“I mean, you could go right now to the Saints’ home and just unload a machine gun and shoot as many people as you can, but that would be a guaranteed way to die right there or an hour later, and man, I’m not ready to see another friend die. Not so… not so fucking stupidly.”
Something about the way Patriot said his last words, how they trailed off into a barely audible mumble, made me realize there was much more to what he was saying. I knew Patriot quite well, but every soldier had his secrets. I decided not to inquire further, even if a part of me wondered if Patriot had deliberately left those words hanging so I could ask about it.
“I don’t think you’re losing face on that,” Patriot said. “Hell, Butch stopped her as soon as she walked in. You think the guys like Axle and Red Raven like it? Hell no. But they’re smart. Look, Father Marcellus goes to see Beth once a week. He’s got it under control. Angela isn’t going to do anything else, or if she is, it’s not going to be anything that we have to worry about.”
The thing I hadn’t articulated was that it wasn’t just about saving face in front of the club. What Patriot said made sense, and though I was still slightly on edge about it, I understood where he came from.
No, what I hadn’t said was I needed to save face for myself. As much as I realized I needed to stop being so aloof with the club, I also needed to stop being so aloof with my own fears and emotions. It had worked somewhat as emotional protection after Shannon’s death, but over a whole fucking year had passed. I was getting pretty goddamn tired of being so miserable all the time and refusing to face my internal darkness.
And all Angela had done was invoke that misery and elevate it to even higher levels. That shit just couldn’t happen anymore.
“I won’t do anything for now,” I said. “But. I’m here to say that if things don’t get any better, if she comes by and causes trouble again? I’m gonna bring it up at church. And while I will listen to the crowd, this is a personal thing for me, Patriot. It’s not just a matter of club business.”
“I know, man, I know,” he said.
He didn’t add anything else. I’m not really sure he could have even if he wanted to. Because after that, what more was there to say? He had gotten as much as he could have out of me.
So for now, Angela, consider yourself lucky. You have a little bit of peace.
But don’t push your fucking luck.
* * *
I actually got on a biker’s schedule that next morning, waking up just about thirty minutes before the next church meeting.
These wake-up calls never felt normal. It wasn’t that I wanted Shannon back like some broken-hearted middle schooler. I wasn’t stupid, she was dead and that was that. But no one had provided the same spark, the same joy, and the same love she did. That person just didn’t exist.
Ironically, the only person I knew at that moment who had the same level of intellect and verve as Shannon was Angela, but the idea that I would ever do something with her beyond a good old hate fuck was well beyond any possibility—and that, of all things, most seemed like shitting on Shannon’s memory. There was just no way.
Although, for a brief, weak moment, I wondered what would happen if we just reached some sort of peace. Some sort of an understanding that she had a right to be angry as long as she could learn to recognize that I had not killed Shannon.
But I couldn’t see how that would ever come.
On this day, I woke up by myself, having ridden home after a couple more beers with Patriot. I crashed into bed almost immediately, taking a couple of cannabis pills to pass out more easily. I at least made it to my bed, but the covers were only halfway on me when I arose. I quickly made a bowl of cereal, devoured it, and headed to my bike.
Let’s just hope the officers aren’t in such a pissy, confrontational mood.
And if they are, let’s hope I actually have some balls today.
I kickstarted the engine, drove my bike out of the lot, and headed to that same old shop.
As I walked in, just like the last church meeting, I noticed that few members of the club even bothered to acknowledge my presence and arrival—and the ones who did didn’t do much more than a nod or give a simple “hey.” A week ago, I just dismissed it as the necessary distance to run the club.
Now, though...
I went straight into church, shaking hands with Father Marcellus, and giving a nod to Patriot but otherwise avoiding conversation. I wanted some silence and some peace to tell myself I had to be more active. I had to engage.
I had to be a Black Reaper, not a hidden shadow.
The door swung open as Axle and Butch walked in together. Axle nodded to me gruffly, and I nodded back. He lit a cigarette, and I produced one of my own, taking a light from him. Red Raven entered next. As soon as everyone was seated, I coughed to clear my throat.
“Thank you all for coming today, as usual,” I said. “Last we left off, I believe that Axle, you, Butch, and Marc were going to go to the local politicians’ offices and see if we could get some work done on the gun laws, as well as the gun stores. What sort of luck did we have?”
“None,” Axle gruffed.
I let the silence hang for a little bit to see if he would elaborate, but he didn’t seem to have any interest in doing so.
“How come?” I finally asked.
