Page 25 of Prosper

The garage was large with several work bays that took up a good amount of the building’s footprint. There was also a room that was originally meant to be an office for the business but was now used as a meeting room. It was where the motorcycle club that Prosper had started along with his buddy, Derringer Gage, a few years back conferenced.

Prosper paused just before he cleared the last step into the garage, and his eyes darted to the three men in the corner wearing Hells Saints MC leather cuts, smoking cigarettes and mulling over the panhead they were working on.

What a long, strange trip it had been on the road that had led him here to this solid place, to a point in life that Prosper had considered and trusted would be his last destination. He held out a fervent hope that this would be the final stop on the merry-go-round of shitstorms that had so far defined his life. He knew that a lot of people had it rough. And although he didn’t like to dwell on it, he thought that as far as fate dealing a warped and twisted hand, he was right up there with the best of them.

From the get-go, from the moment Prosper had left the womb screaming and red faced, he had landed on the wrong side of the stars. Because of his mother’s addiction, he was not only born premature but also drug dependent. The first few minutes of his entrance into this world had him fighting for his life, and it was a feeling that never left him. The medical complications that had come with being born a four-pound, heroin-addicted preemie had made him a very “hard-to-place” infant. However, he’d been lucky enough to be taken in by a loving couple. Darcy and William Worthington were in their mid-fifties and had been opening their hearts and homes to foster care kids for years.

They were just finishing off their careers with the agency when they were told about the drug dependent infant child. The moment the baby was placed in her arms, Darcy knew that he was meant to be theirs. She’d felt certain that in their home the child would not only survive the bad decisions of his biological mother but also would grow up happy and healthy. To help him fulfill that legacy of love and life and happiness, they’d decided to stack the deck in his favor and had named the infant … Prosper.

Prosper had had a wonderful childhood with Darcy and William. There’d been Cub Scouts and vacations at the beach and big Christmas trees wrapped with what seemed like thousands of lights, surrounded by colorful gifts purchased specially to please the little boy. Although Prosper had been told about his adoption and the circumstances surrounding his birth, he’d never considered himself anything less or other than the son of Darcy and William Worthington.

When Prosper was nine years old, he’d been at his very first sleepover birthday party, and his parents were on a bus trip to the city to see a play. The bus driver had had a heart attack en-route, and over twenty people had died in the crash. William and Darcy had been among them. Prosper was put back into foster care. He would run away on a weekly basis and find his way to the home he had shared with the Worthingtons. Prosper would sit on the front steps or on the back porch or in the yard until someone had found out he was missing and had come to get him. Because of this tendency to run away, he was soon labeled as “hard-to-place” and the foster homes had gotten much worse after that. When Prosper was fifteen, he’d run away for good and lived on the streets until he was sixteen. Then he’d lied on his enlistment papers and signed up for the service. It turned out that rage, a prevailing death wish, and extreme youth had been the perfect recipe for a damn good soldier. Prosper did a couple of tours and had earned himself a purple heart for the trouble. He was honorably discharged when he’d started to show signs of what was then known as soldier fatigue, but now is called PTSD.

That discharge from the military was one of the worst things that could have happened to Prosper. It was like being torn away from yet another family. Back in civilian life he was lost and alone again, and everything that he’d felt he was working towards was gone. Prosper had set off on a very self-destructive and dangerous path. The choices he’d made during that time should have killed him over and over again, but he miraculously slid through knife fights, drunken blackouts, and high-speed car chases unscathed. However, as all things eventually do, that lifestyle had come around to bite him in the ass.

One night he’d went on a drunken rampage, tore up a bar, and a couple of guys with it. The severity of their injuries should have been enough to put Prosper away for a very long time. And that had been just fine with him. Prosper had pretty much given up on life and on himself by that point and really didn’t give two shits where he ended up. He’d waived his rights to an attorney and pled guilty. But as luck would have it, the judge hearing the case had been a veteran himself and had two sons who served. Judge Rubio had taken a personal interest in Prosper’s case. It was not every day that a true American hero sat in his courtroom. As far as the judge was concerned, Prosper’s commendation of the Purple Heart Medal had put him in that category. Judge Rubio used his extensive influence to see that Prosper was able to work out a plea deal. However, the terms of the reduced sentence carried with it non-negotiable and stringent criteria: Prosper was to do good time and follow a path towards rehabilitation. He’d been signed up for anger management therapy sessions, a high school completion program, a mechanics course, and bible study. Prosper’s cellmate during that time had been Jack Winston.

Now, as Prosper considered the men as they argued over the merit of ape hangers versus stock handlebars, he took a moment to think about his own choices, the good and the bad ones. All of them having brought him here, to this place and time.

Prosper had kept his word to Maggie and had ridden straight for Mississippi after leaving her behind. He had found Jack camping out on the Gulf just where he said he would be. Prosper had had that heart-to-heart with Jack and had told him all the things he’d vowed to Maggie that he would, and none of the things that he’d promised her he wouldn’t. Jack Winston may have been a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. He listened attentively and heard everything that Prosper had to say and guessed at some of the things he hadn’t said. Jack loved a good time, but he loved Maggie more, and when faced with the very real possibility of losing her, his decision was easily made. Prosper and Jack parted the very next morning with a new and clear understanding between them.

For a long time after that, Prosper’s head was in a very dark and abysmal place. He was in a constant state of misery, longing, and confusion. Living the life of an angry, bitter man, he became the worst possible version of himself.

Derringer and Prosper met one hot afternoon when Prosper had misjudged a soft shoulder on a lone stretch of desert highway, blew out his tire, and dumped his bike. Furious with himself, with the road, and with life, in general, Prosper began to kick the shit out of his Harley. He was so intent on exacting his revenge on the fucked-up hand that life had dealt him, he hadn’t heard the van drive up behind him. It was only after a few bullets hit the already blown-out tire did Prosper turn around.

“You fucking crazy?” Prosper jumped as the loud crack of the pistol whizzed past him. Then he spun on his heels and looked down at the small wiry man with hard eyes: the man who still had a handgun trained on Prosper’s bike.

“’Bout to ask you the same thing, friend. Not sure what this here black beauty has ever done to you except give you a sweet, sweet ride. But it just goes against a man’s grain to see a custom job like that being kicked to shit by a man who looks like he should know a helluva lot better,” Derringer said as he pushed another clip into the gun and offered the pistol to Prosper. When Prosper just stared at him with hell to pay in his eyes, Derringer shrugged and put the gun into the back of his waistband. “The way I see it? A couple of bullets in an already blown-out tire’s gonna do a lot less damage than those boots of yours are gonna do on that chrome.” Then Derringer held out his hand. “Name’s Derringer, Derringer Gage.”

After a slight hesitation, Prosper shook that extended hand. Partly because he wasn’t gonna ignore a man who just shot off a round of bullets, and second, because the man was right. That bike had never given Prosper a bad minute and it deserved better. Prosper took a moment to assess Derringer. In his experience, you could tell a lot about a man from his handshake. This guy might be small in size, but he had as firm a grip as any man Prosper had come across. He was a mean-looking sonofabitch too. Shrapnel scars covered his arms and a series of Vietnamese prayers were inked into his skull.

After introductions were made, Derringer walked over to where he had parked his van, took out a flask, and handed it to Prosper. After Prosper shot back some of the best whiskey he had ever tasted, he pulled a joint out of his t-shirt pocket, lit it up then handed it over to Derringer. The men sat for a while and shot the shit, smoking the premium weed and washing it down with some quality whiskey while sizing up each other. When Derringer had offered to load Prosper’s Harley into his van and bring it to his home garage, Prosper took him up on the offer. That day a friendship that would span over forty years had begun. Derringer Gage introduced Prosper to a whole underworld of like-minded men. Men just like the ones Prosper had described to Maggie. Men who were rebels, who lived just outside the margins of the law and were thirsty for the brotherhood and sense of belonging that they had experienced in the military. It wasn’t long before Prosper had shared his vision for a motorcycle club, and with the help of Derringer and a handful of those men, the HSMC was born.

Now six years later, the Hells Saints MC had four charters with a membership of over two hundred men, and they were about to open up a fifth charter. With Prosper leading the helm and Derringer second in charge, all systems were go and the club was becoming more than either men had dared to hope it could be. Prosper had called his head boys into a national meeting this week where he had laid out the vision and business plan for the next two years.

Wisely, he had also drafted up a contingency plan. This plan would go into effect should something arise leaving Prosper unable to fulfill the positional duties of National President. The brothers took it as a matter of course and as a necessary and smart way to safeguard the club. They had no idea that this passing of the torch may be imminent.

One phone call had changed everything and Prosper was now on his way to exacting that executive order. While Derringer Gage did not possess what could be called an affable personality, he was good with numbers, had an uncanny ability to read through bullshit, and above all, was a great leader and a loyal friend. Prosper had absolutely no qualms about leaving the club in his hands for as long as it took, and honestly, Prosper had no idea what that time frame would be.

Now Derringer spied Prosper all packed up and ready to go. He called out from across the garage, “Need the room, brothers,” The men glanced up from their conversations and when they saw their president outfitted in road leathers and carrying a full saddlebag, they raised a few eyebrows, but didn’t say a word.

Derringer waited until the men cleared the room, then he shook his head and sighed. “You wanna tell me what’s going on here, brother?”

“You know what’s going on,” Prosper growled back.

“I thought we talked about this. Not your place, friend. The time that’s left, thatshehas left? That belongs to her family. Belongs to her kids, to her man. “

“We also agreed if I got the call that I would go.”

“And you got that call?” Derringer looked at him speculatively.

“Yep, I did.”

“When?”

“Five minutes ago.”

A flash of worry and concern passed over Derringer’s face. But his tone was even when he asked the question, “So, on a scale from one to ten, how bad are things?”

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