CHAPTER NINE
SHORT
Four weeks can make a fuckload of difference, especially when you’ve got brothers like mine. Not only did the barn get converted to a gym in record time, after they’d installed all the equipment, but they ganged up on me. There always seems to be someone around to keep up my regime.
Pippa, somehow, had gotten in touch with a physiotherapist who’d advised her of an appropriate exercise plan, given her description of my injury. Of course, if I weren’t a biker, I’d probably have had in-person visits with a qualified individual. But I’m definitely in the DIY mindset, even when it comes to my health. And it’s not as if doing it my own way isn’t showing a gradual improvement.
I still suffer breathlessness, often at the most inappropriate times, but I’m getting stronger each day. My progress is such that I now feel optimistic. While I might never completely regain my previous fitness, what I do achieve might not be that far off. Perhaps exerting myself at high altitude might always be beyond me, but I never saw mountain climbing in my future. At least, I won’t have to cart an oxygen tank around with me.
That ten-dollar lung-enhancing machine I bought myself? I won’t admit it to the others, but among all the expensive equipment they bought, it’s worth its weight in gold.
Best of all, I’m back to being able to ride my bike. On two wheels, I once again feel like the man I was, free and invincible. While I’ve had a few trial runs, today’s the day I’ve been waiting for.
I’ve missed out on so fucking much, having to stay at the clubhouse while almost everyone else set out to a meeting they’d arranged with Wrecker, the Mojave Devils’ Prez. It was only supposed to be him, his VP, Candyman, his enforcer, Scarface, along with their sergeant-at-arms, the strangely named CF. Representing our side were Prez, Saint, Tempest, and Freak. But knowing we couldn’t trust the MDMC and suspecting he’d come heavy-handed, the rest of our crew, except for the prospects, me, Paint, and Winchester, accompanied our top officers. I was left out because I simply wouldn’t be capable of holding my own in any fight that might ensue. Winchester and Paint, having been injured alongside me, were advised to stay behind, in case they got too trigger-happy.
So, we’d had to sit, twiddling our thumbs, while first the uninvited participants headed out early to scope out the pre-arranged meeting place. There, they were to get themselves into position in case things went south. Two members’ roles were determined as vital. Woody, in particular, our resident sniper, and Rattler, who could hold his own behind a long-range rifle. At least, our resident asshole can occasionally come in useful for something. A couple of hours later, the officers rolled out.
It hadn’t been easy waiting for news, knowing that going up against the MDMC was fraught with danger, even if the meeting was pre-arranged, and supposedly all participants would leave their weapons in their saddlebags.
It was a good two-hour journey to the rendezvous point and the same back, plus whatever time was needed for their parley. It was early evening before the throaty roar of motorcycle engines had been heard, and shortly after, tired and travel-weary brothers rolled in.
After a quick bite to eat and a few beers to wash the dust from their throats, Bullseye took pity on us non-combatants and called church to update us.
Bullseye hadn’t held back on the details, nor his satisfaction at what had gone down. I was initially disappointed there hadn’t been a massacre.
“Ugly fucker, that Wrecker,” he’d told us, leaning back in his chair and linking his hands behind his head.
Saint waggled his fingers, interrupting him. “None of them was anything to write home about. Talk about living off the fat of the land.” He barked a laugh. “They certainly didn’t look like they looked after themselves. Bulky? Fuck yeah. Muscles? Hell no.”
Prez nodded to agree with him. “On the surface intimidating, but to us?” He’d paused and looked at me, his mouth curving slightly. “Thanks to our new gym equipment, nowhere near competition for us.”
“Hey, don’t forget the pole.” Stalker chuckles. “You can get a real workout on that.”
Anxious as I was to hear the outcome, even I couldn’t help cracking a smile.
Yeah, it seemed it wasn’t only the sweet butts who like twirling their shit. Most of the brothers had had a go trying their non-existent skills on the pole one drunken night, all falling flat on their faces. Their antics had made me almost split my sides, and the pain it had caused was worth it. But Stalker had seemed to get the hang of it, much to our amusement. Apparently, mastering the moves was a good full-body workout. Thereafter, it became normal to walk into the clubroom and see the treasurer working the pole, with the club girls complaining that he was monopolising it.
Prez banged his hand on the table to restore order. “When I confronted him about his boys coming into our territory and causing trouble, Wrecker blustered that he had every right to be there as they were trying to track one of their old members. He kind of brushed over that they were flying colours without asking permission.” Bullseye broke off and couldn’t hide his grin. “So, I outright asked why he wanted a man who’s obviously left his club to prospect in ours, and who’d appeared so damn flighty, that he’d abandoned us as well.”
Saint couldn’t resist taking over. “I thought Wrecker was going to stroke out on the spot. You could see his brain working.” He shook his head. “Again, he tried to convince us Skunk hadn’t joined us under false pretences, but it was a hard sell to try to keep up. We all knew Skunk had been feeding info back to him, but he couldn’t admit that to us.”
“Was that when one of his men went for his gun?” Woody asked. “I had him in my sights at that point.”
“Yeah, Scarface, their enforcer, got trigger-happy, but luckily, Wrecker at least had some sense and got him to stand down.”
“I think the red laser point on his forehead was the deciding factor,” Saint remarked, unable to hide his amusement. “And when it shifted to Wrecker, he was suddenly happy to listen to what Bullseye had to say.”
Prez sighed. “No one needed to admit we’d both brought a number of our men with us. Wrecker guessed it at that point, and from the way his officers were making hand signals, it was obvious others of the MDMC were close by. I pointed out that mutual destruction was to no man’s benefit. And neither was them continuing to search for a man following where hisdick led. Of course, he suspected Skunk was already six feet underground, but he had no proof, and no evidence to prove it.” He glanced at Saint.
Saint didn’t disappoint. “Wrecker’s already had problems with the Kings’ New Mexico and Texas chapters. We reminded him of our power and our strength, and the total number of the chapters we could call on. I strongly intimated his piss-poor club was no match for us.”
“How did he take that?” I asked.
Freak snorted. “Well, when we also brought his attention to the fact that he sent members of his club into our territory, injuring two men and almost killing a third, we questioned why we should leave any of them breathing. By then, he’d seen the fuckin’ light. He actually offered a solution himself. He fuckin’ called up three of his men out of hiding, and offered them to us to beat up.”
“He what?” Paint’s eyes were wide open. “He gave them up? Were they part of the crew that ambushed us?”
“Don’t know and don’t care,” Prez announced. “But let's say Freak, Saint, and Tempest beat the fuck out of the poor suckers.”
