Why the fuck?
Without a care for the nosy old couple across the street, I went to kick the box but pulled back at the last second, knowing if I started I wouldn’t stop until nothing remained. And I wasn’t about to lose my shit over goddamn flowers.
Yeah, gardening is fucking relaxing, Emily.
I should throw in the spade and give up, but it was about the principle now. I refused to be bested by vegetation. I had a fucking reputation to uphold, and if I couldn’t find a way to make these damn flowers survive, I’d buy new ones every time Link and Emily came over.
And if that idea didn’t make me sound batshit crazy…
While I sat there wondering how I could calm the fuck down from my “relaxing” hobby, Stocks pulled up on a custom orange and black Roadster. Born as Gage Sinclaire, I’d given Stocks his road name three months ago, when we’d met during my latest stint in the slammer. He was twenty-nine, and had spent nine years as a Marine Infantryman. Hell, from his clean buzz cut to his ‘yes sir’ attitude, he still looked and sounded like a soldier. He would have been a lifer in the service, but during a training exercise he’d lost one of his legs from the knee down, forcing him into retirement from his military career. With no idea what to do next, he took a friend’s advice and became a certified financial advisor.
Which Stocks says is almost as stressful as gardening.
Stocks has a good head on his shoulders, but the action he’s seen has given him a case of PTSD significant enough that he had no business in a high-stress desk job handling the money of ungrateful, rich assholes. Like most veterans, he nutted up and hid his condition like a champ. That is, until the market had a few too many low days and bitching clients wouldn’t stop blowing up his phone and demanding that he move their money into safer investments. Stocks lost it and took his chair to the phone, computer, and security guys who’d tried to physically remove his out-of-control ass from the premises.
The minute I heard his story, I knew the Dead Presidents could help him escape society’s expectations and become a man who could look himself in the mirror again. Just like the club had helped me. I signed up to sponsor him, and Link made him a prospect. Since Gage had lost his shit over stocks, landing him in the civilian version of the stockade, his road name was a given.
“Hey Brother,” I said when Stocks pulled off his helmet. “How’s the bike workin’ out for you?”
“Great.” He grinned. “Feel like I’m really getting the hang of this shit.”
Stocks had never ridden a sled before, so Wasp, the club’s vice president, helped him find a used one and replaced parts until it was roadworthy. Then I’d taken Stocks and our bikes outside of Renton to teach him how to ride. The prosthetic leg had been tricky, but Stocks managed. Now he had a motorcycle endorsement on his license, and judging by the grin currently stretched across his face, he’d discovered why the rest of us preferred sleds to cages. There was nothing in the world like the freedom of your bike on an open road. Especially for those of us who fully understood the price of freedom.
His gaze drifted to the dead flowers in the box beside me and his smile fell. “Weren’t those alive last night? What the hell happened?”
“Shit if I know.” And I didn’t want to discuss it. I threw one more disgusted look at my failure before standing. “You ready to head to the station?”
His grin returned, and he put his helmet back on.
***
Friday nights always begin with church, but tonight’s weekly meeting felt different than normal. An air of excitement and anticipation floated above the pews in the old converted fire station now serving as club headquarters. Eagle, the club secretary, rattled off the minutes from our last meeting. Everyone voted to approve them, then Specks, our treasurer, gave a run-down of the financials.
“Any old business?” Link asked, opening up the floor.
He waited a few beats, and when nobody spoke up he stood and started pacing. “Now for new business. We have the homeless outreach coming up in two weeks, so we need to finalize some shit. Spade, have you talked to your Uncle about donations?”
Spade, whose uncle owned one of the local restaurants, nodded. “Yessir. He said he’ll donate hamburgers and hot dogs again.”
“Please give him our thanks. He’s a good man.”
Spade nodded again.
“Anyone else able to secure a donation?” Link asked.
Stocks raised his hand. “The firm I used to work for said they’ll pitch in bottled waters.”
Link smiled. “Thanks, brother.”
Sage stood. “My office will get the buns.”
“Great,” Link said, turning to Flint, the manager of the Copper Penny which was the bar and grill run by the Dead Presidents. “The restaurant will provide the sides.”
Flint nodded. “I’ll get them ordered, Prez.”
“All right.” Link clapped his hands together. “Last time we did this, we fed about two hundred homeless, so we’re gonna need some bodies. Girlfriends, parents, kids, whoever wants to show up and help us serve, is welcome. I’ll need you all here to mingle and find out who was in the service and who wasn’t.”
“Is this really necessary, Prez?” a brother named Zombie asked. “I mean, it’s good that we help the community, but last time we did one of these, we had homeless people coming around for days, looking for another handout.”
