Bush’s expression turns thoughtful when I tell him about how my father is spending his time now. “I was just as surprised as you when he joined them,” I say. “When we lived in Adelaide, he never mentioned wanting to ride motorcycles.”
“Did he know about motorcycle clubs before he confronted the Bushrangers?” Bush asks.
“He must have. He knew about Zeke’s club. Although I don’t think the Outriders are an outlaw club. They’re tough and keep themselves separate from the townfolk, but they don’t cause trouble. In fact, they sponsor a charity run every few months to raise money for different programs in the area. I’ve seen them raise large sums for the hospitals, sick children, disabled vets, animals, and they even earned enough money to rebuild a church that burned down.”
Bush rubs his chin as he stares at the wall.
“Can I ask you a question?”
He glances at me and nods. “Of course, what do you want to know?”
“The last time I saw you, you warned us to get out of town and stay away from Bushrangers. You told us you were leavingthe club and leaving Australia. How did you end up with the Demon Dawgs?”
That gets a real reaction. His mouth quirks, like he’s amused by the question—or maybe by how long it’s taken me to ask it. He shifts his weight, boots scraping softly against the wooden floors.
“It’s not a short story,” he says.
“I’ve got time.”
He studies me for a second, then exhales. “Alright.”
I sit on the bed waiting for him to begin.
“Because this is where I belong. These guys are my family. Before I joined the Bushrangers, I was alone. I had parents, but not ones I could count on. My friends became my family, and when I discovered the Bushrangers, I thought I had found my forever family. They were tight, and they relied on each other. It wasn’t until they went after the townfolk that I questioned my decision.”
“Before that, they offered you what you needed?”
He nods. “They did. With them, I found a home. I found a job. My entire life became tied to the club, and I was happy. I’m all for making money, but when they started stealing it from those who were struggling to survive, I couldn’t sit back and do nothing. Especially when they threatened physical harm to innocent people.”
“So, you came here looking for a different club?”
“No, I came here to hide. Australia wasn’t exactly safe for me anymore. So, I came here to get lost for a year or two. I arrived in Los Angeles with a duffel bag of clothes. I didn’t have much of a plan. I figured I’d be here for six months, maybe a year.”
“So how did you end up in Chicago?”
He grins. “I figured while I was here, I’d take a road trip. The US is huge. I knew I could travel for six months or longer and still not see everything. I bought a motorcycle and headed up thecoast. I drove from Los Angeles, through California, Oregon, and into Washington. When I hit Seattle, I took I-90 and travelled east. My goal was to eventually reach the East Coast, sell my bike, and fly home.”
I can picture it easily: the man I remember roaring out of Los Angeles with nothing tying him down.
His eyes unfocus slightly now, like he’s watching the miles roll past again.
“Chicago wasn’t the destination,” he says. “Just… where I stopped.”
“And met Chrome,” I say.
He chuckles. “In a diner. I pulled up and saw the bikes, but figured they were just weekend warriors, until I saw the kuttes. I almost left, but I was starving.” Bush chuckles. “They saw me arrive and asked me to join them.”
“I’m guessing you did,” I say with a grin.
“I did. They heard my accent. Started asking questions. One thing led to another. We talked bikes and riding the road.” He shrugs. “Chrome invited me to crash at the clubhouse for a few days.”
“And you stayed.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “A few days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into this.”
“This,” I repeat, glancing at his kutte. “Chrome knows about what happened in Australia?”
“He does. They all do. I had to tell them before I accepted their offer to join. Luckily, they’d been through something similar, so they got me.”
