Page 3 of Property of Brute & Axl
“Ever want to head back up there, find her?” He’s getting at something.
“You looking to settle down, brother?” Meeting his eyes briefly, I recognize the want in the amber and honey-colored irises that show more than he tells.
“Been thinking about it.”
The thing about Axl and me, we want to share one woman. His relaxed attitude makes it easier for me to connect because he takes the pressure off me. If this is what he wants with her, I’m not opposed. Finleigh is the only woman who’s ever made me think about a future, but I forced it down because of her wishes.
“Maybe you look her up, then.” His signature grin with one dimple in his cheek spreads wide across his face as he glances down at his phone before turning completely pale and muttering a string of curses that burns even my jaded ears.
Chapter 2
Axl
I stare at Brute from across the table. It’s been three days since getting home from Florida and discovering the truth about Finleigh. We’ve checked on updates and discovered she’s still in the hospital, which means her family hasn’t claimed her yet. Her amnesia has not faded, either.
At the time, we decided to return to the compound in Gulfport to finish club business after completing the contracted hit. It’s standard procedure, but in the moment, I’d been pissed about leaving, so I let it go because I know Brute. He’s weighing all the options of whether or not to fully immerse her into our lives.
Hell, I feel the same way. We aren’t your usual nine-to-five guys; we don’t do family dinners and school pickups. We live in the dark, stick to the shadows, and have no interest in changing who we are.
Brute grew up in this life; I followed him into it after going to war. My life before wasn’t all sunshine and flowers, however. My sperm donor was a New York serial killer. He’s the reason for enlisting in the army to begin with. Running from the spotlight was all I could think of doing. My brother, Lance, stuck it out, and now he’s a criminal attorney in Manhattan. He’s done well for himself and even invited me to live with him, but after spending so many years in war, then the club, I knew where I was meant to be, and it’s here.
As the guys file out, some off to take care of a job, others following through on their assignments from Brute, I remain the last officer seated and wait for my friend to speak.
“She doesn’t remember us,” he grumbles.
“I know.”
“Girl like that doesn’t want this life.” He crosses his arms, his grassy eyes conflicted by what his body desires and what his mind tells him.
“Could be right.”
He glares. I grin and wait him out. Of the two of us, he’s the more serious one. The one who is reluctant to accept that he can have more than the club. Brute doesn’t think he deserves anything good in life.
For the last decade and a half, I’ve been one of the few people who have truly gotten to know him. To understand how he ticks. We don’t have deep, dark conversations about dreams and rainbows, but in the dead of night on the side of a mountain top, spending three days waiting for our target to make an appearance, confessions get made. We’ve never spoken about them again, but at least I have an idea of how the man thinks.
When he doesn’t say anything more, I take off. There’s a bike in the shop I’ve been working on, and the promised date for the customer is quickly approaching.
Macho’s Mechanics is a mile down the road from the compound, so the ride is quick. On the same strip of land are three other club-owned businesses. Skinny Dick’s Tavern is owned by Brute’s father and the original Prez of the Mississippi chapter of Kings of Anarchy. Next to it is Slim Jim’s Liquor and Convenience Store, owned by Jim. He was Dick’s VP before they both retired. And finally, it’s Curvy Candy’s Sweets. Candy is Dick’s current wife and former club girl.
Dick and Candy have been married for two decades now and still act more like newlyweds than a couple nearing sixty.
Macho’s was initially the previous sergeant-at-arms and enforcer’s business, but they were both killed before Brute and I joined. The men were casualties of war between our club and some gang thugs, thinking they could traffic children in and out of the port.
“Hey, man, wasn’t expecting you today.” Swamp, our chaplain, greets from behind the desk as he fills out a work order.
“Hadn’t planned on it, but I’d like this bike done on time, not late.” He knows how structured I keep my life, which spills over into work, too.
I feel his stormy blue eyes following me into the back of the shop, but he remains silent. Swamp is a man of few words and typically only speaks with purpose.
Hitting the paint room, I begin mixing the colors needed to airbrush the twin snakes on either side of the gas can of the ‘81 Harley Davidson FXB Sturgis. I’ve spent the last few months restoring it, and am now in the final stages of finishing off the beauty. The snakes get applied today, and once that’s dry, the flames on the front mudguard will be next. I’ve already done the test ride, and she purrs like a well-fed kitten.
Drawing the design on by hand, I get lost in the work, focusing on the details of the snakes’ scales and getting the eyes just right before sitting back to critically assess my work and make adjustments when I notice them, like the rattle on the tail isn’t as big as I’d like. After making the corrections, I enter the paint booth and load the gun with the first color.
Using a combination of the airbrush gun and a small paintbrush, I blend in the colors as they’re applied. It’s tedious and detailed work, but the finished product is precisely what the client and I agreed upon.
“You done?” I spin at the sound of Brute’s harsh tone.
“Didn’t hear you pull in.” Standing up, I crack my back after being hunched over for hours and gaze down at my work. Only the first snake is complete; the other will be tomorrow’s job. I’m satisfied with the look, not noticing any run lines from excess paint, so I put my supplies away.