Road Tripped: Satan's Devils MC Utah #1

by Manda Mellett

  I doubt Road’s ever come across a woman he needs to see as his equivalent before. He manages a strip club after all.

  “Are you into illegal shit? Or drugs?” he asks, his eyes narrowing as he turns back to the prez.

  Prez bristles, spitting out, “Nothing of the fuckin’ sort.”

  “You going to come right out and tell me what you’re about?”

  With a shake of his head, Prez refuses. “I’d rather you took some time to see for yourself.”

  Road considers him for a moment, then his gaze comes back to me. I wonder if this is where we learn something of the measure of the man. Is this someone who we’d call back in England a ‘jobsworth’, in that it’s more than his job’s worth to bend the instructions he’d been given? Which, though he hasn’t come out and said it, I’m certain were along the lines of go to Utah and find out what the hell goes on in that chapter. Or is he going to think for himself, and realise we’re given him the opportunity of understanding what makes us different, and take the time to discover why we are, instead of just wanting to run back to Drummer and tell him the little he already knows.

  I’m starting to suspect Road may not be a man to simply follow orders. The slight gleam in his eyes shows an interest has been sparked.

  “Give us a few days,” I press, thinking it looks like he’s weakening.

  He draws in air, lets it out, then jerks his head, indicating the enforcer he’s well aware is still standing behind him. “It doesn’t look like I’ve got much choice other than to give you a few days, but I still need to contact Drummer and tell him something. He’ll get worried if I go radio silent.”

  One corner of Pip’s mouth turns up. “I’ve got your phone, Road. Until you know what we’re all about, I’m keeping hold of it. I’ll text Drummer myself.”

  Road’s face darkens. “Seems lack of trust works both ways. I don’t trust any of you assholes here.” His eyes shutter, and I can understand what he’s feeling. The pause stretches out, then he realises he has no other option. Clearly defeated, he addresses me directly. “What do I fuckin’ call you?” His head moves side to side. “Can’t call you Brother.”

  I chuckle. “Swift will do fine.”

  “You a Brit or Australian or something?”

  Rolling my eyes as it’s not the first time Americans have muddled up my accent. “I’m from England.” It’s time to get friendly and defuse the situation. Believing I know just how, I offer, “Hey, you want a beer?” I’ve noticed some brothers are milling around, unashamedly listening in on our conversation, but others have walked out, and it’s not hard to guess where they’ll be going. I don’t know what Road feels like, but I could do with something to wet my throat. I hadn’t exerted much energy taking Stormy down, but the adrenaline I’d had to summon has left me thirsty.

  Road closes his eyes, but when he opens them again, they seem to have brightened. “A beer sounds fuckin’ good to me.”

  “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.” Prez seems relieved there’s going to be no blood spilt in our gym tonight, but he lingers enough to issue a warning. “Just remember, Road. Even if you were at the peak of fitness, you’d not be able to take Swift out.”

  Road raises his chin toward him, he doesn’t bluster or try to contradict. “I’ve seen that.”

  At least he admits it. Me taking down Stormy so fast made more than one point tonight. I don’t have to give my own warning. Not that I mind taking a man down. I’m used to men thinking they have to challenge my skills and ability, without accepting the evidence of their own eyes telling them they haven’t got a chance. Road’s casual acceptance scores well in my book.

  Getting to know each other works both ways, him the club, and us him. We’ll be dancing cautiously around each other for a while yet.

  Unlike Stormy, when I’m given a direct instruction, whether I like it or not, if my initial protests fall on deaf ears, I straighten my shoulders and get on with it. I’m partnered with Road, he likes it as little as I do, but we won’t move forward unless I make an effort to be friendly.

  “Your leg hurting?” I ask, as I lead him back through the corridors and then to the elevator that will take us to the first—second, must remember I’m in the US now—floor and up to our clubroom.

  “Some,” he agrees as I push the call button. He looks around. “This is unlike any clubhouse I’ve ever seen.”

  “We like it this way,” I tell him. “Purpose-built a few years ago. Before my time.”

  “Where do the brothers live?”

  “On the top floor,” I tell him. “Some have places in town.” I do myself, but he doesn’t need that information. “But there are rooms for all to bunk down here, and some brothers live here permanently.”

  The elevator arrives and we step inside. I’ve gotten so used to it, I don’t hear the music that’s playing softly in the background—the type you’d hear at any mall. Road’s brow furrows when he glances up at the speaker, but he doesn’t query it. I’m presuming he’s clocking it up as just one more of our oddities.

  When the elevator jerks to a halt, the mechanical voice announces we’ve arrived and the doors open. I watch Road’s reaction.

  His lips start to curve, his cheek muscles pull in and then his expression becomes a full smile. It completely changes his face.

  “Feel more at home?” I grin, it’s obvious he does.

  “Sure do.” He takes a step forward, leaning heavily on his stick, his eyes still taking in the room. There’s a bar along one side, tables and chairs scattered around, a pool table, a dart board, and a couple of gaming machines.

  “Why don’t you sit? I’ll go get us some beers.” I point to an empty table.

  For a brief moment I think he’s going to protest, but he fights to push down the manly side of him that wants to insist he be the one who gets the drinks. It’s an attitude I’m well used to. Being as, if not more, capable than most men, I tend to ignore it. That he doesn’t insist is a suggestion his leg must be paining him, I think, as he goes and sits at the table I pointed out. I watch him for a moment as he limps, favouring his busted leg. That ride from Tucson had to be long and draining, however many stops he put in.

  “He sticking around?” Rascal asks as I near the bar. He jerks his head toward Road in case I hadn’t known who he meant.

  I pause to hold two fingers up to Igor and then answer the question. “For now.”

  “I can’t see him staying.” Honor shakes his head. “He’s got too much loyalty to his chapter.”

  “Then we’ll help him get back home.” Rascal moves his finger in a cutting motion across his throat.

  Can a man’s loyalty be changed, I muse, as the prospect pops the top off two beers. If it can’t, Rascal’s right and Road might end up six feet under. I’m starting to hope it doesn’t come to that. It’s one thing to take a man out when you know nothing about him, but what if I find I like him? Worse, become friends with the man I’m working with? Could I stand back and see him executed in cold blood, just to preserve our secrets, however important they might be?

  Conveying my thanks via a chin lift to Igor, noting not for the first time how much like a mad scientist the prospect looks, I take the beers and make my way to the table where Road sits, his hand massaging the muscles around his knee. As I see it, I’ve got two options—stay completely aloof and don’t try to get to know the man at all, and keep him on the outside of everything, so I’m unaffected by what happens in the end. Which wouldn’t be what Pip wants me to be doing. Pip might come over as a hard man, but I know he’d want Road to have every chance. No, if I keep Road at a distance, it wouldn’t help him come to a decision, or not the one that keeps him breathing.

  My other option is to invest in him staying. To be totally open, answer all his questions and leave nothing unsaid or hidden. That’s a virtual death warrant if I can’t convince him Utah is his future. With luck, he’ll see it offering him a ticket to something that might replace what he’s lost and want
to make his life here.

  Despite my preference for working alone, I am a team player. I don’t give up on a person with no reason, and it’s ingrained in me never to leave a man behind.

  By the time I place his beer in front of him, I’m committed to taking the second option.

  When Road asks his first question, I’m glad I took that moment to have an internal conversation as I’ve no hesitation in answering him.

  “Tell me, how does a woman end up a member of the Satan’s Devils MC?” He lifts his beer and simultaneously raises his eyebrow in question.

  “You surprised to know a woman can ride a motorcycle?”

  “No, not that.” He chuckles. “There are a couple of the ol’ ladies in Tucson who ride. Hell, they don’t just ride, they both built their own bikes. They’re fuckin’ good mechanics and put me to shame. Sam, Drummer’s ol’ lady, she fixes up my trials bikes. Fixed.” He grimaces at his own reminder. “Used to ride against female riders in competition as well. I didn’t mind racing against either sex.” He winks and offers a smile. “I didn’t care who I beat.”

  “Competitive, I see.” That’s something we’ve got in common.

  “You bet.” His eyes close briefly as he remembers that pleasure has now been lost to him.

  I decide to counter his question with one of my own. “Why does a man join an MC, Road?”

  His eyes snap open and come to mine. Instead of leaping into a response, he gives my question serious consideration. “There are a number of reasons. One is riding beside like-minded people, being part of something. A sense of freedom, of sticking up a finger to citizen’s laws.”

  “And you don’t believe a woman might want that as well?”

  He regards me carefully. “Not the women I’ve come across. Look, Swift. I don’t know how this chapter works, but Tucson? Well, we’ve had a few enemies—rival clubs, the local crime gang. Our women are kept out of that shit. They wouldn’t want to be part of it.” He picks up his beer again. “I’m not saying women are weak. Darcy, our sergeant-at-arms’ ol’ lady, she’s a fuckin’ firefighter. Puts her life on the line every time she goes to work. But I could never see her taking up arms to protect the club.” He replaces the bottle on the table. “But maybe Utah is quieter.”

  Quieter? There are a lot of things Road’s going to find out. And Utah being quiet isn’t one of them.

  “You got men who served, Road?” I know he hasn’t himself. I’d seen that on the background check I’d run immediately after he’d entered our meeting room, quickly hacking through Mouse’s defences and finding Road’s government name of Lucas Winchester, and from there finding out his employment records as well as his medical ones.

  “Of course. I haven’t myself, but a number of the Tucson club have.”

  “And they joined the club, why?”

  “To replace what they no longer had.” His eyes flick to mine, a question in them. “To be part of something again, men around who they could trust to have their six. To be part of a team.”

  I nod. “I was in the British Army, Road.” I watch his eyes widen, but he doesn’t know the half of it as yet. “You’ve heard of the SAS, the Special Air Service?” It appears that he has, but I want to make sure he understands it. “It’s the equivalent of your Delta Force.”

  His eyes narrow. “You were in the SAS?” He sounds disbelieving.

  “I applied when they opened it up to females just a few years back,” I tell him, not answering his question immediately. “I was selected to be part of an intake of about a hundred and twenty soldiers. It’s hard, gruelling, and out of the number initially selected, only ten were expected to make the grade. The odds against succeeding are so high, there’s no shame if you don’t get through it. But you don’t go in expecting to fail, you go in with the thought you’re going to be one of the few percent who pass. You go in knowing people have died during the hardest training there is. You go in knowing you’ll be challenged in ways you could never dream of.”

  He stares at me as if re-evaluating his opinion of me, but needing more information to complete his new picture. “Tell me more about this training.”

  As he appears interested, I explain. “First of all, they test physical fitness and your mental stamina. It’s tough and demanding, nothing else compares. As a soldier, you’re used to superiors barking orders, but during this training you have to make your own decisions. Making a mistake can have dire consequences. As I said, it’s not unknown for people to die.” My eyes glaze slightly thinking back to my time in the Brecon Beacons, and the long gruelling hikes in difficult, nigh impossible, conditions. But fuck me, I enjoyed the challenge. “The final part of that first stage is a forty-mile hike carrying fifty-five pounds in weight. Not with people beside you encouraging you on, but on your own with no support.” He tilts his head, his eyes widening fractionally. “If you don’t make the grade at any time, you can be sent back to your unit. It’s no disgrace when more than ninety percent don’t make it. But if you get through that stage, then they send you to the jungle.” I grimace. “There, there an no adequate words to describe the conditions—harsh and testing don’t say the half of it. You have to survive behind enemy lines for weeks, living only on your wits and the rations you have with you. You know they want you to fail, because they’d rather you break then, than on a real mission.”

  My bare descriptions don’t really do it justice, living in hell is more like it. “Then the final stage is escape and evasion, which is just what it sounds like. You’re held captive and have to get away. Finally…” I pause and sigh. “The last test is learning to withstand interrogation. The methods used are designed to break you. They do everything and anything to you, employ the methods a real enemy might use.” By that time you’re hanging on by your fingernails, knowing what you can do to make it stop, but determined not to give in as the goal is so close in sight. “If someone’s passed all the other stages, this can be where they fail. They pull out every dirty trick in the book, and I mean everything, Road.” I shudder slightly. There had been times I wanted to yell out to make it stop. It hadn’t been polite, the gloves were off, just as if I’d been taken by the Taliban. Indignity piled on after indignity, the words, the threats, including graphic details of how they’d rape me. In the case of a man, they’d describe exactly what they’d do to the females in his life.

  It had been bad, I remember, but I’d rather find out I could withstand it during training, than discover I’d fail when faced with the real thing. In the end, though, it got so you couldn’t tell the difference, until, hungry, thirsty, desperate for sleep or for death to take you, mercifully, it stopped.

  “Did they?” he asks, a slight catch to his voice. “Did they break you?”

  I let him think on it for a moment, then shake my head and grin broadly as I share the proudest achievement of my whole life. “No. They didn’t break me. I made it. I was not only one of the few of that intake who were accepted, I was going to be one of the first bloody women in the SAS.” I still can’t find sufficient words to explain how proud I am of that.

  “Was?” He stiffens, catching onto the tense I’d used. He eyes me thoughtfully, while pushing his hair back from his face. “What happened, Swift? You wouldn’t throw everything away after going through weeks of that hell. What fuckin’ happened?”

  “Try months,” I correct him. “The training lasted months. And you’re right, I wouldn’t have.” I pause for a moment trying to push thoughts of what I should be doing now out of my head. I should be facing down terrorists, sneaking around behind enemy lines, working for my country. Instead, I’m here in the States.

  A pang of what I lost goes through me, and I clench my fists in an effort to stay calm, before continuing. “I was driving along a motorway in England when an accident happened right in front of me. A tanker jackknifed. The driver had fallen asleep at the wheel, one of those split-second naps, you know? He realised he was drifting, corrected too hard, lost control of his rig. He walked away.
The man in the car behind that crashed into the tanker, could not.”

  I stop for a moment to take a breath, viewing the scene dispassionately in my head. “There was smoke, flames. The driver of the car was screaming, so clearly alive, but trapped. I ran to help. I was a soldier in uniform. I told everyone else to step back, and they obeyed as they assumed I knew what I was doing. The passenger side was crushed under the tanker, and the driver’s door wouldn’t open as it had caved in. But from the outside I had the leverage I needed. I managed to get the car door open and pull him out. He was okay and did what any sensible person should, and ran off. I was following him when the whole damn scene exploded.” Automatically, hands go to the back of my head. “He’d just picked up a gas cannister for his barbecue. The valve must have gotten damaged in the collision and the escaping fumes caught fire.”

  Road sucks in air, eyeing me carefully as though checking for injuries. He won’t find them, any visible scars have gone. “How badly were you hurt?”

  “The blast knocked me off my feet, dropped me down hard on the tarmac, and metal, from the car, cannister, I don’t know what, hit my head. Fire enveloped my back, but luckily a quick-thinking bystander had a fire extinguisher in his car, and managed to put my clothing out before it burned through to the skin. But, the blast, the concussion, well, I’ve lost most of my hearing.”

  His brow furrows. “But you’re hearing me? You read lips?”

  “I should, but I find lip reading hard.” Tucking my hair back, I point to what’s in my ear. “I depend on hearing aids.”

  Road stares at me, then lowers his eyes, then moves his head from side to side. He doesn’t ask, but he tells me, “Which meant you couldn’t be a soldier anymore.”