Page 5

Tank

“ A nother call out brother,” Judge calls from the reception, giant mitt of a hand covering the bottom of the business phone.

“Another one? Holy shit, what is going on in this town?” I mutter to myself.

Walking past him to leave he holds a sticky note up with the location, name, vehicle and cell number of the caller. I snatch it out of his hand on the way past and give him a chin lift, taking a glance. “This is out old man Henderson’s way. I’ll pick up that case of ‘shine for the old boys while I’m out there.”

“Where’s Tav? He usually does it.”

“Yeah, but he and Blanche have that meeting with the school for Elio. Teachers don’t take kindly to 5-year-olds making fireworks in the playground.”

Judge snorts and shakes his head.

I pull myself into one of our two new tow trucks, blast Metallica and let my thoughts run away with me while I make the half hour drive. I’ve always been a thinker, much to Gramps’s chagrin. I think he would have liked me better if I was all brawn and no brains. Willing to do exactly what I was told, no questions asked. That doesn’t get you home from deployment safely though. That gets you dead.

“Well, lookie what we got here. I didn’t know they stacked shit so high,” Old man Henderson teases in his rough 3 packs a day smoker’s voice when I pull into his place. “Young Tombs slackin’ today?”

“He has a meeting at his son’s school.” I let him know, shaking his rough, leathery hand and then following him to the porch where his premium quality moonshine sits, ready for distribution.

“Which one? The big one or the little one?”

“The little one, Elio.”

He nods, roughly stroking his stubble. “Figures. First time that kid turned up here he asked if I could boil a human. Just like his aunt.”

I let out a huff and carry his crates to the truck, the old boy following behind as if he’s helping. “Yeah, it’s nice that Elio has someone who understands him.”

“Should probably keep him away from Sid though, unless Marx wants the boy as the next generation MC enforcer,” He grins wide with a twinkle in his eye. “You wanna stay for a drink? We haven’t played scrabble in a while.”

“Sorry Bud, I’ll have to take a raincheck. I’m on a callout and shit is busy over at Big Tow,” I tell him, securing everything tightly. Can’t lose a drop of this liquid gold.

“Shit, son, what the hell are you doing lollygagging here with me then? Get outta here and get to work, lazy bum.” His eyes twinkle with mirth and I wave him off.

“I’ll do next pick up and play a game with ya. Til then old man,” He flips the bird at me and heads back to his porch chuckling to himself.

Getting into the truck I fire her up and head out to the middle of nowhere. The GPS tells me I should be coming up to my location and yet there doesn’t seem to be anyone out here. Checking both my left and right sides they’re as empty as the road ahead. Punching in Judge’s number I wait as the ring tone sounds out over the truck’s speakers.

“Yo?”

“Yeah, you sure this was the location? There’s no one here.” I tell him, eyes searching. There don’t seem to be any ditches or hills for them to roll down, but people are stupid so you never know what type of shit they get themselves into.

Judge reads out the GPS location the caller gave and I check my equipment, letting him know I’m in the exact spot I’m meant to be.

“Shit, I don’t know what to tell you, brother,” his gruff voice fills up the truck cab.

“Fuck it. They must have sorted themselves out. I’m coming in.”

Judge hangs up abruptly, like he always does. I used to think it was just the way he spoke to his brothers, but I’ve seen him do it with customers too, so it’s obviously just how he ends calls. I shake my head and I wonder whose fucking bright idea it was to have Judge and I work the tow company. I mean I’m not the chattiest guy in the world and Judge talks even less. Neither of us are fit for a front-facing role either, which is why every morning we play three rounds of rock, paper, scissors to decide who’s working the counter. Not that it matters much these days seeing how often we’re both out of the office most of the time.

Glancing into the rearview I notice a flashy, Fast and Furious matchbox car behind me. I have no fucking clue where they came from, but they’re tailing me pretty fucking closely. I could do the decent thing and pull over, letting them overtake me, but I don’t like the look of this greasy little shithead.

The car speeds up a little more, really tailgating me now, and it’s pissing me off. I weigh up my options. I can speed up, slow down, or jam on the brakes and let him crash his piece of shit into me. Decisions, decisions.

“Call Judge,” I growl at my phone.

“Yo.”

“How much would it piss Marx off if I purposely got rear-ended?”

Judge’s chuckle vibrates through the speaker. “A lot.”

“Dammit.”

I beat him to the punch and hang up on him this time, laughing to myself. I notice the junker behind me pull out to overtake, speeding up on my left. Our driver’s side windows level out and I take note of the scrawny, greasy looking shithead driving and the bleach blonde in the passenger seat. Fuck, is that one of the old bunnies? Whitney? She gives me a little finger wave then leans into the lap of the douchebag driving, his tiny dick hanging out the front of his jeans. He stares me down, smirking as he presses her face to his junk and speeds past, veering in front of me, having barely cleared the front of the truck.

Fucker. I crank my music up so that I can feel the bass vibrate through me to calm myself and my thoughts. By the time I pull into the yard I feel better, but my mind is still busy playing the call out and crossing paths with Whitney over and over. Something feels a little off but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Shrugging it off I crawl to a stop in the assigned garage and get busy unloading the crates of ‘shine.

“Knock off time,” Judge says as soon as I walk into the office.

“Thank fuck. That call out was a waste and to make matters worse, I had Whitney and her new little boyfriend riding my ass most of the way back to town.”

Judge’s brows pull in for a moment and he looks down at the papers in his hands, riffling through them. “That’s the sixth bogus call since the complaint to Rose Grove’s finest.” He hands me the paperwork and I flick through it. He’s right.

“You think someone is messing with me?” I ask, eyes still on the paperwork, waiting for something to jump out at me.

“Say so. Should give that shit to Wire and his team.”

Nodding, I fold the papers in three and then put them inside my cut pocket. “Come on brother, I definitely need a ride now. And a drink.”

And maybe an eyeful of a colorful, nutty blonde, working at the table in the center of the common room.

Mira

Holy moley! I can’t believe it’s almost been a whole week of DRMC and their clubhouse and all the stuff that goes with it. Which if I’m being honest seems to be a lot of gossiping, pranks and eating. I’ve yet to meet the rest of Chewy’s family who are away helping the FBI and Blanche’s brothers with something. I’ve been told this is highly unusual, as they have teams of people in their firm, but this needed “special skills” which I think is why Chewy’s grandpa went too. I have no idea what any of these so called special skills could be, but whatever they are sounds intriguing. And maybe a little dangerous. Different brothers over the course of the week have told me to steer clear because the whole family is nuts, which doesn’t seem likely. I mean Chewy’s not nuts. A little different, but pretty sane. Although it did strike me as a little weird that the big, burly bikers seem to be wary of them. Maybe I need to get to know them better?

I mull over what their special skills could be for a little longer then remember I’m meant to be writing. I do that all the time, get sidetracked by thoughts and then have to somehow unthink them so I can get back to concentrating. So far, my heroine decided to not listen to any sage advice and go off on her own, even though the entire club is on lockdown and the hero is busy sorting out the cartel. I don’t usually like to write heroines that wander off, but this one seemed hellbent on doing her own thing. That’s the thing with book characters. People think the authors have all the control and power and it’s simply not true. My characters write their own stories, I’m just here to type them into the laptop and do all the boring book admin.

I’m halfway through the scene when brothers start filing in from wherever it is they work. My eyes dart to the door, expecting Tank to walk through any moment now. I’ve gotten used to the movements around the clubhouse now, and I know that Tank and Judge get home from the tow yard between 6 and 6.30pm. Glancing at the clock, I note that it’s 6.29. Huh. He’s late.

Just then the door opens and in he walks, in all his big, blonde bikery glory. Looking all solid and manly and all “I can throw you over my shoulder and spank your ass whenever I want.” I let out a little wheeze and try to contain the heat coursing through my cheeks. Jeez Louise, Mira Elizabeth Campbell, calm down. Nothing to see here. Move along. I give myself a mental talk down because I mean, otherwise I’ll be all blushy and not playing it cool and that’s what I’m meant to be doing, right? Playing it cool. Like a cucumber.

“Hey Writer Lady, how’s the book coming along?” Tank’s deep voice washes over me. As does his leathery, woodsy scent.

“I’m cool as a cucumber,” I blurt and then cringe.

“I’m sure you are,” he chuckles, eyes twinkling. He knocks twice on the table next to me with his huge ham-sized fist, “I better let you get back to it. I know how annoying it is to be interrupted.” He smiles and then swaggers off.

What a tease. I bet he doesn’t even know he’s swaggering. Is swaggering the male equivalent of when a woman sashays? I quickly note that down. I should research that, it could come in handy with my writing.

“What do you keep in that notebook, girly? Secrets? You’re writing about me, ain’t ya?” Remy’s dad Flack sits across from me, gently placing his beer on a coaster.

I grin at him. “Oh totally. I needed a wily, rough older character than can show these young guys a thing or two.” He chuckles at that, his shoulders shuddering.

“If you’re looking for an older, wily rough character, then you have the wrong man. You want Pops, Chewy’s grandfather.”

I point my bumble bee pencil at Flack, “Now you’re like the 50th person who’s told me that!”

His bushy white brow raises. “The brothers all been telling ya to write about Pops?”

“Well, no,” I lower my pencil, “But everyone talks about Chewy’s family like they’re something special. Or nuts. A few brothers have said that.”

“Well, the family are … unusual. Do you know how Chewy landed here?” Flack asks.

“Kinda. She broke into the compound, didn’t she?”

“Well, me, Savage and Dex weren’t on the scene then. We were friendly with DRMC, but we had our own shit going on, so I can only really tell you the story I heard. Chewy broke in because she was stalking the guy that murdered her parents.”

I lean forward and whisper hiss at Flack, “And he was here?! DRMC?”

“Oh no, girly, keep your panties on. Nah, the guy she was stalking just so happened to be stalking Rhodie and the MC didn’t know. Anyway, no one breaks into an MC, especially not a little woman like Chewy. But she had balls and just the right amount of crazy. With her came her family, August, Ana’s husband, he’s the one in control. A little highly strung, but a good guy to have around. You know Tav already. Jules is harder to peg. He’s more of an asshole. Then there’s Pops. Love the man, but hell he lives to piss people off. Word has it he survived a POW camp in ‘Nam and came back with a ‘particular’ set of skills. Chewy is his apprentice.”

I dart my eyes across the room to where Chewy is currently suspended in the air, arms around Rhodie’s neck as he grips her butt and eats her face off.

“Would it be weird if I said that I can’t wait to meet him?”

“Nah, he’s a good stick. Apart from that time he made the brothers all wear sequined hot pants and shake their asses,” He throws his head back and roars with laughter at the look on my face.

“Mira! There’s a package here for you,” Jimmy, the gate prospect who I met on my first day here, makes a beeline for me holding a plain, brown cardboard box.

“That’s weird. How does anyone know you’re here?” Chewy frowns, sidling over to me, looking at the package like it’s a bomb.

“I have no idea. Or maybe I do. I dunno, sometimes I just talk out loud for no reason so maybe I told somebody? Although I don’t remember. I woke up, came here and that’s about it.” I shrug, taking the package from prospect’s outstretched arms.

Placing it on the table, I look for a return sender address, but find none. I start to pick off the tape so I can open it, but then there’s a snick sound and Tank’s big tattooed arm is reaching around me to slice the tape. How do I know it’s Tank arm? Believe me, I know. I’ve committed all those tattoos to memory. For research. Obviously.

“There you go sweetheart,” he says gently before leaning back again.

I open the flaps wide and start to lean in when a gruff voice belonging to a man I haven’t met yet growls out, “Why the fuck does this place smell like liver?”