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"We will have to speak to one of the Huntsmen," I said to Gabriel as we left Patrick's.
"I would agree."
"They've invited me to make contact, but they haven't exactly left a cell number." I took the boar's tusk from my pocket, rubbed it, and squeezed my eyes shut. "I'd like to speak to the guy in charge." I opened my eyes and looked around. "Nope, that's not it."
Gabriel's lips twitched in a smile. "We'll figure it out."
"I hope so."
--
After that, I talked to Larry. He hoped I'd "work out whatever I needed to work out" and come back to Cainsville. I didn't say much to that. I couldn't.
Gabriel and I detoured to the prison to get my car. We also tried again to see Todd. Nothing had changed. If some branch of the fae Mafia was blocking me, it was doing so at a level high enough that I couldn't dodge around it.
I'd just made it to my car when Ricky called. I put him on speaker and followed Gabriel's car from the lot.
"I want to see you tonight," he said as I drove.
"Um, good, considering that's what we had planned."
Two seconds
of silence told me those plans had changed.
"Club business?" I asked.
"Yeah. Just a private meeting with my dad. Stuff we can't discuss on the phone. He needs me to come by at nine, which is going to totally fuck up our evening. Unless I can convince you to come with."
"To the clubhouse?"
A shuffle in the background. I could hear the distant murmur of voices. Still at school, then, taking a moment between classes.
He continued. "We discussed you making an appearance at the club, just coming by, hanging out, showing the guys . . . you know."
"That I don't think I'm too good for them."
"Mmm, yeah."
What I'd just learned from Patrick was huge. Overwhelming, too. I needed time to clear my head so I could work it through. Spending the evening in a biker clubhouse was pretty much guaranteed to be all the distraction I needed.
"I'll come tonight."
"Thank you."
--
The Saints aren't your typical biker gang. Ricky downplays the differences, because he doesn't want them to seem like justifications. Running a successful criminal operation means you do make choices, and some the Saints make may seem ethical, but it's more about profit and self-protection. If you stick within certain lines of the law, you can skirt the notice of the law.
Within the club, the rules are equally strict, but again each one has a purpose. A biker gang is not a democracy. There's a guy in charge, and he owns your ass, and that's okay, because it's a way of life that the guys in a gang understand. Give them democracy and they'd smell weakness, toss your ass overboard, and seize control for themselves.
Yet as progressive as Don was, equality for women didn't rank high on his reform list, because the gang wanted it about as much as they wanted democracy, which was to say, not at all. This was one reason Ricky hadn't been rushing me out for an evening at the clubhouse. If there was a drop of sexism in Ricky, I hadn't seen it. He didn't go out of his way to treat me as an equal, because to him, I just was. Now he had to ask me, for an evening, to accept an inferior role. I'd never seen Ricky so uncomfortable as when he had to lay out those expectations before our visit.
"It's okay," I said as we talked at his place. "I get it. You're not asking me to dress in micro shorts and serve them beer before the wet T-shirt contest. The rules are simple enough. One, treat you with respect, which I hope I always do."
"You do."
"Two, don't pay too much attention to other guys, because it could be taken the wrong way. Wallace and CJ will be there, and when you're gone, they're in charge of me, so I'm to focus on them. No one will misinterpret, because you put them in charge of me."
