Chapter One
The Run
Anthony
I couldn’t tell you a single cartoon that played on Saturday mornings, but I understood the difference between a hollow point and a regular bullet by the time I was old enough to climb the steps of my school bus. By junior high, I could identify unmarked police cars from a distance. I also knew better than to speak to anyone in a suit or a uniform, and I knew which bags my dad put the good shit in, and which ones were mixed with Epsom salt.
I learned to keep my jacket in my backpack on weekends, along with a fabric softener sheet to dilute the harsh smell when dad cooked. It didn’t actually dilute the scent of meth, it just left me smelling like chemical soup with a hint of cashmere.
But when you’re used to certain scents, they become normal. Just like the motions of living such a chaos-driven life. I didn’t know enough about normal to dream about the things other children did. The Steel Disciples were my world. I was born into it, and it was really all I ever knew.
Until the night of the Ridin’ for Boobies run.
One of the club brothers, a guy named George, had an ol’ lady with breast cancer. So, one of our brilliant friends thought it would be slick to put together a run and hit as many strip joints as possible.
We had quite the pack that evening, since they opened that one to outsiders.
I wasn’t old enough to get into most of the joints, because I wouldn’t be twenty-one for another few months. Illinois was weird. Some clubs only required you to be eighteen for entry, others didn’t mind turning their heads for the right price.
We’d been to two of those already, when we hooked into a big parking lot with a sign that said The Pink Cabaret.
“I expect some top-notch twat with a name like this.” Our president, Mark, called to Montana, who cackled as he killed his engine.
I smirked listening to the two old timers cut up as we all stretched our legs and prepared to invade the place.
“I just need a drink.” Mak groaned, as he stretched and fell into place beside me.
“You woke up needing a drink,” I pushed at his upper arm.
“You would, too, if you woke up next to the face I did. That woman is still pissed over the last run.”
I snorted and shook my head, “I don’t know why you two stay together, anyways, man. You must get hard off that fighting shit. I don’t know how you do it. I can’t with all that noise.”
They were toxic with a capital T, but you couldn’t tell either one of them that. As bad as they fought, they clung to each other.Always had, probably always would. I had enough chaos in my head without suffering that kind of situationship.
The foyer of the Pink Cabaret was as dark as the parking lot was bright. The girl at the counter actually took the time to carefully squint at every ID. She flashed a timid, apologetic smile while passing mine back to me, and bashfully looking up.
“You really are 6’8”, huh?” she squeaked.
“Guess so.” I sighed, taking the card back and shoving it into my wallet.
Big Vick swallowed a laugh and clapped me on the shoulder, ushering me toward the show room.
“This is my favorite place, wait ‘til you see the little blonde broad.” He carried on, one hand hooked over my shoulder and dangling above the patch on my chest.
The other came up in a fist as he surveyed the room, only to jab a finger out at the tiniest stripper I’d ever laid eyes on. She was like five foot nothing in stilettos, but those fucking eyes.
Goddamn, she met my gaze, and I wasn’t just struck, I couldn’t move or breathe.
Big Vick gave a bawdy laugh, as he nudged me out of it and steered me toward a table, fanning at the girl as we moved.
“Dude, what the fuck? Be cool.” I spat, clearing my throat.
This only seemed to further his amusement, “Yeah, I knew that was your flavor, brother. I just knew.”
I plucked a chair out and took a seat, without letting her out of my sight.
She looked like something off a magazine; everything about her was delicate and girly. Her eyes, though…
