Page 93 of Road to Absolution

Chains wasn’t as tall as Diesel, or as wide, but had a persona that came with a warning label. It was in the form of a short black mohawk. On the shaved sides of his head, there were tattoos of black chain links, and embedded within the chain were a razor blade and a few drops of blood. If that wasn’t scary enough, his sharp, dark eyes moved with such speed, I swear he was part animal searching for prey.

Some fighters I’d had to face would try to ‘look’ this tough, but with Chains, it was no act.

I lifted my chin to answer him. “I won’t take off my cut.”

Scorch tapped his temple, reminding me of maturity.

I nodded to him and accepted my cut, as Diesel said, “There are rules. Follow them or—”

Venom, our Sergeant at Arms, reached behind a parked car and pulled out three buckets. All with cleaning supplies, including toilet scrubbers.

Art balked, “I ain’t no Prospect.”

Venom was older, but carried—besides an obscene number of weapons—a lighter approach. I guess he didn’t need to appear scary when his guns and knives preached of heavy repercussions if you fucked with him. He was quite tall and lanky. With longer, Kid Rock-shaggy blond hair, his brown eyes stood out.

Leaning forward, Diesel growled at Art, “But you’re a trouble startin’ pup.”

Rogue added, “To the Lair you go.”

Our Road Captain’s name, Rogue, had me quite curious. It didn’t sound like a compliment, but I sensed there was not one officer with the Ryders who didn’t have high qualities. Nor did Rogue look like the mad bull elephant often associated with such a term. He had blond, crewcut-styled hair and lacked the tats and rings some of the other Ryders proudly exhibited. He also had green eyes that were so light it was challenging to conceive they stopped. It looked like they just kept channeling into his head somewhere, like a maze of mirrors.

Art grumbled, “This is bullshit,” as he picked up a bucket and started walking away.

Clueless of what the Lair was, I grabbed a bucket and followed Art while waving to Scorch, a thank you for my smokes.

Knuckles, smiling as usual, waved.

Gator, our Secretary, may have earned his name because he liked to eat. Chubby cheeks spilled out from under his Ryder beanie, like his black curly hair. He called out to us, “I left you a present.”

Following me with his own bucket, Tucker chuckled. “Fucking old coots. All of them.”

Annoyed, Art waved about the huge backyard. There were trees, but not as many as farther off in the distance. “This is the Hunting Grounds.” There was a huge firepit, lounge chairs, lawn chairs, picnic tables, bench swings… basically anything needed to have a hell of a barbeque.

In the Hunting Grounds, off to the right, was a black modern-looking dome. It was half the size of the building we lived in but was still plenty big for all that was inside. Walking through the door, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Not only was there another bar and similar items as in the Cave, but a boxing ring in the middle of the front part of the dome.

“No.” My heart ached to be inside them ropes.

Art walked us past the ring. “Yeah. A side gig. The club makes money with online fights.”

Flabbergasted, I stumbled past it. “How did I not know about this?”

“Bikers and family only.”

I looked back to Tuck, who had rejoined the Cobweb Hunters. So, I asked, “This why you into bettin’?”

Still marching forward, Art grumbled, “The nights of your fights, there were literally four flat screens in the ring so all gamblers had a good view of their money.”

“Any Ryders bet against me?”

Walking us into a gym, Art chuckled, “Against the boxer who’s never lost? Not so much. You even had every Stallion rooting for you.”

“Oh.” That sure fired my ego. “So, who bet against me, if no bikers or family?”

Art put his shirt over his nose while putting his back to a door. “Dumbasses online.”

“What are you doing?”

“Protecting my lungs.” He nudged his butt into the door.