Ah, the good old days.
The other night, she looked me dead in the face like I was a disease. And you know what? Ifeltgross.
Faith’s opinion of me shouldn’t matter. But it does. Because I don’t want her to hate me. But she does. And by the time Malice and I finish ripping up the track, I’m no closer to working out my frustration than I was when I watched her huff her way back inside Talon and I was left standing out there alone. I wanted to punch a hole right through the brick buildings surrounding me because I saw myself through Faith’s eyes for the second time in my life.
At least her version of me.
And for the second time in twenty-five years, I hated what I saw.
Malice comes up beside me and pulls off his black Bell helmet. “You good, or does Ruthless need to fit your bike for training wheels?”
Ruthless and his brother, Hades, own the Underground, a garage over on Route 6. They’re Unholy and our go-to whenever anything with an engine needs fixing.
I lift my goggles before yanking off the white Fox helmet, then give him an enormous smile. “After he puts them on, I’m also thinking of having him hang a pink basket off the handlebars.”
“Perfect,” Malice grumbles. “Something to hold your tampons.”
“Right? No, but seriously. When you suck dick, do you tickle the balls, or are you stingy? And that goatee. Dude. My God. That’s all I’m saying.”
“That’sneverall you say, youchiacchierone.”
Malice doesn’t do it often, but now and then, he’ll flavor a sentence with an Italian word or phrase, thanks to his family originating from Italy. Or, the Old Country, as his family refers to it. And it’s usually slang. Like chiacchierone, which is something he often calls me.
Means talkative.
No shit.
“All kidding aside, when I was with your mother last night, she did that thing with her tongue that drives me—”
“I’m going to knock your fucking teeth down your throat,” he growls, cutting off my bullshit.
I make a talking motion with my hand. “Yeah, yeah. Same tired threat from the same predictable Angry Olive.” I push on my helmet and adjust the goggles over my eyes before restarting my bike. “I’m sweating to death. Since I’m practically your second dad after the things sweet Carmella and I did last night, how about you buy your old man a beer?”
“I’m seriously going to fuck you up.”
“No, you really won’t,” I yell as I speed off.
This is what Malice and I do. I provoke him, and my crotchety friend threatens to beat the shit out of me. Sometimes he makes good on his threat, and we have a go, which is awesome. Reminds me of when we were kids, because once upon a time, he wasn’t a prick. He even laughed, like, all the time. Imagine that. Malice with a sense of humor. But something happened when he and Wraith went to Newstead last year. We’re supposed to ignore how they left to handle a routine job and Malice returned an entirely different person.
Okay, sure.
Don’t ask, don’t tell, I guess, because we like our spleens unruptured. But it doesn’t stop me from breaking my friend’s balls every chance I get, which is pretty much constantly. Wraith, Malice, Havoc, Discord, and I are more brothers than friends. A makeshift, functional-dysfunctional family who would sacrifice our lives for each other without a single second of hesitation.
Malice does nothing to defuse the situation. In fact, he makes it way too easy to pick on him. Doesn’t help that I’m determined to get him to laugh again. If it means taking more than a few beatings to reach my goal, so be it.
The sacrifices we make for our friends.
Amirite?
When I pit stop at the garage, which resembles the inside of a powersports showroom, Roswell and Angel are gearing up to ride. Unfortunately, they aren’t privy to today’s meeting. They have no clue that’s about to change. These boys are next in line for a promotion to enforcer. Fantastic, because they’re good men, and it’ll be nice to have a couple more of us among the ranks.
The world is getting crazier by the day, and there’s strength in numbers.
I park my bike and leave my helmet on a shelf. “Preacher back yet?” I ask Angel.
“Nah, not yet.” He slings his leg over his KTM 450 SX-F. “But everyone else is here. Dirt’s making all sorts of noise. Talking about how he wants to get home because his back is killing him.”
Dirt, the Unholy’s secretary, is our oldest active member. He’s a mean old cuss whose body is finally breaking down—and oh my God, do we hear about it. Daily. But it’s all good. Old bastard earned the right to complain. He’s lived a tough life and spilled enough blood for the Unholy that we can listen to him bitch about his aches and pains—and listen with a smile.
