Page 10 of Kingpin (Blackjacks MC #1)

Chapter seven

Kingpin

Hattie was sharp as a tack. She knew I wouldn’t back down, not when she needed help, whether she was willing to admit it or not. Assigning Vlad to look after her was reassurance that I was simply doing exactly what she expected me to do.

Hopefully, it would take her a little while longer to figure out there were two more of my men tailing her.

I met Vlad in the parking lot of the clubhouse when he rolled up.

“Did my ex-wife take a bite out of you?” I asked.

He shook his head and killed his engine.

“Your woman is strong-willed, but she didn’t want my head on a spike. That honor is reserved for you.”

“Yeah, I figured as much.” I clasped Vlad’s meaty palm in gratitude. “Did you see anything out of the ordinary while you were there?”

“Quiet as a graveyard. I passed Gatling and Tex on my ride out. They didn’t see anything either.”

That took the edge off my worry, but only slightly. As the trial date drew closer, I expected things to get heated. Those two robbers on the loose were a wild card—they could pressure Hattie to change her statement, or prevent her from testifying altogether.

“Rubs me the wrong way,” I muttered. “If your buddy got caught and locked up, wouldn’t you paint the town red to set him free? Why are these guys sitting around with their thumbs up their asses?”

“Perhaps you overestimate their loyalty, boss,” Vlad replied. “Their friend took the fall. They get away clean with over a million in stolen cash. Some men are cowards. They wouldn’t think twice about leaving a comrade to burn.”

I scrubbed a hand over my mouth. Vlad had a point.

I’d met more than a few men like that in my lifetime—my abusive asshole of a father being one of them.

I couldn’t fathom how he kicked me to the curb without a second thought.

Sold the shitty trailer we lived in a week later, so I didn’t even have a home to go back to.

Ten years down the road, I found out he was shacked up with a girlfriend a few towns over in some snobby as fuck gated community.

When I showed up on his doorstep, there was no recognition in his eyes. He didn’t want to remember the son he’d abandoned, or the life he’d left behind.

Still, this whole thing with Hattie and the bank robbery nagged at me.

I hated that she’d been in danger and I wasn’t there to protect her. On top of that, her mother had passed, and Hattie was now an aunt twice over. I was supposed to be with her through it all. But her life had continued without me.

The rumble of an engine drew my attention to the road. In the distance, I spotted Nico “Hot Shot” Marconi zipping along on his fluorescent orange Suzuki. Behind him, followed the Full Throttle Auto Repair tow truck, pulling a trailer with my bike strapped to the bed.

Fuck, it felt good to see her again. Gleaming with those decadent shades of plum purple in the summer sunlight. It was a massive beast—a Harley-Davidson Electra Glide touring bike, intended more for lazy Sunday rides in comfort than speed or agility.

I’d had a custom-made pillion seat designed for Hattie, in the hopes she would ride with me. The size of a small armchair, with buttery smooth leather, and a central heating unit, so she wouldn’t get cold. I spared no expense, making sure my woman could rest easy.

But she swore she would never go near the damn thing.

Didn’t help when she found out that the pillion seat was more affectionately known in the biker world as the bitch seat. She definitely wasn’t pleased about that.

Hot Shot came to a stop beside me and pushed the visor of his helmet up with a grin.

“Special delivery, Prez. She’s practically good as new.”

“Thanks for taking care of her after the crash,” I replied.

He shrugged and tossed my key ring to me.

“No offense, but it’s better than visiting your grumpy ass in the hospital. That place gives me the heebie-jeebies. And I’ve never had much of a bedside manner.”

The tow truck slowed and turned into the parking lot.

One of his mechanics jumped out. I recognized Morgan from my visits to Hot Shot’s garage—backward baseball cap mashed down over her frizzy bob of brown curls, large round glasses, somewhere in her late twenties.

Her greasy blue coveralls were peeled down to her waist due to the heat, sleeves knotted around her midriff.

She never seemed to have much to say, choosing to keep her head buried in an engine instead of making small talk.

Not that I blamed her for that. I’d do the same if I had the choice.

Hot Shot removed his helmet, popped the kickstand down into place, and helped Morgan unload my bike. After they wheeled it over to me, I ran my hand across the body work—not even a scratch. Just as smooth and flawless as the first day of her brand new paint job, over thirty-five years ago.

The clubhouse door opened and Blackbeard emerged with a low whistle.

“I thought I heard the obnoxious mosquito whine of a Suzi.”

“That mosquito whine could leave you in the dust any day of the week,” Hot Shot replied, crossing his arms.

None of us rode sporty bikes like he did. Since that marked him as the odd man out, he usually found himself fighting to defend his precious little ride. Most of the time, he seemed to enjoy the ribbing though and took it in stride.

Blackbeard sauntered in a circle around the Suzuki, flicking the practically non-existent back seat with two fingers.

“This is why you can’t get girls. They keep falling off as soon as you hit the gas.”

Hot Shot chuckled, shaking his head at the obvious attempt to bait him.

“At least my bike doesn’t disintegrate on the road.”

Blackbeard arched an eyebrow, amused at the jibe.

“I lost the exhaust pipe once. That’s hardly disintegrating. I still strongly suspect it had something to do with your dirty mitts.”

Hot Shot clucked his tongue with a condescending pout that would earn him a black eye if he didn’t get out of arm’s reach fast enough.

“Guess we’ll never know since you can’t prove it.”

“Would you two quit your foreplay before I lose my lunch?” I cut in. “Hot Shot, Morgan, go grab a cold beer. You deserve it after the incredible work you’ve done. Bill me for the repairs later.”

“It’s on the house, Prez,” Hot Shot said. “Just glad to see you’re still alive and kicking.”

Morgan hung back though, adjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose.

“Is that dipshit Spike inside?”

Her tone suggested she wasn’t thrilled at the idea of running into him.

“Last I checked, he was…entertaining some ladies,” I hedged, to put it politely.

It was one thing to act like heathen rabble in the club. But Morgan wasn’t a bunny, wasn’t family, and she wasn’t an Old Lady to any of my brothers. She was a civilian, plain and simple, working as a mechanic at Hot Shot’s garage. And civilians bristled at club life sometimes.

“Morgan stopped by the clubhouse a few months ago for a bite to eat,” Hot Shot put in with a hint of mirth in his voice. “Spike extended an invitation that she felt was…less than savory.”

“My grandmother is still rolling in her grave at the things he said,” Morgan muttered. “I’ll take a rain check on that beer, if you don’t mind, Mr. Gibson. I’d rather head back to the garage and finish up my work for the day.”

I waved her off to indicate no hard feelings.

After Morgan returned to the tow truck, and Hot Shot disappeared into the clubhouse, Blackbeard and I were left alone in the parking lot.

I climbed onto my bike, testing my grip on the handlebars.

Now that a few days had passed since my stay in the hospital, I was less stiff and sore, but my range of motion wasn’t back to full capacity yet.

“Thought you should know that Baby Doll assigned Crash to clean the kitchen,” Blackbeard said. “Seems like she’s having fun ordering him around.”

I released a long, heavy breath. Why couldn’t this business with Crash and the Blackjacks wait until after Hattie’s trial?

“She has fun ordering all of us around,” I pointed out.

Blackbeard shrugged, tilting his head in agreement as if to say, can’t argue with that.

“We’re not taking him,” I added, knowing where this conversation was headed already.

I kept my gaze focused on my bike, testing to ensure that everything worked.

Hot Shot and his mechanics would have already looked it over, probably more than once.

But I needed the familiarity of my bike to ground me.

I needed to feel the tight squeeze of the clutch, the rumbling purr of the engine as it kicked over and growled to life.

Blackbeard might be a sarcastic shit, but he could spot a sensitive subject from a mile away. He locked in like a homing missile.

“Well, it seems like he’s willing to learn. We could use a youngster to scrub the toilets and fetch beer. Since Hot Shot isn’t a Prospect anymore, I can’t bully him as much as I used to and I’m getting bored.”

“Sounds to me like you were bullying him just fine a minute ago.”

“That’s different,” he protested. “It gets tricky when Hot Shot fights back. I liked it better when all he could do was grind his teeth, and mumble yes, sir . If you ask me, he learned how to mouth off too quickly when he got his big boy patch and officially became a brother.”

“You could try not baiting him,” I countered.

“Don’t spoil my fun, boss.”

I said nothing, examining the stitching on my seat.

“Why don’t we give Crash a trial run?” Blackbeard offered, never losing sight of the reason he brought up this subject in the first place. “If he wipes out, no harm, no foul.”

“I said no,” I repeated.

A beat of silence hung in the air.

“Is it because he looks like you?” Blackbeard said.

All humor and lightness had evaporated from his tone, replaced by a low timbre that suggested he knew his words would hit the bull’s-eye. Dead center.