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“That was easy.”
It crosses my mind that it’ll only take a slight jerk of my right hip to catch the first bike on its side and create a domino effect of crumpled, falling motorcycles. I think against it just as quickly as the idea pops into my head. That’s beyond my limit, even if they deserve it for accepting the paid job of blowing half of my MC’s clubhouse sky high. Sure, most of the repairs are complete now. Our headquarters is pretty much good as new. Still, it will be a long time before I can let go of what they did. For now, I’ll make do with the satisfaction that their slashed tires will give them enough grief.
Damn, does it ever give me a little gallop in my giddy-up. I grin like an idiot as I stroll over to my ride, which still hums as the engine runs.
Payback’s a bitch, motherfuckers.
Getting onto my ride, I race out of there, kicking up a cloud of dirt vast enough to obliterate my vision of any reaction I might’ve witnessed through my rearview mirror. No matter how the Los Diablos handle it, my only regret is not being able to see their reactions. I’ll miss out on watching them sputter, swear up a storm, kick up more dirt, and flail their pansy arms like they’re in a fucking tizzy.
That would’ve been pure gold.
Unfortunately, I have real-life tasks to keep up with. There’s no time today to keep playing my own version of a primetime prank war. Still, it doesn’t stop me from plastering a shit-eating grin on my face until I finish the fifteen-mile ride to the clubhouse. Once I roll up to the partially paved parking area, I park my chopper and head inside. My eyes adjust to the dim lights. I waste no time. Nodding to some of the members milling about, I walk through the central hangout area, pass the pools tables and stop at the bar.
I nod to a few of the sweet-looking MC groupies behind the counter. Our club’s sack demons. They all know me well enough to anticipate that I want whiskey and a lot of it. One of them slides a bottle over to me. No shot glass follows. Also good. I give her a nod of thanks and turn to look over at the other members spread out around the club’s common room. They’re taking it easy during their downtime today instead of scraping by with a nine to five like the rest of the human race.
“Check out all you lucky fuckers,” I shout, and am greeted by a chorus of smiles mixed with the usual cussing and friendly hollering.
After a few swigs from my whiskey bottle, I stride down the wide hallway to check the bulletin board. A new roster of security team shifts and assignments have been handed out for the week, and I want to have an idea of how packed my schedule will be for the next few days.
No matter what, I need to stay busy. Too much free time on my hands is not a good thing where I’m concerned. Thank fuck my MC brothers understand me well enough to keep me on the straight and narrow, especially now that our club’s headed in a new direction. I was against the change at first. That was mostly because I hated the idea of having to tone shit down and put on a front. I don’t enjoy making myself all presentable for security clients instead of getting to kick up my dusty boots, sell weapons for a shit ton of cash, and cause mayhem back alleys, and let it all hang out in my favorite underground sex clubs.
Over time, I’ve come around. The fact is that some of these gigs are a challenge, and they pay serious coin. Not a bad deal for going legit. Silas, our current President, took his old lady, Sabrina’s advice, and she helped the MC set us up the right way. So far, I’ve only had to wear a business suit a couple of times. In those cases, it was at the request of specific high-profile clients. But Silas has seen to it that I don’t get stuck on most of those jobs, which makes everyone happier in the long run. He understands all too well that I’m not the best at watching what I say or being politically correct. But we’re all doing what we have to do to make it work. I won’t run interference.
I glide my palm over my spiky mohawk. Taking the bottle with me, I step across the large room and scan the board outside the family meeting room for my name. Sure enough, my name is there, but the first entry on my schedule is highlighted in bright pink. I smile, recalling that I told Sabrina she didn’t need to make the schedule light up as bold as a stripper’s thong in a glow in the dark sex club. She didn’t find it funny. The notation is her way of telling us which assignments require a phone call with her for more information or specific instructions. I don’t have a problem with Sabrina, but I know she thinks I’m a handful. Most women of her pedigree do. In any case, she’s Silas’s old lady, not mine.
