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“You are complete fucking waste of life, Hawk. Fuck you,” she sneers. “Is it really that hard for you to show a little respect to a woman you just spent the night with?”
All I can do is shrug. “Sorry. I got too fucked up and passed out before I could kick you out.”
Her mouth falls open and her face darkens with rage. From the corner of my eye, I see Reaper clap his hand over his mouth to stop from laughing. She’s absolutely livid. She looks like she could actually murder me right now, right where I stand. But she turns and storms down the stairs. I watch as she crosses the parking lot where all the bikes are in a row, unleashing a string of curses that would make a trucker blush as she goes. She jumps into a late model Jetta, fires up the engine, and speeds out of the parking lot in a spray of dust and rocks, her middle finger sticking out of the open sunroof.
Reaper and I look after her, drinking and smoking in silence for several long moments. He finally turns to me.
“So,” he comments. “New friend?”
“You don’t recognize her? She’s not one of our usuals, is she?”
He shakes his head. “Never seen her before in my life.”
“Huh.”
Neither of us says anything for a long moment and I turn to look at the parking lot. I take a drink of my coffee, then a drag from my smoke before dropping the butt onto the porch and crushing it out beneath my boot.
“So, what do you have on your plate?” Reaper asks.
“Making a run to Phoenix for your dad,” I tell him.
“Howler business?”
I nod. “Gotta check in with Hammerhead and see what’s what down there. Shouldn’t be more than a few days.”
“Yeah, probably best for you to get out of town for a bit,” he says. “The last thing I want to hear about is you gettin’ plowed over by an angry chick in a blue Jetta.”
I laugh. “That makes two of us.”
“Watch your back out in Phoenix, brother,” he tells me. He looks left and right and leans in, his voice lower as if he doesn’t want anyone to hear him. “Keep an eye on them. Something’s up.”
“They’re our allies,” I say.
He nods, but there’s a look of concern in his eyes. “I know. But that’s just ‘cause Dad has stayed loyal to them forever. But when I’m in charge, that just might have to change.”
I frown. “What are you saying?”
“What I’m saying is, I don’t trust those fucks as far as I can sling a piano.”
I nod. “Yeah. That makes two of us too.”
I turn back and look at the desolate and lonely vista of the desert as an ominous weight descends over me. I shake it off and head inside. I need to get my shit and get on the road.
CHAPTERTWO
Vegas to Phoenix. Just over three hundred miles and a little over four hours on the road. Although I’m not real thrilled about my destination, I enjoy these long trips. It’s sometimes nice to get away and enjoy the open road. It’s nice to just have time and space to think. The feeling of my bike rumbling beneath me, the sound of its throaty roar filling my ears, and the sight of nothing but that endless ribbon of highway stretched out before me reaching out to the horizon is comforting.
When I’m on my bike with the wind flowing through my hair and washing over my skin, I feel free. There’s no club, no business, none of life’s pressures weighing down on me. I’m just me. Sometimes I think it’d be nice to just climb onto my bike and drive away, never looking back and only stopping when I need to eat, sleep, or take a piss. When I’m on the back of my bike, I feel most at home. I feel a sense of joy and freedom I don’t get out of anything else in life.
Reaper always calls me anti-social. Maybe he’s right. Aside from the club, there isn’t anybody in my life I really enjoy hanging out with. And even the boys get on my nerves sometimes. I’m a solitary creature by nature. I don’t need much, and I don’t need people to be happy. Some of the guys may think that’s unusual. None of them would say it to my face, but I can tell they think I’m distant. But I don’t give a shit. I once heard a shrink talking about finding joy in your own company and not relying on others to make you happy being a sign of good mental health. So, those guys can all go fuck themselves.
I pull off the highway and head into the small town to gas up and get something to eat. After finishing at the gas station, I pull into a hole-in-the-wall diner and park my bike. I hold the door open for an older couple coming out of the diner. The woman, probably in her sixties, looks at me with a dubious expression on her face. She switches her purse to the shoulder opposite me and keeps eyeballing me. The man gives me an apologetic smile and a shrug. I’m used to people looking at me sideways. Comes with the territory.
“Have a nice day, folks,” I say.
“You too,” the man says.
The woman quietly admonishes her husband as they walk away, making me laugh softly to myself. Being a biker comes with some baggage. For one thing, people always assume you’re going to rob or kill them. Most people look at me the way that older lady did. Not that I really care. Let them look at me however they want. But it shows me just how many of them judge a book by its cover. These people can’t see past my size, my long hair, or my tats. But most of all, they can’t see past my cut. They see the Ruthless Kings patch on my back and immediately assume I’m a bad man.
