Page 11 of Twister’s Salvation (Saint’s Outlaws MC: Madison, WI #1)

Twister

Downtown Madison buzzed around me like a damn hornet’s nest. Horns blared, college kids darted across the street without looking, and tourists fumbled with phones and bratwursts. But I wasn’t paying much attention. My boots hit the pavement like they had something to say, and right now, I was feeling every ounce of the frustration building in my gut.

Frank and Nick.

Those two jackasses weren’t just being nosy; they were being strategic. Going around, poking at Tempi, trying to sniff out who we were and what we were about without having the balls to come ask me themselves. I didn’t do passive-aggressive. I didn’t do whisper games. You wanna know something? You ask me. You don’t drag a woman into your curiosity just because she’s behind a bar and smiles pretty.

Tempi didn’t need to be stuck in the middle of some territorial pissing match.

I yanked open the door to the clubhouse and let it slam behind me. The main room still smelled like new drywall and paint, but it was shaping up. The long table we’d bolted to the floor was surrounded by mismatched chairs. Temporary until the real ones arrived.

“Swift!”

I bellowed.

Footsteps from above.

“Hodge! Magnum! Church call, right fucking now.”

Swift came bounding down the stairs two at a time, his cut flapping behind him.

“Somebody light your fuse, Prez?”

Hodge followed, all slow swagger and resting murder face. The man didn’t talk much, but he didn’t need to. His presence said it all: dark jeans, black boots, plain black tee under his cut. Dude was a fuck-around-and-find-out poster child.

Magnum came from the garage side and wiped grease off his hands with a towel.

“What’s the play?”

“We’re going for a walk,”

I said and headed for the front door again.

“Hell yes,”

Swift grinned and cracked his knuckles.

“I don’t care where we’re going; I know that look on your face. We’re about to kick some ass.”

Hodge slid his sunglasses over his eyes without a word.

“Where we going?”

Magnum asked, voice low.

“First, we’re gonna talk,”

I said.

“Then if they don’t want to listen... we’ll see where it goes.”

Magnum chuckled behind me.

“This is gonna be fun.”

We stepped out onto the sidewalk like a goddamn wall of leather and attitude. Four patched-up, pissed-off bikers strolling down State Street wasn’t a sight most people forgot. We moved like we owned the pavement.

Swift adjusted his shades.

“You wanna clue us in before we get there, Prez?”

“Frank and Nick,”

I said.

“From the bike shop down the street.”

Hodge grunted.

“The fuck’s a Frank and Nick?”

“They own F & N Bikes,”

I explained.

“Apparently, they paid Tempi a visit yesterday, asked her if she knew anything about us. Warned her. Told her to keep her eyes open.”

Magnum whistled low.

“They haven’t even met us yet.”

“Exactly,”

I muttered.

“They’ve got no idea who we are, but they’ve already got an opinion. That tells me they’re either scared, jealous, or hiding something.”

Swift smirked.

“I vote for all three.”

We passed Badger’s Den. The lights inside were low, but I didn’t look in. No need to stir Tempi up again. She’d already warned me not to start shit, but I wasn’t starting it. I was just finishing it.

A block later, we hit the corner and waited at the light. Cars zipped by. A city bus rumbled past. People stared, then looked away just as quick.

Once the light flipped, we crossed.

F & N Bikes stood two stores in. The exterior was clean, modern, big windows, sleek black and silver sign with minimalist lettering. Try-hard trendy bullshit.

Magnum squinted up at it.

“Could you imagine thinking riding a bicycle is fun?”

Swift snorted.

“No motor? No soul.”

We pushed inside. A chime announced us like some dainty tea party guests. The air inside smelled like rubber and citrus cleaner. Bikes lined the walls. Road bikes, mountain bikes, and those overpriced electric hybrids that made you look like a lazy asshole with too much money. Shelves were stacked with helmets, gloves, water bottles, and whatever other overpriced shit cyclists needed to feel superior.

Hodge wandered over to a matte black bike with thin tires.

“This thing’s almost the price of a fucking Harley.”

“And you can only go ten miles an hour on the damn thing,”

Swift said, pretending to twist an imaginary throttle.

“Give me a Harley any day, brother.”

A guy behind the counter glanced up, and his eyes widened behind his wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a branded F & N polo and looked like he might wet himself.

“C-can I help you?”

I strolled forward and leaned against the glass counter.

“We were just looking for Frank and Nick. Wanted to introduce ourselves. Be neighborly,”

I drawled.

The guy nodded fast.

“Y-yeah. I’ll get them.”

He disappeared into the back. Muffled voices followed, low and rushed.

A minute later, two men came out.

Frank was in his mid-fifties, with short-cropped gray hair and a slight belly that hung over his belt. He wore a flannel and jeans that didn’t quite fit right. Nick was wiry, maybe early forties, with narrow eyes and a receding hairline slicked back with too much gel.

They looked about as tough as a pair of wet noodles.

“You must be Frank and Nick,”

I said, standing tall and casual.

“Twister. This is Swift, Hodge, and Magnum. We run the Saint’s Outlaws MC here in Madison.”

Frank cleared his throat.

“Can we help you fellas?”

“Just thought we’d drop by and say hey,”

I said smoothly.

“We’re setting up shop down the block. Figured it’s good to meet the neighbors.”

They didn’t say anything.

Nick shifted his weight.

“You... uh, you guys run the motorcycle club?”

I nodded.

“That’s right.”

Frank frowned.

“We’ve heard some... things.”

I tilted my head.

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

Frank folded his arms.

“Just... people are concerned. About changes. This area’s been stable for a long time.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Stable?”

“This part of town, State Street, it’s got a rhythm. Businesses know each other. We look out for one another.”

Swift leaned in.

“And you think we’re not about that?”

Nick stammered.

“We don’t know what you’re about. That’s the point.”

Frank’s eyes flicked to mine.

“We’re just making sure the neighborhood doesn’t become something it’s not.”

I smiled, but it wasn’t warm.

“We’re just a motorcycle club, Frank. We drink some whiskey, ride some bikes, and we’re opening a rage room to let people smash the shit out of stuff for fun. Doesn’t sound too threatening to me.”

Frank looked like he’d swallowed a lemon.

“Just… don’t bring trouble.”

“Funny thing,”

I said, and stepped forward just a hair.

“We don’t bring trouble. But we don’t shy away from it either.”

Magnum chuckled low.

“Especially when people go around trying to stir it.”

“We’re just being careful,”

Nick muttered.

I grunted.

“You picked the wrong bartender to start that shit with.”

I held up a hand and tried to keep my tone easy.

“Look, we’re not here to start something. But next time you have questions about me or my crew, ask me. Don’t go sniffing around someone who doesn’t deserve the heat.”

Frank didn’t answer. Neither did Nick.

We stood there in silence for a beat too long.

“Anyway,”

I said and stepped back.

“Nice to meet you boys.”

We turned and walked out, boots thudding on the polished floor.

Back out on the sidewalk, Swift let out a low whistle.

“I didn’t like those fuckers.”

“Me either,”

I muttered.

Magnum shook his head.

“That shop’s too clean. Too polished. And those two? Slimy.”

Hodge didn’t say anything, but his jaw was clenched.

I didn’t know what Frank and Nick were up to, but I knew it wasn’t good.

And I’d be damned if I let them make Tempi, or anyone, a pawn in their little game.

Whatever was going on, I’d find out.

And when I did?

They’d wish they’d stayed out of my path.