“Nice to meet you, Blake Donaldson,” I reply. “I’m Fallon Peters.”
“Nice to meet you too.”
“So what kind of club are you in?”
He frowns and lowers his gaze to his beer again, and I see something like fear in his eyes. But fear of what? Is he afraid I’ll judge him for whatever club he’s in?
“It’s a… It’s a motorcycle club,” he said.
“Oh yeah? I like to ride too,” I tell him, excited to be making a connection with him.
He chuckles. “Oh yeah? And what do you ride? Rice rocket?”
“For your information, I ride a Ducati.”
He nods, looking impressed. “A Ducati, huh?”
“It was my dad’s,” I say quietly, the familiar grief welling up within me.
He frowns, seeming to be picking up on the emotions going through me and an awkward silence descends over us. Not wanting to ruin the moment, I clear my throat and give him the best smile I can muster.
“So, are you like with the Hell’s Angels? The Mongols?” I ask, reciting some of the names I’ve heard in the news before.
“Nahhh, we’re not quite that big,” he says. “My club is named the Dark Pharaohs.”
“Ahhh… I’ve heard of you guys before.”
“I figure most people around these parts have,” he says.
Now I see why he was reluctant to say anything. I don’t know much about his gang, but I’ve heard of them. They have a reputation as hell-raisers, misfits, and violent thugs. But they’re also a charitable group of veterans who protect their town and all the citizens in it. People exaggerate and talk about stuff they have no firsthand knowledge of though, so it’s hard to separate fact from fiction when it comes to his club.
“Tell me, is it true you beat the hell out of people you find dealing drugs in Blue Rock?” I ask. “Is it true you run them out of town? I’ve heard that you do.”
He looks uncomfortable and shifts in his seat, studiously avoiding my eyes for a minute. I guess it’s a tough position to put him in—asking him about his club’s business. I don’t know much about motorcycle clubs, but the little I do know is that they’re secretive. They keep their cards close to the vest and don’t let outsiders into their inner circle. But I figured we were having a great conversation and seemed to be getting on really well, so I thought I’d ask since I’m curious about life on the inside of a motorcycle club.
But I can see that he’s hesitant to say anything. And I suppose I can’t blame him too much. He doesn’t know me. I’ve got no right to be asking these questions in the first place and even less of a right to expect answers. But there’s something about Blake that intrigues me. I feel like there’s a connection there between us. It’s totally unexpected and disconcerting, but it somehow doesn’t feel wrong or bad. And given the way he’s looking at me right now, I want to believe he’s feeling it too.
But even still, whether there’s genuinely a connection there between us or not, it doesn’t entitle me to know his deepest secrets. Or his club’s. That doesn’t mean I’m not curious though. If anything, the reticence I see in his eyes makes me even more curious.
“I’m not sure what you’ve heard,” he says bluntly. “But all I can say is that when we get word that somebody’s dealing, we look into it and if it turns out to be true, we handle it.”
“And by handle it, you mean beating and then sending them packing,” I say.
His lips compress into a tight line, and I can see his hesitance. “There’s just no place in Blue Rock for that kind of shit and we don’t tolerate it. Let’s just leave it at that.”
I give him an approving nod. “Well, for what it’s worth, if the stories I hear are true, I think more towns should have guys like you around to help keep it safe,” I tell him. “I mean, I think we’d have less of a drug problem in this country if every town had a group like you guys who do the things the cops can’t do—allegedly, of course.”
He gives me a small grin but doesn’t say anything. His silence though, as well as his refusal to deny anything I’ve said kind of confirms it for me. If the stories I’ve heard about his club beating people and making them disappear weren’t true, I have to think he’d say so.
“Personally, I think it’d be great if it were true. A little draconian, but pretty great at the same time,” I tell him, unable to stop myself from talking. “From everything I’ve heard, Blue Rock is a really nice town that doesn’t have the same problems as other places. Little crime, zero drugs… I’ve even heard there’s very little domestic violence in your town.”
“All true,” he confirmed. “I mean, crime to absolute zero. We’re always going to have it because some people are just all about that life. But Sheriff Singer and his deputies do a good job of keepin’ order in town.”
I shrug. “Sheriff Singer, huh?”
“And his deputies,” he says. “They’re the law and order types. They keep the streets pretty clean.”
“With the help of your club, huh?”
