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CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
*Kaldon “Kal/Prez” - President*
One thing I love about the autumn rally is when Florida actually decides to give a tease of fall weather. Most fall rallies are hot and sticky. Tonight, I can feel the temperature dropping slightly. I turn into the gravel driveway and navigate around the potholes filled with silty mud until reaching the trailer. Foster’s covered chopper is parked along the side.
I power down, dismount, and take off my helmet while approaching the door to give it a solid rap. A rumbly grunt and mumble of displeasure emits through the opening door as it swings wide.
Foster immediately gives me a once over before recognition sparks, and he lets out a hearty chuckle, opening his arms. “Kaldon!” We embrace and give each other a few hard pats. He pulls back, grasping me by the shoulders. “Damn, son. Has it really only been a few months?” Foster ruffles the top of my head like he always did when I was a kid. “Pretty sure I see a bit of gray. Looking a little worse for the wear, if ya ask me. Come in!” He holds out an arm and steps aside, eyes tracking over my shoulder to investigate the area before shutting the door behind us.
Foster ambles over to the fridge, grabs a couple beers, pops the caps loose with a bottle opener, then hands one to me. I throw back the malty liquid, emptying the neck of the bottle to start.
He does the same then leads us into the living room. As we take our seats, I place my helmet on the side table, and he wastes no time breaking into conversation. “What’s the story this season? Anything worth doing or saying?”
We start the same way every rally. This rally is different, though, so it calls for a different script. “You tell me, Foster.”
Pushing a hand through his scraggly hair, he states, “Stoney is up in arms. The tides are changing, and Rolling Stones members all have their hypotheses.”
I take another gulp, smack my lips, and lean back deeper into the old, torn chair. “Not following. If by ‘tides’ you mean my brigade, Hell for Leather is just here to have a good time, as usual, like clockwork. Shoot the shit. Snuggle with some bunnies for the weekend. Be charitable. Last I checked, any club is welcome to participate in Bike Week.” I finger the foam sticking out of a thready tear, even going as far as pinching off a piece and flicking it at him. “I see Pop is taking good care of you.”
Despite aging, he still has quick reflexes and catches the small piece of fluff. “Savin’ up for a rainy day, boy. You know how it goes.”
Our eyes meet. I lift my beer. “Yeah… I know how it goes.” The television plays on mute nearby, but neither of us pay attention to the screen.
Foster clears his throat and tilts his beer to meet mine, dropping his voice to a whisper. “A lot of what ifs are floating around. Stoners are considering what actions will be taken should their theories come true.”
I bob my head and grind my teeth. “Anyone else saving up for a rainy day?” I ask.
“Enough of them got a little nest egg going.”
Our bottles clink, and we both chug the rest of our drinks and toss the bottles into the garbage can. I make it, he misses. I smirk, he groans.
Our eyes move to the television, but our focus remains on the conversation.
“Sounds to me like Pop is scared.” I chuckle.
“Should he be?” Foster volleys.
My amused grin drops. “Maybe.”
I want to let him in on these budding, revolutionary plans of mine, but on the off-chance that I might be wrong about his desire to get out of the Rolling Stones, I decide the risk is too great. Foster and I have never had bad blood, and he has literally been the glue preventing a club war from happening, by way of a little give and take.
Now that I finally have my own collateral, though, the time has come to negotiate with the master negotiator. Tides are changing after all. “Stakes have been raised. The agreement on The Contract is no longer sufficient.”
Foster whips his attention to me. “Too late. The Contract is binding. No negotiations.”
“Try again, old man. What we provide you is far too valuable for such a hasty decision. As expected, Stoney is upping the game. That value just increased substantially.” Hedging the conversation without saying what either of us actually mean is pretty damn tiring. But we both have things to relay and enough sense to not spell them out. Just in case.
The loud, unmistakable brattle of a motorcycle hums through the trailer’s thin paneling. Having nothing much else to beat around the bush on and wanting to get out of here before another member of the Rolling Stones comes busting in, I push out of the decrepit chair, swipe my helmet off the side table, and head toward the door. “You are a pretty smart guy, Foster. I have a feeling you know what I want. Time is ticking, though. I just queened a pawn; now it’s your move.”
Rustling behind me precedes a firm hand on my shoulder. I don’t bother to turn around, my fingers twisting tighter against the lip of my helmet. “There is still a lot of good in that girl, Kal. I want to keep it that way.”
Shrugging myself away from his grip, I open the front door, rush down the steps, mount my bike, and start her up. “Choose your piece and strategize your next move, Foster,” I yell in parting, launching forward.
The motorcycle entering is a Duc. Instead of a man in a cut, the woman riding is covered in black from head to toe. Torn jeans, graphic tee, and sneakers.
She passes me, heading straight toward where I just left. Head angling to catch my eyes through our visors, she gives me a curt nod.
