Could there be something for me here? Would I find a purpose to replace my lost dreams? I won’t know until I give them a chance to show me what they are about, and how they earn their money.
If I wanted to, is there a way I could escape, get to my bike and ride off, find some means of contacting Drummer? Hell, even slip away and find a phone to use here. But as it stands now, I’ve no way of alerting my prez.
If I bolt, I lose my chance to find out what’s going on, and whether I’d like to be part of it.
If I stay, I’ve a good excuse to stay quiet. I don’t have a way to update anyone, and I’ll be gaining more information for when the time comes that I can.
But to learn as much as I can, I’ll have to earn the trust of the members here. To do that means letting go of my anger at the way they’re treating me. If I go on the verbal attack when Swift finally appears, that’s not going to win her confidence.
Anger I can push down with justifications of why it’s not the correct emotion right now, the gnawing of my stomach is a physical fact far harder for me to deal with. I’m a big man, I can’t live on air.
So when Swift appears and starts going on about a tour she wants to take me on, I’ve only one thought in my mind. Hunger.
My question about breakfast seemed to take her by surprise. Suspicion dripped off her when we arrived at the elevator. It hadn’t actually crossed my mind that I could push her aside, descend to the first floor and head out to my bike, the key for which is still in my cut. I’d already decided if I ran with my tail between my legs, I’d have no info for Drummer other than that the wool has been pulled over his eyes with regard to the structure here, oh, and for the existence of Swift herself.
I’d been taken aback, so I called her out on it, and found myself admitting something that wasn’t just an excuse to make her think I was buying into transferring to Utah. It was the truth that maybe staying in Tucson wasn’t where I wanted to be for the rest of my life.
My arrival in the Arizona city had been by accident. I’d stayed in Washington where I’d had my last foster home, and knew I was sliding downhill. At the age of eighteen, I’d been too old for the system, but no one offered me a home. There weren’t many who’d take me in. I’d had nowhere to go other than to accept the offer of bunking down on a sofa with one of the old school friends I’d remained in contact with. I managed to get a job stacking shelves in a grocery store, my friend, well, I didn’t quite know how he was coming by his money.
If I’m honest, I didn’t want to know, just as long as he didn’t drag me down into his business. One of the homes where I’d been placed, the man had a drug habit, and the money they got from fostering fed that rather than the children they brought home. It was there I’d learned the damage drugs could do. I’d witnessed his mood swings, learned how to evade his fists, seen him climbing the walls when he needed his fix. I’d seen enough to steer well clear of anything to do with that scene.
But it wasn’t drugs my friend was into, or not directly. When confronted, he’d assured me of that. He was, however, part of a gang. A gang who were into any shady dealings which brought in money without them having to do hard work. Even then I’d had bulk which made me look threatening, and I’d begun to get approaches of the type it was getting harder to refuse. It culminated in them wanting me to get them into the store where I worked so they could rob the tills one night.
They weren’t the type you refused easily. I could either start a criminal career or find my time on earth limited. I had to get out but had no idea where to go. Desperate, I took all my available cash that I’d saved and got myself to the bus station. I got on the first Greyhound headed south and rode that as far as the money I’d spent on the ticket would take me, and that ended up getting off that bus in Tucson.
It was warm as I’d hoped, so sleeping rough wasn’t a problem. As I hadn’t aided or abetted a robbery and without me being there to open up, none had yet taken place, I got a decent enough reference from my old employer and was able to pick up more work. Mostly lifting and moving shit, as my main attribute was brawn. I stayed in Tucson at first as it was convenient, then I answered an ad for a bouncer’s job at a strip club. Hey, don’t judge me, I was a young man and the thought of spending all my time among naked and half-naked women sounded right up my street.
The job, however, wasn’t what I expected. Instead of watching the ladies strut their wares on the stage, I was stuck at the door weeding out undesirables and flexing my muscles to show others what they’d be in for if they caused trouble inside. When I did get close to the show, it was to persuade someone who’d had too much to drink or had got far too touchy-feely with the girls that it was in their best interests to leave. Sometimes I needed to eject them physically.
Before and after the shifts I’d meet the girls, by then dressed in their street clothes. I became friendly, got to know their circumstances and they became women with histories to me, and not objects for my eyes to leer over.
The Satan’s Devils were good to work for, and when a chance to prospect for them came up, I jumped at it. Well, as soon as I could afford to buy the Harley, my trials bike didn’t impress them. Until we had to bury twenty bodies, and they had the idea to make me a practice track up in the forest behind the compound.
It still makes me smile to remember it. It was just after I’d taken a bullet trying to prevent Sam being kidnapped. Unable to ride myself, I’d been terrified when Peg commandeered my precious baby, my competition bike—I couldn’t object, I was still a prospect then. They all took turns riding it, while I hardly dared watch. In the end, it had been Sam, who by then had become Drummer’s old lady, who had beaten everyone. It had ended up a fun day, and surprisingly both my bike and my sanity had survived it.
The track, known as Road’s, was still in use when I left Tucson. It’s been extended for its original purpose a time or two, but I didn’t complain. It was a great practice track, and what bother was a few more skeletons buried under it?
But I no longer needed it.
I need the Devils, I know that. I loved the camaraderie from the first moment I stepped foot onto the compound. But Tucson? That’s the thing, I don’t know. Apart from my brothers, I’ve no ties to it. Maybe it would be better to move on, to find new interests and challenges. In Utah?
The suggestion might have me thinking about moving, and staying a Devil is a given. But there are other chapters which might suit better. Here, I’ve hardly been welcomed—I’ve been threatened, coerced and imprisoned.
I need respect from the brothers I ride alongside, and the confidence to respect them in return. That being missing, I could never transfer, and neither if they were into drugs or dealing. Those are my hard limits.
So yeah, maybe I’m at the right place for a change. Admitting to Swift that Tucson perhaps isn’t the be-all and end-all for me any more seemed to change how she viewed me. When the elevator doors opened, she waved me on inside. I could easily have pushed her clear so I could escape, and I half expected her to be holding a gun on me. But no, instead, she’d decided to show a little trust in me.
Partners. That’s what Pip said we’d be. Okay, so partners don’t lock each other in a bedroom, but I’ll just have to move on from that today and put it behind me. Carrying a grudge won’t help me discover the secrets of this chapter.
We exit on the first floor, which surprises me. I’d expected the kitchen to be on the same level as the clubroom, close by in case brothers want snacks. Swift directs me along a hallway in the opposite direction to the gym, and soon I’m entering what looks like it could be any work cafeteria. There are empty Formica-topped tables, even fucking napkins in holders scattered around, as well as tidy assortments of various condiments laid out.
The counter and display cabinets are empty. It looks like the place is closed, although tempting odours are wafting our way.
Led by my empty stomach, I follow Swift as she makes a path around the tables, and pushes open a swing door by the sid
e of the counter.
A man, crouched down, speaks from his position on the ground. “What d’ya want?”
“Road’s hungry,” Swift announces, glancing around.
“Well, he should have fuckin’ come down on time. Kitchen’s closed now.”
I open my mouth to say I would have done if I’d been able to, when Swift goes to a large industrial-sized fridge and speaks on my behalf. “My fault, ‘Boy. I didn’t think.”
Ah, yes. This is Cowboy. I recognise him as he stands. The checked shirt he’s wearing makes him look like he just rode in off the range. All he needs is a ten-gallon hat to complete the look.
Cowboy tosses a glare at Swift. “I’m not cooking for him.”
“It’s okay, I’ll do it,” she casually replies.
The cowboy-come-biker rolls his eyes. “I didn’t hear Pip telling you to kill him.” Then he turns my way, and frowns. “You cook, Road?”
“I get by.”
His shoulders pull back a little. “Been in a professional kitchen before?”
“Been in one, yes, many times. The Angels cooked up fries and snacks, and Tucson runs the Wheel Inn, our restaurant. Used one? No.”
Swift snorts. “Doubt if Road’s the person you’re looking for to help you out. Not from the sound of it. Look, Road, there’s some bacon and eggs. ‘Boy’s right. If I cook it, you’ll end up with food poisoning, so here you are.”
She places them down on the counter. I eye them dubiously. Not that I’m a stranger to pots and pans, it’s just I wouldn’t know where to start with the monstrosity of a cooker that’s facing me.
A sigh, then Cowboy takes the food Swift pulled out. He presses a few buttons on the digital stove, then points a spatula toward me. “Breakfast is seven to eight. Eight-thirty on Sundays. You want to eat in the future, you’d best remember that.”
“So,” I hop up onto a counter, then immediately jump down seeing his glare. “So, you’re the cook then?”
This time Swift’s snort is strangled with a laugh.
“Chef. I’m the chef,” he clarifies, waving a spatula threateningly and holding my eye until I give a sharp nod.
“He was a Navy chef,” Swift informs me, picking up an apple and taking a large bite. Once she’s swallowed she continues, “Used to cook gourmet food for the admirals.”
“Yeah, well…” Cowboy looks somewhat mollified. “That’s as well as feeding a crew of two thousand or more.”
“How did you end up here?” I ask, genuinely interested.
“Well, I did my time, got out. Had dreams to open my own restaurant.” His face darkens as though a cloud has passed over it, then he visibly shakes himself. “That didn’t pan out. One thing and another led here.”
“Satan’s Devils put you to work?” It’s clear he’s in charge of the kitchen, another difference from back home. There the old ladies feed anyone who doesn’t want to cook in their own home, or lives on the compound in the suites used by single brothers.
Cowboy looks amused now. “Not at first. They used to take turns. Seemed easier to take it on myself, then risk death by salmonella. Fuck, but at times I was more scared than facing an enemy.” His eyes widen slightly as he recalls those days. “So, while I thought I’d put my chef’s whites behind me, I donned them again. Well,” he glances down at himself, “figuratively.”
The wonderful smell of bacon fills my nostrils, and I watch him expertly crack eggs into a pan. As they sizzle, he adds a few herbs and spices. It’s not long before he places two loaded biscuits in front of me.
Dubious about the extras, I reach for the ketchup and apply my normal amount, then raise the biscuit to my mouth.
Christ. If this is a sample of the way they eat here, maybe transferring would be a good idea. Even Ma’s breakfast recipes from the book she left us when she died can’t match up to this. I don’t speak, don’t ask questions, just carry on eating until not even crumbs are left on my plate. Then I raise my fingers to my mouth and lick them.
“Good?” Swift’s mouth quirks.
I nod, still trying to savour the final moments of flavour.
“Wash it down with this.” Cowboy places a coffee pot in front of me, and pushes creamer and sugar my way.
It’s good stuff, some special blend or something. I eye Swift. “You’re not having any?”
“Huh.” Cowboy scoffs as he cleans up the kitchen, clearly for the second time today. “She’s a fuckin’ heathen. Only drinks English breakfast tea.” My eyes follow him as he carefully wipes everything down.
Swift grins but doesn’t apologise for the error of her ways.
“You done?” she says when my cup is empty.
I find I am indeed done. My stomach feels full, and my body has been re-caffeinated sufficiently for now. “Is this where you tell me what’s going on?”
“I’m going to show you,” she says. “Come.”
“Lunch at noon, dinner at eighteen hundred hours,” Cowboy calls after us as we leave the kitchen.
“You really have set mealtimes?” In Tucson it was usually when the food was ready, or heated up leftovers at any time.
“Cowboy hasn’t got the patience for anything else. He’s got better things to do with his time. Or course, when shit hits the fan, he adapts. When it’s quiet, as it is now, he likes to serve us all at once.”
I don’t know of any MCs with a top chef in residence, so I can’t compare, and I’m definitely not going to put in any complaints. From the haunted look in Cowboy’s eyes, I’ve a feeling there’s an unhappy story as to why the chef isn’t running his own top restaurant. Jury’s out as to whether he’d win any Michelin stars, though that breakfast comes close to suggesting he might be worthy.
9
Road…
We head out through the cafeteria again, and this time Swift uses her key card at another door. I expect it to lead into an office, instead I’m presented with a room which Mouse would probably offer to sell his soul to the Devil in exchange to be allowed inside to play. One wall is completely taken up by a range of monitors, all flat screen. A couple are showing the outside of the compound, and others are currently dark, clearly switched off.
“The receptionist gets the same view,” Swift explains, when she sees where my eyes are fixed. She nods at Duty and Honor who have keyboards in front of them. There are half a dozen work stations in all. In addition to the wall mounted monitors, each work station has its own screen. There’s a low hum of computers whirring in the background as fans keep them cool. In the corner, his back turned toward the rest, sits Stormy. I notice he doesn’t greet me. I also find I don’t care.
“Okay, question time.” I look down at Swift. “Why do Drummer and all the other chapters think Utah’s got no technical capacity? And no computer experts?” It gets worse, I recall. “Why the fuck do you call on Mouse’s help when you need information? Or,” I wave my hand, “is this all for show?”
“There,” Honor’s voice interrupts, pointing to his screen.
“Got it,” Duty replies. His hands fly over his keyboard. “Tickets sorted.” He then sits back and fist bumps his, what? Partner? Colleague? Lover?
“And,” I add to my list of questions, “what are you doing here?”
Swift nods her head toward Honor. “Part of it is what these two are working on. We sometimes provide aid to a pipeline to help women, and men, escape from abusive partners. They’re currently tracking the progress of a woman and her kid, making sure they get to the next stage of their journey. Duty’s just hacked into the Greyhound database to ensure tickets are waiting for them when they arrive at the terminal. That moves them on safely, with no trace back to them.”
It sounds impressive and far more worthwhile than anything I was thinking. “What else?”
“This is the hub of our operation. If, when, you go out on a case, you’ll be connected back to here. Where possible, camera feed from our body cams will show on these monitors, and you’ll be given the information you need to know.”
“What operations?” I ask, then backtrack. “No, go back to my original question. Why the fuck make Mouse, Cad, Token, and Keys jump through hoops when you’re set up better than they are?”
She purses her lips and gives a slight grimace. “We’re good at what we do, Road. We run a tight ship, as ‘Boy would say. Sure, we can, and do, help other chapters, even when they don’t know. But we can’t have our facilities used for every little enquiry that Mouse needs help with. If they knew what we could do, they’d want to use us and our capability, and at times we’re almost too stretched to help ourselves.”
Mouse has got his own expert hacker on speed dial—a woman who’s married to an Arab prince of all things. I doubt he’d be calling on Utah. My lips thin. But that’s beside the point. Surely chapters should want to help each other out?
But she’s intimated they do, just not openly. Wheels whir in my mind as I try to dredge something up. Something I remember hearing about sat around the table back in Tucson. It couldn’t be, could it?
It adds up. With a touch of anger, I try my idea out. “San Diego? Were you the fuckin’ dicks leading Token around by the nose? Telling Lost his old lady needed protection without explaining why? Giving Token the key to decipher the information?” It might not have happened in our chapter, but Drummer wanted us all to know. None of us like a mystery. “You were the ones who fuckin’ sent up the drone?” That my words have struck home is shown by the way Swift’s lips have thinned. I don’t need the slight raise of her chin to confirm it.
“Goddamn it.” I smash my hand down on the back of a chair.
“That would have been Stormy.” Swift’s tone suggests she didn’t approve. That he helped? Or the way he did it?
There’s more. Could Stormy have…? Suddenly I find myself taking a step toward him. “Did you take out that fuckin’ bastard Lost deserved to have his time with?”
Stormy waves a dismissive hand above his shoulder, but doesn’t turn around. “The fucker’s dead. What more did they want?”
Road Tripped: Satan's Devils MC Utah #1 Page 9