Hmmm. Could be the magnet thing is genetic, and likely my father’s side is to blame. Like always, contemplating his death becomes too painful, so I stuff those memories in a mental box, and lock the lid. My therapist claims this technique is one of my unhealthiest habits. But hey, if it ain’t broke, why fix it?
Using the same methodology, I put worries about Kade on hold, but this time, the more I try, the worse it becomes. This, by the way, is called the pink-elephant-paradox. In short, the subconscious is an evil bitch who no one wants to invite to their birthday party. She eats your ice cream and cake, reminds you of your life’s greatest fuck ups, and refuses to go until you beat the shit out of her.
Self-psychotherapy over, I exit the Northway as the sun sinks below the horizon. Stopping, I pull out my cellphone and check my messages. London is five hours ahead, making it one in the morning.Damn it, Dash, where are you? I need to talk to you.
In case he didn’t pick up my voice mail, I send him a text and hopefully he’ll reply soon.
ME: 911 Call me
About thirty minutes later, I park my Harley in The Renegade’s parking lot, remove my helmet, and breathe deeply. What the hell am I doing here? I’m about to turn around and go home when the clubhouse door opens.
Kade lands on his knees in front of me. As blood drips down his chin, the ex-Marine peers through a black, swollen eye and mouths,‘sorry’.
Coiled for a fight, I raise my gaze to the bearded, six-foot-plus biker, standing on the lowest clubhouse step. A snake tattoo winds around his neck, the blood-dripping fangs ending at his jaw. With prison-tatted knuckles curled around a pistol, he holds the barrel to the back of my friend’s head. What the actual fuck have I walked into?
“Is that her?” Viper-neck kicks my ex in the ribs, and I step forward.
“Third-person me again and I’m outta here.” I’ve driven for hours after a long day of work. If he wants bitch ’tude, he found it.
The bastard attempts to stare me down, but I remain focused, and ignore the sharpened incisors, shining from his reptilian smile.
“Vile’s the name.” The felon holds his right hand forward.
Spitting on my grimy palm, I wipe it on my back pocket, and shake. “Landy.”
After, he eyes me up and down, places his left hand over his cock, and readjusts his leather pants. “You’re a pilot, huh?”
My perfected sneer has wilted more willies than I can count, but I top it off by adding an extra dose of sarcasm. “Let me guess. You’re either a brain surgeon or a rocket scientist. Which is it?”
“I don’t hire smart-asses.” Frowning, he scratches his scraggly beard.
“Well, I’m a fucking Marine, mister. I don’t transport drugs.” Glaring at Kade for getting me into this mess, I realize my withering gaze is wasted because he’s still on his knees, staring at the gravel.
The giant grunts and toes Kade in the ribs. “Come inside, we’ll talk.”
Before I go anywhere, I need a weapon. “Give me a second, I need to take a piss and not in your pigpen.”
The big biker shrugs and watches me open my pack, grab my gun, and stick it in my waistband. Then, I find a tree out of view, squat low, and aim behind my lowered jeans. It’s a tricky task, but one I mastered as a kid.
Done, I pull up my pants, and follow the two men toward the clubhouse I once called home. Can I believe they’re not transporting drugs? What other illegal shit could they want and if I don’t perform as asked, what will happen to Kade? Exactly how much loyalty do I owe him?
Balls clack as I stride past the pool table. When I glance over my shoulder, two sets of angry scowls send chills down my spine. A year ago, I knew most of the bikers and they knew me. Something here has changed dramatically, and I won’t have backup from the members. Turning sideways, my boots stick to the floor as I squeeze between the tables and chairs. At the bar, scents of beer, pot, and cigarette smoke assault my nostrils.
Was this place always so dirty or is it just me?
Ordering on tap brews, Vile points to a suited man entering the room. Sunglasses on, head on a swivel, he reminds me of an old Yul Brenner western.
“Dis her?” The accent sounds Eastern European, probably Russian.
“If you want me to pilot your plane, you’ll speak to me directly, understood?” I’m so done with this chauvinistic nonsense, my chin juts out and I stand to leave.
The Russian shrugs, pulls out his phone, and shoves the screen in front of my face. “I have cat. You do what I say, cat goes home.Pon-yat?”
Oh my God. Poor Moishe.He’s stuck in a carrier and crying.
I shove a finger at the bald man’s chest. “If you hurt him, I promise you’ll die horribly. Youpon-yatthat, comrade?”
Moishe is family and saved my life. No way am I going to let anything happen to him.
