Unfortunately, those people were mostly nothing but bad in the past.
“And what about Sheriff Davis? The fuck happened there?”
“Yeah, that one is going to be of a little more concern,” I said, proceeding to recap everything that he told me about the looming tension with the Bandits.
“Good thing we got initiated when we did, huh,” Mason said as he took a sip of his whiskey. “I think you were right to suggest we do something now. Something tells me this whole deal with the Fallen Saints appearing is making Cole a little paralyzed.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but I get what you’re saying.”
“Point is, he probably is sick of dealing with those assholes, and for them to come back is going to knock him on his ass a bit. I’ll bet it’s nothing more than the Bandits learning about the main group in California, knowing our weak point, and thinking it would work. It doesn’t mean shit to us. But obviously, means something to Cole.”
Both Mason and I took sips of our drinks.
“But I think for the sake of the club, I’m going to table it until after the upcoming party this weekend.”
I grimaced. I had mixed feelings about club parties like this. On the one hand, they worked fucking wonderfully as recruiting tools. Half the buddies from my construction job who had come over to the Black Reapers had done so because of the absurd amount of alcohol, the fake titties everywhere, and the camaraderie that they got nowhere else.
And, of course, the fake titties and women were fantastic as well, not just for the recruits but for us. It helped that I didn’t have to talk to them much, and when I did, they usually made it very obvious that they wanted to fuck me. I relished the fact that I looked the most “biker” of anyone in the club; it meant that for the girl looking for a one-night stand with a biker, I was first choice. I did not have to work hard.
But fuck.
On the other hand.
Fuck. I hated parties. I hated what they reminded me of. I hated walking into any place with loud music, loud conversations, and overly extroverted people. I hated trying to have to “spit game” on certain nights at women who, a decade or so ago, would have mercilessly derided me before the tattoos, before getting in shape, before any of that.
I wasn’t going to be one of those pussies who cried about why personality didn’t matter that much, but you didn’t forget scars and moments from your youth. You either used those scars to get better or you used them as an excuse. I used them to get better, but that didn’t magically make the scars vanish.
“Fucking helps that the club party is in a couple days, huh? Not a whole fucking lot we can do in that time.”
“Nope, and even if we could, it would bring more trouble to the club,” Mason said. He took one last gulp of his whiskey, put it on a table near him, and rose. “I’m going home. Make sure the club door is locked when you leave. And if you do fucking get ambushed by Katie, do yourself a favor and get your dick wet.”
I rolled my eyes and half-smiled at him. Mason patted my shoulder hard and walked away, hopping on his bike and driving off into the Santa Maria night.
It sure would have been nice if Katie looked anything other than like my worst tormentor back in the day. Though, to Mason’s point, maybe a good hate fuck would drive all of that away. Maybe if I fucked her, choked her, slapped her around, showed her who the fuck daddy was, I’d drive that demon from my past away and never have to fucking deal with it again.
And if I didn’t?
I’d still come inside a hot bitch. That was at least worth something.
I stayed behind at the clubhouse in silent solitude for another half hour or so, relishing the peace and quiet of sipping whiskey as if I owned the place. Being alone didn’t happen often enough, what with the massive frat house we had back home rarely having a moment of silence. Being alone let me feel some peace. No bullshit, at least for a few moments.
But, alas, the bottle of whiskey was not endless, and neither was my desire or interest in staying here forever. After my final gulp, I stood up, grabbed Mason’s glass, and carried both of them inside. I set them in the sink for a prospect to wash and clean in the morning and made sure the rest of the place at least looked somewhat respectable.
I closed the doors to church. I put a half-filled bottle of beer in the sink with the glasses. I closed up the whiskey and put it back on the shelf.
And then I took one look around, mentally preparing myself for the club party.
With any luck, enough dumb bimbos would want to grope my dick that I’d just let them fight for the right to be the wildest in bed. Hell, maybe I’d take two of them. Once I’d established who was most likely to get my nuts off, I’d take her by the arm, pull her to one of the bedrooms, and do my thing.
And if Katie…
I refused to finish the thought. I went outside, got on my bike, and drove off into the night before the thought consumed me.
Halfway home, at the intersection that marked downtown, I saw Sheriff Davis parked at one of the corners. In the darkness, I could not quite see if he was in the car or somewhere nearby, but after the conversation we’d had tonight, it felt oddly appropriate.
Our skirmish would soon evolve into a war, and Sheriff Davis had chosen to protect the town more than he had any individual group or person. It was as much as we could ask for, but the consequences of failing were fully understood.
If we did not solve the problem, we became the problem of a much larger entity. And if that happened, we were done.
