was like that. Even though I've never given him to reason to suspect I would be unfaithful. I'm not like that.

  His hungover mind put what I said together. “What GPS? Who says I need one? Dumb fucking bikers!” He smacked the railing, turned and walked back inside with a parting shout, “Now get fucking ready. You always hold me up.”

  In my mind, Boyd's words played over while I stared off into the distance of the road. Yeah, it would have been fun to catch up and see more of this old town. But it's not to be...

  “Get inside!” Jerome screamed, breaking me out of my thoughts. “The sooner you move, the sooner we can get back to San Francisco!”

  ~ Chapter Seven ~

  By the time we left for Crenshaw and the meet it was well into the afternoon. Besides sleeping in, it didn't help that Jerome insisted on sitting down for breakfast and then giving himself time for digestion. He hasn't been clear if we are supposed to be working to a deadline, though even if we were it wouldn't matter to him. His time and the rest of the world's time are two completely different things. He shot down instantly any question I volunteered about today's schedule with reassurances that it's not my place to be asking.

  When we got on the road, the drive down south was a long and uneventful one that only broke with a stop into a superstore. True to his word, Jerome put his plan in motion to take a percentage of the coke to be collected by picking up various things to cut it with. He filled his bags with powdered milk, caffeine pills and baking powder. As strange as the mix sounds, h
e told me resolute and convinced that even an eighties hair metal act wouldn't be able to tell his cut mixture from the pure. I sat in the car, nodding my head along with him as he spoke. Yet a sense of foreboding filled my heart. I didn't exactly enjoy the idea of him stealing from the club my old friend ran. Let alone messing with a gang of outlaw bikers.

  I said nothing of my doubts. That is until they became unbearable and got the better of me.

  “Is there no chance... I mean... you're picking up from one MC and taking it straight to another. Is there no chance they'll notice the difference in quality? You're not dealing with buyers on the street here.”

  He dismissed it on the spot, “Bitch. I know better than you. It's cool. It's safe. Now quiet that tongue. You ain't on this trip to be thinking...”

  He put the radio up to eleven and let it do all of the talking for the rest of the journey...

  Jerome didn't come alive again until we crossed through the mountains and began driving through the palm tree encircled streets of south Los Angeles. I had never visited before. My only knowledge of the area came from the movie Boyz in the Hood and its reputation for serious gang activity. As we drove through the streets, it became apparent why the reputation had stuck. Certain types of young men, obviously drug dealers palming handfuls off to clients in cars, littered each populated street corner like roaming packs of animals. Each time we stopped at lights in an area like that the smell of weed drifted through the windows. When we drove through the more residential areas, the endless rows of single story bungalows created an odd atmosphere.

  Being close to LAX airport, the traffic was beyond horrible. Surprisingly this didn't bring out the worst in Jerome as it usually did. In fact, the arrival made him pleasant company. Unknown to me, he lived here for a time when he was a kid. It was nice to see his eyes light up when he talked positively of the area.

  “Look! Look!. The boulevard. That's my school. I had my first fuck there... Over there's the shop I got my first pack of smokes. Shit. This takes me back...”

  “Yeah. I felt the same way yesterday---”

  “Nah. It's more real than that... Holy shit... Is that? Fuck! That crackhead hobo Mads is still walking the streets. Look! Look! It's him!”

  Mads stood, all skin and bones, wearing a long overcoat and sucking on a cigarette while peering down a side street. You know a place has run to ruin when someone points out a drug addict as the local attraction.

  After making a left on Martin Luther King boulevard we arrived at the hotel. Located centrally in town it smelled of crime and threat. Windows on the ground floor were smashed and boarded up and a group of Latinos sat outside drinking beer and talking Spanish. The second we stood from the car Jerome was making eyes at them.

  “Fucking spics,” he whispered under his breath. “They're everywhere now. Spreading like motherfucking cancer... I remember when this place was all black. Better times.”

  I had heard it before. One of his favorite topics was the Mexicans. He hated them with as much fury as any member of the Klu Klux Klan. He saw them everywhere - especially in his soup. Their mere presence was enough to rile him up. He believed only African Americans should rule the streets. Yet, his anger was usually reserved for those who didn't deserve it. Like it was on that day.

  “Hello sir. Can I help you?” A short Latino desk clerk with a mustache greeted us when we entered.

  “Huh? What you saying? I can't understand a fucking word you're saying,” Jerome aggressively declared while going from zero to sixty in a shot. “You know we American right? We can't speak Spanish.”

  Clearly his pent up frustration was being released. Of course, he didn't direct it to the three rough looking guys outside.

  “Do you have a reservation, sir?” Asked the unfazed receptionist.

  Jerome shot me a knowing look, acting like I was in on the fun too. “What the fuck is he saying, girl? Look I got a room. You understand English? A fucking room. Under Young. Jerome Young. English? Comprendo?”

  Through the tirade the clerk kept his head down and didn't react. Quickly understanding what was required he slipped under the desk, grabbed a key card and handed it over. “Thank you for choosing to stay with us, sir.”

  When we made our way through his office, me feeling deathly embarrassed about what had gone down, Jerome couldn't help but toss in some final words. He said to me, knowingly loud, “Fucking illegals. You can't get service anywhere these days...”

  “Did you have to talk to him like that?” I asked the second we stepped through the door to our room. “He's got it bad enough working here for nothing an hour.”

  “Fuck that. I can talk to whoever however I want.”

  “What if someone called you a nigger?”

  “No one would dare call me a nigger, girl. Reminds me... I need to be calling Ez. Now that's a nigger!”

  Ez was the street name of Ezekiel, Jerome's contact who set up this whole deal. They went back far, though with what he just said them being close might have been off the cards. He was a member of an MC down here who had ties with the Midnight sinners. In contrast to them this club was all black.

  Upstairs the room was worse than the one from last night, but after driving all day I was content enough with any room where I could stretch my legs. I sat down on the bed, lit a cigarette and listened in to Jerome who was calling Ez.

  “Yeah... Huh... I'm down at Motel 7... You are? By the club?... I'll be there soon.”

  He put down his cell and sat in the chair next to the bed.

  “How long have we got?” I asked, putting out my smoke in the ashtray.

  “Not long enough for you to get ready. Couple of hours yet. You better get in that shower quick. He'll be inviting us to the club after...”

  We were late for the meet and it wasn't down to me taking long to get ready.

  Craning his neck from the window, he excitedly called back in, “Now if I remember right, it's around this corner. There we go! Beautiful...”

  For the last hour a short journey turned into the car ride from hell. Jerome couldn't remember where Ez's club The Vault was. To top it off he refused to use his cell map or the GPS. He told me, 'I know this town like the back of my hand. I don't need that motherfucking white boy GPS!'

  Unfortunately, he did. The club, like most everything in Crenshaw, wasn't far from the rows of bungalows and apartment buildings. It was ten, though the place wasn't exactly thriving. Outside a rough looking bouncer stood below the neon lit entrance sign talking to a couple of girls smoking. The strangest thing about it was they all wore long overcoats. It may have been dark, though it certainly wasn't cold.

  When we pulled into the parking lot around the back of the place two African-American bikers were waiting for us. One, an extremely skinny and tall man with facial hair, titled his chin up in acknowledgment. The bear-like and older one next to him, perched on a monster of a bike, wasn't looking happy. It might have had something to do with us being so late. Slowly they backed up and guided us through the lot towards a fenced off area to the back. We drove in and the smaller one quickly locked up the fence behind us.

  Jerome hit the handbrake. “Now say nothing unless you're spoken to.”

  “I know. You don't need to always say it.”

  He opened the glove box and took his gun. “Don't you give me that backtalk. Get that ass up and out. I want you seen, not heard.”

  I stepped out of the car with my red heels clattering on the pavement. Before we left Jerome ordered that I wear my skin-tight red dress – the sluttiest I own. I'm like an accessory to him. He gets a kick out of showing me off.

  “Brother!” Roared the lean one the second he saw his old friend. “Long time no see, Mr Young. Keeping good?”

  “You know it, son. You know it.” Jerome bumped fists with him. “Ez... What they hell have they been feeding you? You looking fucking skin and bones, boy.”

  “It's my new diet.”

  “What's that?”

  “Weed and pus
sy! I'm all about the weed and pussy!” Ez drawled before facing me. “This your woman?”

  “My woman,” Jerome said while wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me tight. With his arm gripping me, this was the closest Jerome and me had been to affection for a long time.

  In front of me Ez's eyes feasted on my body, working down across my chest to the low hem of the dress stretched tight around my thighs. Sleazy doesn't begin to describe his gaze. He almost raped me with his eyes. Leering at me, with his gold teeth shining in the night sky, his revolting ogling made my skin crawl.

  “Mmm... Umm... Hum! That's one fine ass white bitch. What's your name, sweetness?”

  “I'm... Cassie.”

  “That's sugar on my tongue. God almighty, you finer than all the tea in China!”

  Jerome laughed. Whereas I wanted to run. Ez was a creep of the highest order. Everything about him set me on edge. From his dirty fingernails, to his overly greasy skin. Unlike the man next to him, he wasn't wearing anything suggesting he was a member of a motorcycle club. He wore a poorly fitted black suit.

  Suddenly the deep voice of the second man boomed, “Come on boys, this ain't the time for women. We're here for business.”

  “Truer words have never been spoken!” Ez chimed out in the most artificial of ways. “This, Jerome, is Hulk. The president of our fine club up here in Crenshaw.”

  Hulk certainly was the operative word for this man. He was a monster. While he couldn't have been more than five-nine, he was at least the same width with muscles that nearly burst through the leather jacket he wore. Squat, powerful and with a focused intensity about him he hinted at being ready for anything. He was covered in tattoos from the knuckles of his hand to the thickness of his neck.

  “It's a pleasure.” Hulk leaned forward and extended his hand to Jerome and then to me. “...It's a pleasure, Cassie.”

  Wow, I thought surprised. That's out of the blue. Usually when I'm meeting friends, contacts, business partners – whatever you want to call them – of Jerome's they're usually look at me like a piece of meat. Hulk's respectful tone defied completely how imposing he was physically.