From the beginning of the first motorcycle club, a made-man leaving the club had to give up everything club related: his kutte, patches, club clothing, his bike if it had come from the club or if it was painted with the club’s colors, and most especially, his tats. If he owed the club money, he might forfeit his house. Even today, if a made-man was in good standing with the club and left due to health or family, removing the tats could be easy, maybe by inking over, from shoulder to shoulder and neck to the small of his back, all at once, in one day. That had to hurt, but it was the easy way. If not in good favor, then he’d sacrifice blood a different way. The club colors might be branded off. Or flayed off with a knife.
I was a made-man since I was a kid, and I was leaving the leaving the Outlaw Militia Warriors Motorcycle Club by choice, without a hardship reason. And due to the circumstances in which I’d been granted made-man status, I had no club tats and no idea what the club would do to me to obtain blood sacrifice.
I had no OMW colors on anything except my old kutte, which I had outgrown years ago. My kutte had been intended for a small girl. Now it hung on an old wire hanger, the back facing me. Tears gathered in my eyes. I was OMW to the core. To the soul. Just as my Pops had been. But for the OMW to remain the organization it had become, I had to leave it. If I didn’t, if I stayed in the OMW, I’d one day soon transition my way to the top, like the other queen had done. Like hers, my nanobots would not be denied.
I’d killed Clarisse Warhammer for taking over the MSA—the Mara Salvatrucha Angels—and for making a nest of brainwashed slaves. So I had to leave the OMW. Simple.
I breathed deeply, forcing my tears away, and studied myself in the mirror.
Despite the ugly riding jacket I looked okay. I slid on my orange tinted sunglasses to hide my weird orange irises. Shoved my fingers through my hair to spike it up some more. Pulling a lipstick out of my pocket, I smeared orange on my lips. My hand was shaking.
Today I’d give up everything I loved.
Asshole—Logan Jagger—had explained everything to McQuestion, the top man in the OMW. He might not believe that I could or would take over his club, every single body and every single soul, but he’d seen the nest made by Warhammer. He had agreed to let me go.
I blinked. Two tears rolled down my face. I let them fall onto my cheap riding jacket. They would be the last tears I spilled today. No matter what they did to me.
I’d suffer. I knew that. The purpose of the ceremony was to shed blood and then wear a scar for the rest of my life. Of course, my nanobots would heal me without a scar, unless I did something major to prevent that healing. And maybe even then I’d heal perfectly and fast. If I did, then it was possible that I’d have to go through this again, and sacrifice blood in a different way. I didn’t know what would happen today. But most of it would suck.
Cupcake opened the hatch and entered the office. It was dawn. Breakfast time for Cupcake, no matter how late I’d gone to bed. But this time, she was silent when she entered, not chattering like usual. Solemn.
Cupcake had been Red’s Old Lady. Red had been number three in the original Hell’s Angels until the Mara Salvatrucha criminal gang conquered enough chapter houses to force a merger for most of the country. Though the Hell’s Angels had retaken most of their territory since the Battle of Warhammer’s Nest, Cupcake was staying with me. The thought hit me.
Oh . . . flaming hells.“Cupcake, how many HA tats do you have?”
Cupcake set my breakfast on the dinette I’d refurbished from an old RV. “None. The MSA inked them all over when they took us.” Cupcake’s big blue eyes met mine, steady and determined. “But I have some big MSA ink. It comes off today. I prepared Devil’s Milk for both of us. We’ll have a shot of shine with a healthy dose of the milk and see what we can stand.”
I thought back to the time she had spent in the med-bay, going through a second transition, and that time we’d paid good money for hot baths in Charleston. I’d never paid attention to her naked. I was pretty sure I never looked at her then. I pointed to her jacket, and she shrugged out of it, facing away from me.
Like me, Cupcake was wearing a halter top that left most of her back exposed. She had been inked from shoulder to shoulder with the word Salvatrucha and beneath it, a demon with wings half spread. MSA’s dark blue ink. There were swirls over the old HA tats. She turned around, and I saw the MSA initials over her heart. I shook my head. I had no idea how to help her through this.
“Amos?” I asked.
“He was never inked for the club. He’s good. Evelyn, Wanda, and Alex are staying home today, and, not being affiliated, they don’t have club ink.”
“I’ve never let anyone else suffer stuff I wasn’t willing to suffer too,” I said.
“Suck it up, Sistah,” she said, her voice harsher than her usual pep. “Today’s the first of many. You’re the prez. Your people are here to sufferforyou, insteadofyou.”
Which Ihated. I sat at my place, and Cupcake removed the sterling silver serving tops from the sterling platters as she sat across from me. On the fancy China, were real eggs insteadof the eggy goo I had been eating for years. They should have looked yummy.
Neither of us had much appetite, and neither of us felt like talking. It was a silent breakfast, and there were a lot of leftovers to feed Cupcake’s new chickens.
???
By ten a.m. we had the roadhouse looking pretty good, bottles stacked in front of the bullet resistant, break-resistant mirrors, glasses sparkling, and the real-wood-epoxy bar shining. The round tables were neat and clean of cat paw prints. Cat hair was swept up. Mostly. And the cats had agreed to make themselves scarce in return for some of the frozen protein from the spaceship’s freezers. The fact that it was human protein from Clarisse Warhammer’s attack didn’t bother the cats, and it wasn’t like I was telling anyone.
Jolene said into our comms, “Shining Sugah, we got us some visitors, riding bikes, in formation.”
She sounded excited, while my stomach dropped through my guts and into my feet. Fear ran up my spine like ants—Cataglyphis bicolor Fabricius ants, swarming to kill. Pure fear. My breath came fast.
“One contingent,” Jolene said, “is arriving from the direction of Coal River Road in Naoma, and . . . Well, well, well. Woudja lookit that. One is heading in from Pond Fork Road West.”
She put the drone vid up on the big screen across from the bar. She was right. The MC leaders were early. And they were riding war bikes with armor. The two contingents, as Jolene called them, were mixed clubs, the made-men of more than one club riding together.
It was unheard of. The drone was too high for me to tell which clubs had aligned enough to ride together.
What the bloody freaking hell?
