When he opens his hand, my grandfather’s Zippo lighter is lying in his palm. It’s black with a vulture engraved into it.
“It belonged to my grandfather.”
“I can’t accept this, Nova. It’s too special.” The sincerity in his voice gets to me.
“It’s fine,” I tell him, my hand coming up to touch the watch wrapped around my wrist. “This is my special remembrance of him. No matter how this ends, let’s be civil with one another and remember we did it for the right reasons.”
I can’t hoard every single thing that belonged to my grandfather, I remind myself. I’ve got a houseful of mementos to remember him by. What’s one lighter?
His hand closes around the lighter and he tells me, “I’ll treasure it. If I ever take up smoking, I’ll remember you every time I light one up.”
I know he’s making light of the situation to cheer me up, and I don’t like admitting it worked.
I reluctantly follow him to the curb. His Harley is sparkling clean and I suspect it’s meticulously maintained as well. My grandfather always said, you can tell a lot about a man by how he keeps his bike. While I’m caught up in admiring his all chromed out bike, Mica holds something out.
It’s a shiny black helmet with a dark visor and my name emblazed across the back in gold lettering. Taking it from him, I stammer, “I thought I was following you in my car.”
“No, we agreed that you would ride on the back of the bike.”
I remember agreeing to that. “I already have a helmet,” I tell him.
“Now you have two,” he responds with a lopsided smile.
I put the helmet on without saying anything because he’s right, I agreed to all this, in writing no less. I climb onto the back of his bike and relax into the ride as he pulls away. I’ve been on the back of a lot of bikes over the years. Riding the open road is my happy place. I probably would have gotten a motorcycle, but my grandfather didn’t want to risk it. He said there were too many crazy drivers on the road.
When we hit the interstate the morning sun shines down on my face through the visor. I increase my grip and let my thoughts wander, thinking about my grandfather with his hand on my shoulder saying there ain’t no kinda love like biker love. Staring at the back of Mica’s vest with the Sons of Rage patch, I feel almost sorry to be marrying him. Maybe under different circumstances we might have had a chance, but this is going to be a loveless marriage for however long it lasts, I just know it.
Despite his reassurances, I don’t trust Mica, his club, or even my uncle anymore. My entire life has taken a brutal turn since my grandfather died. I’m even conflicted about my grandfather because of what Mica said about him trafficking women. I’d seen a few younger, broken looking women on theback of his bike over the years. Were they being trafficked? I honestly can’t fathom it.
***
I’m so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I don’t know how much time passes between leaving my place and arriving at the Sons of Rage compound. All I know is that it doesn’t look like what I expect. I expected it to be a small to medium sized building and fairly unimpressive like Vulture’s Pride MC. It turns out to be anything but unimpressive.
The first thing I see is a tall cinderblock wall with a gate that looks to be ten or twelve feet high. It’s surrounding a huge two-story stucco building. I realize their club has built a fortress in the middle of California. It’s nothing like the Vulture’s Pride clubhouse with a modest chain link fence.
There are prospects at the gate, and they open it as we approach. One nods respectfully at Mica and says, “Morning. Rock’s expecting you and your old lady.”
“Thanks for the heads up, TJ,” Mica says as we zoom through the opening.
I sit on the back of Mica’s bike, and I watch the gate close behind us and realize this is what MC wealth and power looks like. Mica and I are from completely different worlds. I keep my face neutral as we head towards the clubhouse.
The front door leads into a large foyer with club memorabilia on the walls and vintage cuts in glass cases. It looks more like a sports bar or trendy pub than a rough and ready biker bar. It’s another way our worlds are different. Then we move into the main room. It’s a showstopper. There arewraparound sofas and recliners arranged around a large stone fireplace that looks a little out of place, like it was added later or something.
There are a couple dozen tables with chairs, a bar running down one side of the room, and a buffet set up along the opposite side of the room from the bar. Tables have been pushed together near the back to make one long surface, already set with plates and glasses.
Strangest of all are the club girls. Instead of hanging around at the bar barely dressed and looking for their next conquest, they’re bringing food out of the back and putting it on the buffet. I suddenly remember hearing the Sons of Rage make their club girls earn their keep. I remember my grandfather joking about that. One walks by with a tray of biscuits and another follows with a coffee pot in one hand and a glass pitcher of juice in the other.
I stand there taking it all in, doing a little compare and contrast in my mind between the two clubs. Vulture’s Pride prospects did all the cooking. I was only allowed to come there during the day if my grandfather brought me at all—which was rare. While I was respected as being Vulture’s granddaughter, I never felt entirely safe there. Like if it hadn’t been for my grandfather, they’d be descending on me like a pack of wolves. However, despite the club being rough and ready, my grandfather’s men were a force to be reckoned with. The brothers loved each other and showed it by arguing and roughhousing constantly. I think about the morning I drove past the lot and first saw the burned out, charred remains of the building that meant so much to him. The Sons have everything and the Vultures have nothing. The unfairness of the situation chafes me.
Mica puts his hand at the small of my back and asks, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “Don’t worry about me. Let’s just get this over with.”
His jaw clenches and he guides me forward. He whispers, “You don’t look fine. You look like you saw a ghost.”
“This is just a lot to take in at one time,” I tell him quietly. “It’s very different from the clubhouse my grandfather built.”
“I know,” he says. “Different doesn’t mean better or worse. All the parts that make us an MC are present, and that’s what counts.”
