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CHAPTER TWO
Gabriel
These guys have no idea who I am. That isn’t all that surprising. I mean, most people in town don’t know who I am. More to the point, these guys don’t recognize the patches on my cut. Anyone in town will and any townie will immediately back off when told to back off. These three might as well be looking at nobody with nobody behind him. I guess they don’t watch television either. I mean, a guy with a leather cut-off vest covered with patches, a skull helmet, cut-off leather gloves, and a black shirt beneath… Hell, I’m straddling a motorcycle.
But they’re stupid.
“This is none of your business, old man,” one of them says. He glances skittishly at his friends to make sure they’re watching him. He’s on speed. He might not be tweaking at the moment but he’s a tweaker, no doubt. See enough of them, and it isn’t hard to recognize at all. They’re on their way to see Cart Stillwell. He’s the only guy making meth in these parts, and we severely restrict what he can deal to townies. Most of his business is from idiots like these three.
I swing a leg over the bike and walk toward them. “You don’t want any of this, old man,” another one says. I see a hand-sized rock on the ground and pick it up as I walk toward them. They finally realize they aren’t going to intimidate me. They let go of the girl, which is good, and they spread out a little.
One pulls out a buck knife. “Okay, old timer,” he says, “just remember you asked for this.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I say. Then, I throw the rock. It hits the one with the knife right in the face and I hear the satisfying crunch of his nose. The rock falls to the ground and he stares in shock for a second as blood flows from his nose and he falls to his knees and then forward.
One of the guys runs immediately. The other, braver, rushes me. I catch him with a haymaker and then a knee to the stomach. He falls to the ground, and I see the third trying to get into a car. Evidently one of these two has the key. “Come back here,” I call. “Do what I say, and you won’t get hurt.”
He hesitates but then tentatively walks toward me. “Get your friends,” I say. The one in front of me groans and I give him a kick to the ribs to shut him up. “And go back home.” I snap a picture of the guy on the ground and then walk to the one who got hit with the rock. I snap a picture of him and then the guy is still upright. “Cartman will have your pictures. You’ll never buy from him again. If you ever see me again, it will be the last thing you see.”
He nods and stands there in shock. “One more thing,” I say, “I’m thirty-four.”
“What?”
‘Thirty-four isn’t old, you piece of shit.”
“S-sorry,” he stutters.
“Don’t apologize,” I reply. “Just get your friends and yourself out of here. Let’s say, oh, a hundred, two hundred miles away.”
“Okay, y-yes, sir,” he says.
He smacks the guy with the broken nose in the face and says, “The keys, man. Where are the keys?”
The broken-nose guy reaches into his pocket and shakily hands the other guy the key. I watch, amused as the two conscious attackers carry the third into the car, then get in themselves and burn rubber on their way out of town.
When they’re out of sight, I turn to the girl and say, “Come on, Cayla. I’ll take you home.”
She stares at me, wide-eyed and a little wary. I don’t blame her. It’s true I rescued her, but she’s a townie and she no doubt recognizes the patch on my shoulder. “You—you know my name?”
I smile at her. “I’m Gabe Stronge—Della’s brother.”
“Della Winters?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Helen and Joey are my niece and nephew.”
She still seems concerned, so I add, “We actually met a couple of years ago for Helen’s fourth birthday. I’ve been out of town since then, so you probably don’t recognize me.”
She thinks a moment, then her eyes widen. “Oh!” she cries. “Oh, Gabe!”
She rushes toward me and throws her arms around me, sobbing, finally able to release her fear. I hold her for a while and softly stroke her hair.
I know this makes me an asshole, but I can’t help but notice how soft and shapely her body is in my arms. I can’t help too but notice the way her breasts press against me through the fabric or the way her ass strains against her jeans or the sweet pineapple scent of her hair.
The last time I see Cayla, she was just a kid, all knees and elbows as the saying goes. She’s a cool kid and I like her, but at the same time, she’s just a kid, so I don’t really think much about her.
I think about her now. When she pulls away and smiles up at me, I see her face is as attractive as her body, with features that are no longer babyish, but feminine and soft and eyes that even under the dim glow of a streetlamp shine brightly and a smile that shines even brighter.
God, I’ve gotten sentimental. The two years I spend away from the club soften me, I guess.
I don’t tell anyone why I leave. Status and appearances are very important in an organization like ours and if anyone learned the real reason I was away, my status and appearance would suffer strongly. I don’t actually tell anyone why I leave, but the popular rumor is that I met a girl and came back when it didn’t work out. That, strangely, is an acceptable weakness.
Cayla asks me if I don’t mind calling my sister to let them know what happened. I promise to do that, then help her sit on the bike behind me. Feeling her arms wrap around me again and her thighs press against mine as she holds on is the most intoxicating thing I’ve experienced.
The little girl I left behind two years ago is all grown up now.
I push these thoughts from my head and remind myself I’m here to help her, not make a pass at her. I kickstart my bike and we pull out onto the road.
