Blow Out (Steel Veins Book 1)

by Jackson Kane

  “You want me to sew you up? Are you sure? I’ve never done anything like that before.” She wiped herself down and started to dress.

  She appeared nervous, but I knew she’d be able to handle it. It really wasn’t that big a deal. “Sewing cloth and sewing skin isn’t all that different. Same principles apply. It’s actually kind of hard to fuck up once you got rolling. You never put the safety of a gun on before either. You learned that pretty fast.”

  Star had wiggled her pants halfway up when she paused to look at me.

  Such a goddammed sexy sight. Had I been less broken, I’d have had her wiggle them back down.

  She stood there a moment at a loss for words, wearing a mask of disbelief and feigned outrage. Eventually, her mischievous smile betrayed her and her resolve broke.

  She loved it, and she knew that I knew she did.

  “You’re lucky you have a cute ass. It’s the only reason I tolerate you.” Star then kissed me.

  “Have you seen this mug?” I playfully tapped my cheek scar. Oddly enough, lying on the bed covered in blood, stitched up like a voodoo doll, my cheek was the only part of me that wasn’t screaming with pain. “I’m pretty all over.”

  “You sure you’re all right? We haven’t talked much about what happened at the Lobos clubhouse.”

  “I don’t know how much there is to talk about,” I deflected. “Five bullets pretty much sums up my experience there. Three stars on Yelp. Would not recommend.”

  “Remy!”

  “Listen,” I exhaled. Why’d we have to ruin a perfectly good evening rehashing the past? “What happened, happened. I’m just sorry you had to be there to watch it all go down.”

  “If I hadn’t been there, you’d probably be dead.” She frowned as she slipped on her shoes and stood up.

  There was no probably about it, I would definitely be dead.

  “Yeah. I owe you one.”

  “Technically two, but who’s counting?” She shrugged, letting her tone lighten back up.

  “Apparently you are. I think that actually makes us square.” I chuckled darkly, leaning my head against the bed’s rickety headboard. “Either way, let’s not make a habit of that.”

  “Hey.” Star walked over to my side of the bed, her tone a tender reminder that she cared. “You know I’m with you until the end of the road, right?”

  “I know.” I wiped the blood off as best I could and grabbed her hand. “I’ll get us through. I promise you.”

  “We’ll get us through, Remy.” She squeezed my hand.

  There was fierceness in her grip and her tone that I loved more than anything. I nodded. Star had proved to me that she was tough enough for anything this life could throw at her. She wasn’t that innocent, pretty piece of ass wasting away at a gas station anymore.

  She was so much more now.

  “Go. I’ll be okay.” I brought her hand to my lips and kissed her knuckles.

  Star looked me over another minute then slipped on a light jacket and left.

  Sometime later, I slowly rolled off the bed and rummaged through my duffel bag. The bag was a lot lighter than I’d remembered. After paying Doc, getting this motel, and a few other things, there wasn’t much cash left.

  Apparently, we’d be getting a clean slate from money as well.

  We’d have to fly below the radar in Lobos country a little while longer until we had the cash to start new somewhere more neutral and I was fit enough for the journey. Star had already scouted the area for some waitress jobs. I’d pick up something temporary, too, when I was back on my feet. I had money, but most of it was stashed in my room back at the clubhouse. Not a place I should be showing up to anytime soon. Who knew if it was even still there? Probably wasn’t.

  Once a member died, unless there was a will or next of kin, any money he had went right back into the club. To them, I was dead, and the club knew where my safe was. It wasn’t like I had to hide the money from them while I was alive. While I was a member, I could rest easy, knowing that no one ever went into my room while I wasn’t there. At least not without a search warrant.

  I found what I was looking for in the bag. A bottle of whiskey. I sighed when I realized it was Old Crow Reserve. It’d been a long time since I put together this stash. In a bag with over twenty grand in cash and some hardware, and I had put in a ten-dollar bottle of whiskey.

  Goddamn, I was such a stupid kid back then.

  “Now you’re just a stupid adult.” I snorted, considering the condition I was currently in.

  I climbed back onto the bed and drank my whiskey. I tried wrapping my head around what a legit life with Star was going to look like. Part of me was worried that I couldn’t hack going straight. Worried that all I was good at was putting two wheels on the ground and putting out fires. I was willing to try though. For Star, I would try anything.

  How bad could it really be? I mused. People went legit all the time.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Remy

  “Ah, for the love of... how many times I gotta tell you, Thompson? Between these two fucking bones! Not those!” Joseph Moretti hollered with what seemed like perpetual exasperation.

  We nearly ran out of money a few weeks back. When I was healed up enough to work, I eventually picked up a job at a Moretti’s House of Meat. Star had also found work waitressing at Nachomama’s Mexican Kitchen across town.

  This whole thing was proving to be pretty fucking intolerable.

  “Fucking show me then, Moretti.” It was a constant battle reining in my irritation with the owner’s endless nitpicking. I honestly didn’t know how I hadn’t killed him yet.

  Finding work with no ID had been tricky. I’d been rejected from most places outright, and the few I did find weren’t good fits for me. I’d landed one warehouse gig a week ago but had to leave the following day when the Feds raided the place. Turned out it was a front for a Lobos drug running distribution operation.

  I’d barely gotten out of there before being arrested.

  Now I found myself at Moretti’s, and from what I could tell, the only thing he was guilty of was racism and price gouging. He was also the micromanagement type, which always drove me up a fucking wall. I’d used a fake name—Ronald Thompson. He knew something was up with me but didn’t ask a lot of questions, and he paid under the table. As long as I showed up on time and did my job, he didn’t give a damn who I really was.

  “Get outta the goddamn way.” Moretti snatched the knife out of my hands and made quick work of the chicken in front of me. “Cut here, here, and here!” Despite his shaky arthritic fingers, he had the chicken fully quartered and separated in fifty seconds flat.

  I was pretty good with a knife, but he was something else entirely. For being an incredible pain in the ass, the old man was a surgeon with a blade.

  “Clean this up. Put the meat in the icebox,” he grumbled, slapping the knife down on the cutting board.

  As impressive as he was, Moretti was a terrible teacher. He went too fast for me to grasp the process. He didn’t pause to tell me where the cuts were and why they were done like that. The process was so automatic to him that he probably didn’t realize how fast he was going. “All right, I understand the cuts for the legs, but how do you hold it to best expose the cutting lines?” I asked, picking up the knife along with another prepped and plucked chicken.

  “Goddammit, Thompson! The fuck do I pay you for? What’sa matter with your eyes? I just showed you! Ya know what? Go work the killing cone and pluck for the rest of the day!”

  I exhaled in frustration, squeezing the knife handle until my knuckles turned white. Finally, I buried the tip of the knife in the cutting board with such force that a running split threatened to snap the wood in half. Better that than his wrinkly forehead.

  “You pull that shit out!” Moretti’s aged face boiled over.

  “Can’t. I gotta go fucking kill chickens.” I pulled off my latex gloves, slapped them on the table, and walked from behind the glass divider t
o the attached retail store to cool off and grab a drink.

  “That board is coming outta your fucking pay!” He cursed at me before switching to Italian. Seeing that it was a lost cause, Moretti made Julio, the dishwasher, remove the knife instead.

  I’d been a part of the Veins for as long as I could legally ride a bike. And before that, the club hooked me up with my first jobs back in the day. The Steel Veins were heavily tied to the labor unions, so the jobs I got were mostly low-shows. I’d swing by to punch in, then fuck off and chill with Top and the rest of the guys.

  If this going legit thing made me realize anything, it was that I’d developed a very unique skill set. Unfortunately, it was just one I couldn’t use in civilian life. Getting Moretti to give me a week’s pay through bribes, blackmail, and threats was nothing, but actually working for the man… fucking like getting my teeth pulled one by one.

  I was doing my damnedest with this legit lifestyle—I really was—but I was struggling something fierce. This was a lot tougher than I’d thought it’d be. It felt like my every step on this path was through molasses.

  How the hell did people put up with this shit?

  I palmed the glass on the wall cooler that held the drinks out by the front entrance of the store. Being an avid reader, I started picking up Zen and stress management books, searching for ways to cope. I recited a calming mantra and tried to center. I grumbled to myself when the self-help techniques inevitably failed. I felt ridiculous. I shouldn’t be here doing this shit. But when I opened my eyes, I could see my faint reflection in the glass. I was mostly translucent with the exception of the bullet scar on my cheek. That was a daily reminder of the price I paid to wake up next to Star every morning.

  That was the price to not have to always be looking over my shoulder or worrying about who might be ready to kick our door in. I saw that ragged line across my face and remembered why I was doing all of this. I remembered why Star put up with Nachomama’s.

  It was the cost of our freedom.

  “Your only real job is not to fuck that up.” I scowled at myself then opened the door, grabbing a soda. I chugged half of it and ran my hand over my face a few times, letting the calm set back in. A few more weeks and we’d have enough to get us the hell out of New Mexico. Maybe we’d ride up west to Washington or Cali. I had a few distant cousins who might be able to get us back on our feet.

  Endure, Remy. Endure.

  I could do this, I reassured myself, running my hands through my hair and beard once again.

  Suddenly, I felt a small hand push into the back of my thigh. I turned and saw the big, brown eyes of a toddler looking up at me. “Hey there.” I picked the boy up and held him before me.

  He giggled and slapped playfully at my arms as I considered him.

  I’d never thought about having kids, how could I? To bring a child into my world was probably the single worst thing I could do. The kid wouldn’t stand a chance. At best, he’d get caught in the wreckage of the club and be dead before he was an adult. At worst… I glanced past the boy and caught my own reflection off the cooler.

  Rounding one of the racks of convenience store food was clearly the boy’s worried mother. When she found her son was all right, she placed a hand over her heart and thanked God. The poor woman looked severely overworked and sleep deprived. In Spanish, she apologized for her son.

  I just smiled at the boy and handed him back to her. There was nothing to apologize for. As long as he had someone who cared about him as much as she did, the kid would have a fighting chance in life.

  I wasn’t in that MC world anymore, I reminded myself, grabbing a soda, but then paused.

  Would it be so wrong to bring a child into this life?

  Through the store’s wall of window, I saw a biker pull into one of our handicap spaces. Beyond him, across the street were two more bikers wearing the cut and colors of Los Lobos. With folded arms, the two across the street sat on their bikes and watched the much younger biker enter our store.

  The hair on my neck started to rise.

  In walked a teenaged hang-around sporting Lobos colors—yellow undershirt with an oversized, open red button-down over it—but no MC vest around his shoulders. There was a bandana loosely tied around his neck, and when he bent over to grab a bag of chips, I could see the gun butt jutting out of the kid’s boxers.

  He put on a tough exterior as he was meandering around, but it was paper thin. The kid was all nerves.

  I knew immediately he was building up the courage to rob the place, and I scolded myself for leaving my knife in the cutting board.

  It was the middle of the day, and the store had half a dozen customers in it who all clearly saw his face as he walked in. He’d be crazy to try anything. I followed his glance out the window to see the real Lobos impatiently waiting for something to happen.

  Call it experience, but I knew in my bones that this was some kind of MC initiation test to see if the kid was hard enough for the Lobos. It was only a matter of time until this brainwashed sixteen-year-old did something life-altering.

  I was in the back of the store near the bathrooms and the emergency exit. The closest door to me was only a few feet away. I could just walk out, not get involved, and let the rocks fall where they may. That would be the smart thing to do. If I left right now, there’d be no blowback on me. I could say I went out for a smoke and wait for it all to work itself out. It made sense.

  I had no skin in this game.

  I didn’t know why I stayed. I had ample time to bounce, but I watched as the little Lobo wannabe finally found his balls, pulled up his bandana, and whipped out his pistol. It was a gigantic revolver that was way too big for him. It had to be the kid’s father’s gun. Unfortunately, he didn’t pull his bandanna up till after the cameras would have caught his face, but luckily for him, our cameras were dummies. They were strictly for show because Moretti was too cheap to actually set the system up.

  “Everybody, get on the ground!” He licked off a shot into the ceiling to prove he was serious.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Remy

  Firing off a round was this kid’s first mistake. He should have beelined to the cashier, quietly demanded the money, and left. This wasn’t a fucking bank heist. At best, it was a smash and grab, and this kid had already made a mess of things.

  This wasn’t going to end well.

  Now everyone was screaming and reaching for their phones to text their loved ones, the police, or live feed on social media. If the police showed up, the Lobos outside would be long gone. This hang-around would be on his own.

  Nervous at first, now he was bolstered by all the terrified civilians doing what he said. And, of course, the gun made him feel powerful. Was that what the Lobos were teaching their potential prospects now?

  Fear as respect.

  The hang-around shakily threw his piece up at Julia the cashier.

  Nearly hyperventilating at having a gun shoved in her face, she emptied the register drawer of everything as quickly as possible. Fucking kid didn’t even have a plan on how he was going to hold the money, so he told her to stuff it all into a plastic bag.

  The kid threatened her, and Julia dropped to the ground, terrified of being shot. The hang-around strutted around like he was king shit with all the power in the world in his hands as he walked the aisles. He snatched the purse of one lady and took the wallet off another guy. He was getting comfortable and showing off for the guys outside.

  That was his next mistake.

  He was there to do a job and leave. Not to peacock around, terrorizing people for petty cash. Every minute he lingered, the more the odds stacked up against him.

  Inevitably, he walked over to me, all low-slung pants and attitude. “Your wallet,” the kid demanded.

  “No.” There was thunder in my eyes. I was angrier at how bad he was at all this than actually being robbed. There was a way to do this correctly. This was just insulting.

  It was as if a Subway sandwich ar
tist walked into a Michelin-star restaurant and started running the show.

  “Give me your wallet, bitch!” He pushed the barrel of his gun into the side of my head.

  His last mistake, I decided.

  No.

  Remy, let this go, I told myself. This isn’t you anymore. I thought of Star.

  “Look at me.” I looked down, motioning toward my filthy apron. “I’m covered in dead chicken. You think a butcher keeps his wallet on him?”

  “Fuckin’ pussy.” The kid punched me in the stomach. It didn’t knock the wind out of me, but it hurt. The kid had a solid left hook.

  Forcing down my pride, I took a knee regardless. Teenager or not, I wanted to hurt him. Badly.

  But this wasn’t my fight.

  “Yeah, you’d better sit the fuck down, old man. Fuckin’ Lobos run this shit, bitch! Remember that,” he rattled on.

  I wasn’t listening.

  Past him, the mother from earlier cradled her crying son and eyed the front door. They were close enough that she thought they could make a break for it. It was a bad idea. They’d make too much noise. They wouldn’t make it.

  But she tried anyway.

  “Hey!” I said, trying to distract the hang-around as the woman attempted to leave. “I have my wallet on me. Take it!”

  It didn’t work. The hang-around ignored me and drew down on them. They disobeyed him, and he was losing control. He was committed now, and there was no turning back. If he didn’t feel like he was in complete control, he’d get scared and then… then things would get real ugly.

  “Stop!” the kid yelled, but that only spurred the woman to run faster.