CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
SHORT
I’m going to fucking kill Paint.
He’s waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. I point my finger at him. “Not one fuckin’ word.”
Grinning, he holds up his hands. “Wasn’t going to say a thing.” He turns his back to me and starts walking away. “She’s quite the screamer, isn’t she?” And then he’s running, with me hot on his heels.
“Come back, you fucker.”
Paint’s quick on his feet. I’m disadvantaged by being bigger and heavier, but determination’s on my side. I almost get to him when someone steps in my way and stops me. I only just manage not to knock him off his feet.
“Prez!”Shit, fuck.“Paint…”
“I don’t give a fuck what Paint has done. I want you outside now.” After a glare, he takes his eyes off me. “Where the fuck’s Saint?”
“Keep your hair on, Brother.” Saint appears at the top of the stairs.
When he’s halfway down, Freak appears behind him. He’s zipping himself up as he descends.
Then Woody appears from the direction of the bathroom. That Heaven is trotting along under his arm with a big smile on his face suggests they were using the heads, and not for their proper purpose.
“Fuck my life,” Prez roars. “It would be easier to herd cats. Words, put that drink down, Stalker, I can see what you’re doing in the corner, let go of Star now – and how the fuck can you do that anyway when your insides were hanging out last night?” After giving our treasurer one last, maybe admiring glance, he continues shouting. “Everyone outside. I want all the bikes sorted out.”
Even with his instruction, it’s clear that the brothers are dragging their feet. No one’s in a hurry to examine the carnage and what’s left of their bikes. Not knowing means you can stay optimistic. Of course, I expect we’ve each gone and had a look already, I know I have, but it’s hard to tell much when there’s a mangled mess. Personally, I don’t hold out much hope.
The bikes at the end of the line are the sportsters belonging to the prospects. Once I’ve righted them, I’m here as the muscle after all, I can wheel them out. Knight’s has a bent fender, and the front wheel’s twisted with a few broken spokes. But it can be fixed.Lucky bastard.Heathen’s? Well, his barely seems damaged. Shame the same thing can’t be said about its owner. Fucking ironic.
About an hour later, we’ve found my Road King’s fall was cushioned by Rattler’s Fat Boy Breakout, and it barely has any damage at all. The Breakout, not so lucky, but could be made rideable with a new exhaust, two new wheels, and replacements of the mirrors and gear changer. Piston’s chopper no longer resembles its name, the iconic handlebars having taken the brunt of it. Freak’s Softail, well-loved but not particularly new,won’t see the road again. Likewise, Woody’s Fat Bob, and Paint’s identical ride can be fixed, though a lot of parts need replacing. Genie’s Breakout suffered a lot of cosmetic damage, but it looks like it might be rideable, and Words’ baby, his Dyna Super Glide Sport, almost looks new. Prez’s bike, the same model as Words’, is a total write-off, barely anything salvageable at all, as are Saint’s Fat Boy and Tempest’s Heritage. They were all parked closest to the clubhouse.
And finally, when we manage to extract what should have been Stalker’s own Fat Bob, it’s barely recognisable.
It could have been worse, I suppose, better than we initially feared at least. Not all were destroyed. Six out of the fifteen bikes are okay or fixable, and nine need replacing. With no relative to pass it on to, Heathen’s Sportster will stay in at the club, to be used when there’s a need.
It takes longer than we expected to transfer the damaged bikes to the shop and pile the remnants of the unsalvageable ones to the rear, left in a heap to be stripped for parts.
Even those of us with minimal damage, or in some cases bikes that can be ridden, are sombre by the time we’ve finished. Luckily, our trucks and the two SUVs were parked in our lot behind the shop so we are still mobile, if not on two wheels.
“I’m going to kill the fuckin’ MDMC,” Saint says with feeling.
The light disappeared some time back, and we’ve been working under floodlights for hours. As we walk back into the clubhouse despondent, Pippa’s got shots ready and lined up on the bar.
She grimaces at our faces. “You know, I could hack into the MDMC accounts and purloin some money for replacements.”
The first grin of the last couple of hours covers Prez’s face as he steps up to take the shot glass she holds out. He beams and slams his hand down on the bar top. “Best fuckin’ idea I’ve heard all night.”
Bron curls herself into me, snuggling up under my arm. “Is your bike…?”
“Fixable,” I tell her. “But due to everything else going on, I won’t be riding anytime soon. But you can fuckin’ bet, sweetheart, when it’s rideable, you’re coming on the first ride with me.”
Her eyes gleam. “As a nurse, I should lecture you that bikes are dangerous.” At my raised eyebrow, she chuckles. “But there’s as much point talking to a brick wall, and, Short? I’m an old lady to a biker, how could I refuse?”
Pulling her to me, I find her lips with mine. Then ease back at all the wolf whistling.
“Get a fuckin’ room,” Rattler shouts out.
Bronwyn pulls away from me, pulls a notebook out of her pocket, and pointedly says to Rattler, “No one’s going to be getting anything on in their own rooms anytime soon. But here’s what Pippa, I, and the girls have come up with.” She consults her notes. “Stalker and Paint will come and stay with Short, Trip, and me.” Her glance at me is obviously for reassurance. I can live with that. I suspect she’s keeping them close as they were injured, especially Stalker. It doesn’t seem to me that Paint’s head injury is much of a problem, seeing as how he’s been acting. Though at least in close quarters, I’ll be able to get payback on Paint for the comments he’d made about Bronwyn.
