Spawn
Ialways had an ear for motorcycles.
To the regular person, all motorcycles sounded the same. And why wouldn’t they? The loud noises tended to overwhelm everything else around them; I knew from experience that a group of bikers could pass by a heavy metal concert and at least compete with the noise on stage. That’s part of why we fucking liked them; we announced our presence and gave no fucks about what people thought.
But to me, I could tell. I had an ear for how the putt-putt-putt would differ slightly from one biker to another. I could tell by the way an engine revved up and went down if the bike belonged to us or to someone else. I’d been around the biker community as long as anyone else in the Devil’s Patriots, perhaps even longer than Satan and Sonny, and it had given me a sixth sense for this sort of shit.
I knew, then, the instant that Lane and Brock pulled up to our clubhouse. I went to the windows anyway to check, but two figures standing with Black Reapers logos on their cuts said it all. And sure enough, it was the Brock Noelle that I knew as a teenager.
Obviously, he’d grown up. He now had some scraggly hair on his cheeks, like he hadn’t had time to shave in a couple days. His eyes looked both more relaxed but also more war-torn, like he’d gone through some heavy shit. He was still the lanky kid I knew, but he’d added some muscle. Not enough to win a fight with me on strength alone, but enough that he didn’t look like toothpicks on a torso.
I didn’t expect a brawl to break out here.
But just as they had with Butch, my muscles tensed. It was almost involuntary by this point, but I always prepared for battle. It only needed the possibility of it happening for me to get that feeling of a sharpened back, clenched fingers, and dug-in feet.
Satan stood at the front entrance, his arms folded. He didn’t say a word as Brock and Lane dusted themselves off and approached. Everyone was still getting a feel for each other; even for the three Reapers that had stayed in town, we didn’t know very much of each other because only recently had we agreed to even talk, let alone join forces.
“Follow me,” Satan said.
And then a third bike came.
“You brought reinforcements?” Satan said, his tone as suspicious as could be.
“Cole is as much a president of the Black Reapers as we are,” Lane said. “He is something of the link between the two of us. He is as essential to the operation as Brock or me.”
Satan growled.
“Then I also get a third. Spawn, you will join.”
I nodded. Lane looked over at me and had no reaction. Brock looked over at me and had no reaction.
And then he did a double take.
And I knew he knew the truth.
Without a word or any sort of shift in body language, I could already sense the venom and hatred pouring forth from Brock. He fucking hated my guts. He hadn’t forgotten. If anything, he probably remembered on a regular basis.
The only thing I had going for me was that I had not been there the night his girlfriend at the time had gotten gang raped. Even for me as a rebellious teen in the Bandits, it felt like a step too far for me.
“Very well,” Lane said.
Seconds later, Cole walked in. Without a word, the six of us moved to church, with me, Sonny, and Satan seated on one end, and Brock, Cole, and Lane seated by the other.
The first thing that became apparent, once I stopped paying attention to Brock’s glare for me, was that these three, despite being under the same banner, actually didn’t seemthatclose. To be sure, we all had our own internal squabbles, but there seemed to be a sort of edge to them, a sort of mutual agreement that wasn’t based on friendship or trust.
Maybe I was just misreading the room. But there sure seemed to be something there that didn’t exactly inspire confidence for a powerful, well-tied-together alliance.
“I don’t feel like wasting anyone’s time,” Satan said. “Are you going to ask us to color up?”
“No,” Lane said. “We wouldn’t have driven a full fucking day to come down here to ask you something we knew you’d say no to. That’s why we sent the first three guys in the first place.”
“You sent your brother and a supposed equal leader in your stead?”
Satan was testing them. He probably sensed the same thing I did. Whatever power or strength these guys had in numbers or experience wouldn’t mean jack shit if the leadership at the top crumbled from egos.
“I wanted to go,” Cole said, and the certainty behind his voice seemed to suggest this was the truth. “I know what kind of a threat King is, more than anyone else. I know what you guys can offer, but I also know what the Devil’s Patriots can do to you. I wanted to be the first one here.”
I watched Brock and Lane carefully as Cole spoke. Both seemed to regard him with respect, Brock a bit more than Lane, though perhaps some of that was brothers naturally quarreling with each other.
