Force: Blacktop Sinners MC (6 page)

She could do that.

“Sure, but make it eight. I’m a busy girl, after all.”

Chapter Nine

Derek grimaced when he saw his baby. Granted, it could be a lot worse, and the bent clutch and dented fuel tank were getting off lightly, about the same as him being lucky to walk away with no more than a concussion than a broken skull. Hell, considering his cut was in two parts from the hospital shears, and he’d have to get a new jacket to replace it, then things could definitely be worse. Still, his hog was also his pride and joy. He’d built her himself from scratch that first summer paroled from juvie. He and Ron both had stolen a few how to books from the library, and when that didn’t work, had begged a few of the members of the Blacktop Sinners to help put together what they couldn’t.

At the time, it had seemed like no big sacrifice to run the meth from the main warehouse to the dealers spread across town. Of course, that would have been an automatic ticket to jail, the real, adult kind at eighteen. But when you’re young and feel immortal, you live by the code that if you don’t get caught, then it’s not illegal.

After five months of work, drug running, and tutelage, both he and Ron had the bikes of their dreams and a real chance to be probies for the Blacktop Sinners. He’d never thought anything bad could happen to his bike; after all, he was one of the most skillful riders he knew. As an enforcer, no The Enforcer for the club, he had to maneuver fast and often in high speed chases, whether it included running from a close call with the cops
or
chasing down a rival gang.

In ten years, not more than a scrape---and he’d gone fucking postal when it happened---on her. Now she was bowed but not completely broken, and it felt almost a big a stab to his heart as his jacket.

“Here,” he said, handing a five hundred dollar bill to the impound lot’s owner.

The man, a grizzled old fart with a beard all the way to his chest and grey as smoke, just shook his head. “First, I know you, Allanson. They don’t call you ‘The Grinder’ for no reason. I don’t want no beef with the Blacktop Sinners. You’re welcome to have your hog back. Second, I have some spare parts and things that might compliment what you’ve lost. You’re welcome to whatever you find as long as you get some other shop to fix it. I wreck, hold, and tow. I ain’t got no head for fixing bent metal.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I could say that the nickname is because I like hoagies.”

“Not likely,” a familiar voice called from behind him.

He spun around and breathed a long sigh of relief when Derek saw the familiar green eyes and scarred chin of his brother-in-arms, Ron. Rushing over, he slapped his friend’s back in a half hug and shook him. “Jesus Christ, man, I thought the cops had you for sure.”

Ron snickered and pulled away. “They did. You know, it’s all the usual: ‘no comment, I want my lawyer, and you’ve got nothing.’ I called Albert down at the public defenders, and I was sprung way faster than someone seems to have gotten out of the hospital,” he finished, gesturing to the few stitches apparent on Derek’s temple. “Lucky bastard, though, they say chicks dig scars.”

Considering that Ron had made up everything from Gulf War injury to being mauled by a cougar in the Appalachians Mountains to make his own scar as impressive as possible to the sweet butt, Derek had to admire the irony in his statement. Truth was, the scar was the result of a drunk night in high school and a dare to jump off points in the local quarry.

Ron was lucky he escaped with most of his face intact after the spill he’d taken.

Derek grinned and ran a hand through his beard. “I wouldn’t know about that.”

“You will now. God, it’s great to see you too. I was scared that those bastards from the Death’s Head crew had you to too. I went by the clubhouse after Albert helped me out. I needed to check back in. I was glad Spike was fine, but everyone’s pretty keyed up. I went by the hospital to get you too, but when you were already gone, I came here. Figured there wasn’t any force on Earth that could keep you from reclaiming your baby.”

“And no one knows me better,” Derek conceded, offering a small shrug to the old man who owned the wrecking yard. “You’re square with me, but I’ll definitely take you up on your parts offer. Otherwise, frankly, you’ve been so accommodating that I’m going to tell my brothers that anyone needs spare parts for a good price that they need to come your way. You have any trouble with any other club in town, you get word to me, and we’ll
handle
it, you understand.”

The old man eyed him warily as he spit out a black tarry bit of spittle from his chaw. “I can live with that. You gonna need help gettin’ that bike out of here. She’s banged up enough, she ain’t running nowhere today.”

“Brought the tow from the clubhouse. Should get some use out of our legitimate side,” Ron said, laughing as if it was a funny joke.

It wasn’t that unusual. There had to be something to at least make a pretense of real books for any club. They ran a garage. Obviously, their real income came from prostitution and meth dealing, but it didn’t hurt to provide a great garage for the people of Boon, N.C. Hell, every bit of income counted, didn’t it?

“Aren’t you just a regular boy scout?” Derek asked, still relieved his friend had made it out in one piece. “Let’s get a move on, might as well figure out strategy with the board even if my head is still pounding. No time like the present to make those damn Death’s Head bikers pay.”

A feral grin lit up Ron’s face as he pounded his fist into the flat of his left palm. “Brother, you and I are on the same wavelength there, so let’s get a move on.”

***

There was something comforting about the clubhouse for the Blacktop Sinners. The place was located on one of the winding mountain roads on the edge of town and as far from the App State campus as possible. It was not the bar drunk co-eds or frat boys living off mommy and daddy’s money would accidentally wander into, not by a long shot. It was attached to the workshop, and the eternal collection of massive bikes parked out front was a clear sign to everyone that they were on the property of the toughest and most dominant club in a hundred miles. Clubs like Death’s Head or Los Lobos were allowed to come only so close to the heart of The Blacktop Sinner’s holdings, and they were fools to ever forget that, as the Death’s Head members apparently had.

Inside, there was the request bar with questionable but still technically passable hygiene. More often than not, the glasses the beer was served in were a bit too warm and cracked, but it worked. There were pool tables, at least one with a sizeable tear in the felt, in one corner. In a second was an honest-to-God jukebox that still worked and had been there since before Derek joined. Fucking thing only played Elvis records, though. Smitty, the Vice President, loved that shit, and his vote carried all the weight on music choices, at least from the machine. Spike humored him. When people wanted more than that, heavy metal and classic Southern rock would blare through the overhead sound system. One corner contained the chipper formica tables for drinking and eating the various bar food the clubhouse provided. Trixie upfront was the old lady for Spike, and she ran the kitchen with an iron fist. She made the best fried pickles in the state of North Carolina. Bar none. Finally, in the last corner were a couple poles so the sweet butt and working girls could make themselves useful when the parties really heated up.

Again, the wood was a bit chipped, the ancient wallpaper peeled at the corners, and nothing changed there in easily thirty years.

Derek had always found comfort in that. They could have updated things; they had the money, but the club invested it in better things. For someone like him, who’d been through so much upheaval in his life, having the same cracks in the wood and the same raining plaster from above was a comfort, as if in a decade or six, the place would still be as it was.

If only the rest of life were as predictable.

When he and Ron entered into the low, gloomy light of the bar, the place was mostly empty. A few of the probies were shooting pool, and sitting on the well-used leather sofa by the poles, one of the newer working gals---Charlotte, maybe?---was getting hot and heavy with Rufus, one of their lower ranking members. Trixie was cleaning the tap handles when they came in. She didn’t offer him her usual exuberant smile, and Derek found that odd. After a scrape like this one, he figured she’d be beaming back at him, if not actively lunging over the bar to hug him. After all, they’d been friends for over eight years since she’d fallen into Spike’s favor. Hell, he’d saved her lover’s life more than his fair share over his time as enforcer.

Instead, she appraised him with an unflinching gaze, her grey eyes steady, and her mouth drawn in a tight line.

Ron, if he noticed the tension, didn’t comment on it. Instead, he ducked his head in deference to her and asked, “Is Spike in?”

She nodded. “The whole board is in back, been waiting for both of you. Strategy talk, let’s put it that way,” Trixie finished.

“Thanks, Trix. He’s okay, right? We split so fast that I wasn’t sure how things worked out, if the fuzz found him too.”

Her eyes narrowed as she turned her back toward him, as if polishing the mirror behind the bar just had to be done right then. “He’s fine, move along now, Grinder. Duty calls, doesn’t it?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, offering a mock salute and put off even more when she didn’t bother to turn back. Odd of her to not be playful at all. As they passed down the narrow corridor to the back office, he leaned over to Ron. “Did she seem off to you?”

“Man, it’s Trixie. Probably ragging or something, don’t let it get to you,” he said, although his friend wasn’t making eye contact either.

Once they entered through the back room, Derek jumped back at the nine mils all leveled at him. The junior enforcers who worked under him---Bones and Bullet---strode over toward him and while Bone had his gun trained on Derek, Bullet held out the palm of his hand.

Derek frowned back at his protégés. “Okay, now I’m confused. When the fuck did I fall through a damn rabbit hole?”

Bullet shook his head, his mullet flaring out behind his shoulders. “Grinder, I’m going to need your weapons.”

He blinked and reached for the bowie knife he’d had on him at intake at the hospital. It was the only thing he had on him currently. His own guns were at home, and his favorite colt had been ditched somewhere by the warehouse in his run. His biggest problem, of course, was that he’d left the switchblade of Spike’s, the one that could tie him to what looked like a murder but that had been a pure set up back in the hospital. He’d only realized that once he’d gotten through half the town in the cab. That cute nurse probably still had it, but he had every intention of getting it back. He’d be damned if he’d get Spike sent up river for a stupid mistake of his and trash a decade of work keeping their president safe and in power.

Still, he didn’t understand the hostility that greeted him.

It was as if everyone assumed he was a damn…

“Wait, do you think I did this? I’m not in cahoots with the Death’s Head crew!”

Spike waited to speak until Bones and Bullet collected everything from him and declared him clean. Part of Derek was pissed and beyond insulted; after years of loyalty to the club, they should know better, that he’d die before betray any of his brothers. On the other hand, the rest of him was glad that he’d trained his lieutenants that well. It was good to know the other members of his team that, when push came to shove, would follow the best protocol possible.

He just couldn’t understand how anyone could think he was a turncoat of any kind.

Spike shook his head and looked to Smitty, who, likewise, grimaced. Apparently no one wanted to start talking. As if any of the hesitation boded well.

Finally, Ron started. “He deserves to know the charges against him.”

“Charges? The Hell? Is this some kind of kangaroo court? Fucking A, guys?”

“No,” Spike said, pushing a long strand of greasy midnight black hair from out of his eyes. “This is serious. The whole thing was a clear set up, designed to get me to ‘murder’ the vice president of a rival gang. Cops were supposed to catch us at this, and then you disappear.”

“You know I was in the hospital,” he said, gesturing to his scar. “Hell, you had Ron track me down. I’m just saying that you know me, I’d never betray any of you.”