If he’s done nothing else, he’s given me something to think about which doesn’t revolve around my lost sport. Feeling more lighthearted, I raise my eyebrow. “You sure I can’t just get you some Pepto-Bismol?”
Drummer snorts. “Get out of here, Road.”
2
Road…
The Satan’s Devils are loyal supporters of American-built bikes, with the vast majority riding Harleys, though there are a few Indians dotted around the other chapters. Despite my vast experience of riding and having my own trial bike on which I’d already won competitions, they only let me join as a prospect on the condition that I got myself what to them was a proper bike.
Of course, I kept my off-road bike, but bought myself an old Harley. Apart from the difference in weight and that I couldn’t ride it on tracks, I soon settled to the relative comfort. It had two wheels, and I wasn’t confined like I’d be in a cage, so what was there not to like about it? The benefit was admission to the Satan’s Devils MC and the ready-made family I was fast accepted as a part of.
After my prospecting time was done and I’d become a full member, the extra money in my paycheck and no living expenses, as I lived at the club, meant I could trade in my road-legal bike for a real trials model. One for which things like lights and indicators were sacrificed to make it as fast and manoeuvrable as possible. I also, recently, upgraded my Harley to a more reliable and newer version. The seat is soft, padded, and probably to compensate for the discomfort of the trials bike, I’d gone for all the comforts of a tourer. A perfect bike for the five hundred and fifty miles I needed to go.
I’ve done twenty-four-hour endurance races. An eight-hour ride would normally be nothing to me, but even despite the comfort of the Harley, now riding for long distances with my leg in the same position had muscles screaming after much more than an hour, so I broke up my journey as Drummer had suggested. Being an all-expenses paid trip, I felt no qualms picking places better than the cheapest dump to stay each night, enjoying a different environment, and being in no rush to get anywhere.
Riding only two or three hours each day, it took me three days to reach Utah.
Away from my brothers and their old ladies, all trying unsuccessfully to help in their own way, I’d enjoyed the solitude. My mind was cleared by wind therapy as I rode, my nights spent eating and drinking alone. Being left to my own devices did indeed give me the space I needed to examine the thoughts in my head.
At first my mind was filled with hate and anger, directed solely at the rider who’d taken one chance too many and had ended my riding career. We raced, pushing our bikes to their top speed, our skills using brake, clutch and gears to take that jump, twist or turn and land safely. Our aim to stay shiny side up, and in front of, or at least clear of, other competitors.
Being top class riders, ours was a close-knit community, seeing the same faces at race after race. Decker hadn’t been a newcomer, but he did have a reputation as a risk taker. As did we all. You didn’t make it to the top without pushing your chances. I don’t know what he’d been thinking, he’d been going too fast for the turn ahead. I’d braked in anticipation, he hadn’t. He clipped my rear wheel and I’d gone down in the dirt, slid over the edge and into a shallow, thank fuck, ravine.
Of course, he’d walked away with only a dented bike and ego, leaving me broken, my bike a wreck wedged on top of me. I’d been knocked unconscious but had seen the pictures. When I got out of the hospital and had saw for myself the twisted metal that had once been my pride possession, I was gutted. Not that it had really mattered, bikes could be replaced, but not, apparently, my riding career and my chance to travel the world and ride in international championships. That first day when I left Tucson in my rearview, all I could think of was how angry I was. Decker was already racing again.
The second day, the sun shone brightly. My eyes were caught by a hawk high up in the cloudless sky. I began to feel some of the ire inside me slip away as, at last, some of the negative feelings eased their grip on me, and I started to find positive ones to focus on instead.
Sure my leg’s busted, but it will get stronger and mend. Not as good as before, but I’ll soon be walking without the aid of a stick again. Even today I woke up to find it was a little steadier and more able to support my weight. I’m still able to ride, just not competitively. It could have been worse, I could be dead.
As the distance from Tucson increased, I felt lighter, and rather than looking back, looked forward instead.
Still unconvinced this is anything other than Drummer wanting to get me and my bad mood away from the club, I resolve if this is a job he really needs done, I’ll do it to the best of my ability. There’s a small burn of pride inside me, knowing he’s trusting me to go to a different chapter as the representative of the mother chapter prez. Despite my shows of temper, he’s trusting me to make a good impression. I hold Drummer in high respect, so I’ll make every endeavour to keep a hold on my temper.
This morning will see me complete the last leg of my journey. I feel refreshed as I wake, ready to take on the world. I settle up at the reception desk of the decent enough hotel I’d found to rest up my leg—I didn’t ask for much—cleanliness, a comfortable bed and a place to park my bike—and this place hadn’t disappointed.
Heading out to my bike, I buckle on the saddlebags and program the GPS. Kicking down into gear, I turn onto the highway, and follow the route the device on my handlebars suggests.
The miles tick down. I’m riding at a steady speed, the predicted time of arrival doesn’t change. As my destination draws closer, twin emotions of expectation and apprehension start to war within me. What if there’s something wrong as Drummer suggested? Nah, there can’t be much, and he didn’t have strong suspicions. If he had, he’d have sent someone with me. Still, I can’t quite shake this sense of unease.
Two miles to go, one mile. I make the turns indicated by the GPS, and then begin to pull up, rolling the bike to a halt. Damn. While the electronic device had gotten me the majority of the way without leading me wrong, now it seems to have made a mistake. This can’t be the Satan’s Devils’ clubhouse. Without turning off the engine, I look around to see if there’s a ramshackle building or auto-shop I might have missed.
Of course, I don’t have a clue what I’m looking for. I certainly wasn’t expecting an old vacation resort like we’ve got in Tucson, or even a disused airstrip like in San Diego. Maybe something more akin to the old warehouse in Vegas, or the steel mill in Pueblo. But this? Nah. Can’t be it. Through the gates I’m currently sitting in front of, I see a modern steel and glass building on the edge of an industrial estate. This can’t be right. Perhaps where I want is around the back?
Apart from being in likely looking locations, our other chapters also have large signs announcing we’re the Satan’s Devils MC. Well, why not? Local law enforcement knows exactly where to find us—no point in hiding. But here there’s nothing over the gate to suggest who lives and works here. Live? Well, nothing screams out clubhouse to me.
I check the address once again and take out my phone. My map app agrees this is where I’m meant to be. The road is right, and so is the number. Has Drummer got this wrong?
Only one way to find out, go inside and ask. I must be near enough to be given directions. I pull through the unmanned gate and halt outside the door, noticing the parking lot is devoid of bikes. Switching off the engine, I drag my stick from the mount Blade had put on for me. While I practiced walking without it when I vacated the hotel, my leg is cramping from riding, and I can’t risk falling flat on my face when faced with strangers. That would make an awkward introduction, or someone might think I was drunk.
Approaching the rotating front door, I know this isn’t the right place, but hopeful that as it’s a business, someone inside can redirect me to where I need to be. Before I enter the rotating glass door, I notice a holder with a printed card slipped inside and peer closer to read the writing to see what type of business this is. I’m s
hocked as hell to read Satan’s Devils MC. Utah Chapter.
I pause, frown, and hastily revise my ideas. Hefting my cut so it sits easier on my shoulders, the colours I only put on when I knew I was back in Satan’s Devils territory, I step into one of the quarters. The door begins to move automatically. Walking forward in the semi-circle, I step out into a reception area—the kind you’d expect to find in any office building.
There’s even a desk, behind which sits a man. He’s wearing a cut similar to mine, and immediately I feel more relaxed. He looks up as I enter.
“Can I help you?” His eyes move down from my face and fall on my cut. He frowns, stands, and turns to reach under his desk. The back of his cut is revealed as he does. It reads, Prospect. I’m not surprised. It would be stranger to find a patched member manning the front desk. I do suspect he’s reaching for a weapon. All he knows so far is that I’ve arrived on a motorcycle and have entered wearing colours. The three patches on my back he hasn’t yet seen.
“Roadrunner.” I offer my name, and a chin lift. “Satan’s Devils MC, Tucson Chapter.”
If I thought I’d put him at ease with my introduction, I’m wrong. It would appear I’ve put him off balance.
“I wasn’t told to expect you.” His eyes widen, and he seems unclear what to do or say next. I notice he offers no brotherly welcome, but maybe that’s because he’s not patched in yet.
I don’t need to explain anything to a prospect. “Your prez around?”
His face goes blank.
I roll my eyes. “Snatcher, your prez.”
“They’re all in church.” He offers the explanation as though it will dismiss me.
It’s Wednesday, and they’re in church? In the middle of a workday? Of course, it’s not unusual to have meetings called at any time when there’s a need. I wonder whether something urgent had come up. Could even be something their discussing that Drummer needs to know about. That’s exactly what I’ve been sent to find out, and there’s no reason not to do just that. I’m a patched member of the Satan’s Devils MC. Visiting members are always invited to sit around our table in Tucson, here shouldn’t be any different. Cut one of us, we all bleed Satan’s Devils’ blood.
There’s something about the attitude of this prospect which annoys me. He’s too cocky and too reluctant to offer help. Prospecting’s not so far in my rearview that I don’t remember having to jump to attention and give a member whatever he wanted, whatever chapter he was from. If I wasn’t as obliging as fuck, I wouldn’t be getting my patch, had been ingrained in me. This man, though? He doesn’t seem to give a damn.
“Where’s your meeting room?” I ask, making a snap decision.
He stares at me for a moment. His mouth opens and shuts, and his hands rise, then he lowers them again. He seems flustered as he raises his chin, obviously unable to think of any other course of action. “This way.” He pauses halfway down a carpeted corridor and holds out his hand. “Gun, knife and phone.”
It’s not an odd request. Most chapters don’t allow weapons or such devices in church. A habit ingrained from back in the days when disagreements could turn bloody, or conversations not meant for other’s ears recorded. It’s still the way we do it in Tucson. Well, phones anyway. Heaven forbid if we ever tried to take away Blade’s knives. Mouse, our computer expert, is hot on our phones being hacked and there are apps which can be installed which somehow keep microphones live. Sci-fi shit to me.
I do wonder the reason for it here. Utah knows fuck all about tech, hasn’t even got an equivalent of Mouse. Maybe they don’t trust each other that much here. Thinking nothing of it, it’s probable they’ve never moved on. We’ve always considered them an old-fashioned club. I pass over my gun and phone. The prospect carefully locks them in a box, then knocks on a door and opens it.
The table is a stretched oval shape, with two definite ends. I look at what I assume is the head of the table, then, when that doesn’t reveal the man I would know as soon as I saw him, I move my eyes to the opposite end, words to introduce myself already on my lips as I ready myself to greet Snatcher, President of the Utah Chapter of the Satan’s Devils MC.
“I…”
That’s all I get out before I realise I don’t recognise the man seated at the head of the table at all. The man to his left, though, is Snatcher. Okay, so different seating arrangements. It’s up to them how they run the club, and who am I to criticise a prez who sits among his men.
I try again. “Prez, sorry to barge in. I was in the area.” All eyes are upon me as I speak, but no one leaps to their feet, no hands are outstretched to greet me. Their expressions get me shifting awkwardly and already regretting my hasty decision to walk uninvited into church. If the prospect hadn’t annoyed me, I’d have been more circumspect and waited until the meeting had ended before making my presence known.
“I suggest you address yourself to me.” When the man at the head of the table makes his demand, my eyes flick back to him automatically.
I don’t know him from Adam. I recognise Thor, who’s seated opposite Snatcher, and Piston, their road captain who’ve I’ve seen a time or two before. But no other face is at all familiar. Not surprising, Utah’s a way out from Tucson so not many men would make the trip down there without good reason, and there hasn’t been one of those for a while. Not since I became a member. The man missing, Thumper, I’d met and regret his absence. He, I remember, was a friendly, jovial type and who, I believe, would have worn a welcoming smile. But Thumper is dead and no help at all now.
As my eyes scan each face hoping to see something there other than suspicion, I do notice something which strikes me as completely out of place. Halfway down the table seated facing me is a woman.
Ah. Perhaps it’s a business meeting. Not church at all. No wonder I shouldn’t be here. Club business is one thing, but commercial activity is a different beast entirely.
I turn back to the unknown man at the head of the table, preparing to voice my apology and then back out of the door, when the voice of the stranger I’m now facing barks once more. “Who are you?”
“I’m Roadrunner, Road,” I explain. “From the mother chapter in Tucson.”
He raises his eyebrows at Snatcher, who gives a sharp up and down nod, clearly confirming my words.
“I’m sorry I interrupted. I’ll wait outside.” I take a step backward.
“Stay where you are,” the stranger’s voice snaps loudly.
I don’t so much as move another inch in any direction. It’s as though he’s commanded my feet, making me almost stand at attention. “Why are you here? Did Drummer send you?” His questions are barked out one after the other without drawing breath.
I may be feeling like a naughty schoolboy called in front of the head teacher, but I’m not going to let this stranger have it all his own way. “Prez,” I say, letting my gaze land on Snatcher. “Who is this?” I hope Snatcher will understand that I don’t necessarily want to talk about club business. Not when there’s a stranger in the room, and a bitch at the table. Who are the pair? They’re both wearing cuts, but presumably not from this MC. Maybe the bitch is his property?
The tabletop is rapped loudly with a gavel. My eyes go back to the man seated at the head. “You’ll address me, not the VP.”
VP? My brow creases. Maybe that knock I’d taken on the head was too hard and my memory is muddled. But Thor’s VP, isn’t he? And Snatcher is the prez. Unless there’s been changes which Drummer hadn’t known about. Maybe this was the cause of the wrongness he’d felt in his gut. There’s been a change in roles or a takeover of the chapter and he’s not been informed as the Satan’s Devils rules would have it. The switch must have come recently, as Drummer, when I left him, definitely remained under the impression that Snatcher was still at the top of the table.
Now I look closer. The man sitting in Snatcher’s old chair has a dirty patch on his cut. Leaning in a bit and squinting so I can read it from my position halfway down the table, I can now see it does
say President. What’s striking is it doesn’t look new.
I may have been caught unawares, presented with a situation I know nothing about, but a president deserves respect, if that’s what he indeed is. “Apologies, Prez.” I raise my chin toward him. “Drummer didn’t tell me there had been a change.”
“No change,” the man who hasn’t yet given himself a name, tells me. “I’ve sat in this seat for years.”
Now I can walk short distances, sit on my bike for miles, but standing in one spot? That’s a challenge after the distance I’ve ridden in the last few days. Even balancing with the aid of the cane is making my leg ache. I shift, trying to relieve the soreness in my muscles, only to realise my damn knee has locked. As I move my leg, pain shoots through me making me grab the back of the nearest chair.
The woman almost directly opposite stares and then glances down at a tablet in front of her and recites, “You injured your leg among other things when you crashed halfway around the track on May 8th.” As my eyes go wide, she then recites the details of the medical report my doctor had put into laymen’s terms for me, which she’s obviously got access to and is reading the original notes.
While my mouth drops open, the prez takes pity on me, though his tone is anything but sympathetic, more as though he’s identified a weakness instead. “Do you need to sit?”
No. I don’t want anyone to make accommodations for me, but the pain in my leg means I have to swallow my pride. “Yes,” I respond through gritted teeth.
“Bolt?”
The man who answers to that handle gets up from his chair and pulls one of three spares from against the wall, placing it next to his own.
With a sort of hop-and-drag affair, I get myself into position and sit down with a sigh of relief I can’t quite suppress.
Road Tripped: Satan's Devils MC Utah #1 Page 2