Blood in the Water (Kairos) (8 page)

“Right, that’s all boys.”  Samuel gaveled the meeting to a close.  “Go on, get outta here.  Don’t keep the girls waitin’.”

It was normally Chiz who was first to the door after Church, but he was still struggling with his crutches as Dean flung both doors open, admitting the noise and smells of the beginnings of the post-Church party.  As soon as the doors opened someone turned the sound system up until it drowned out the chattering of the sweetbutts and hangarounds.  The scent of cigarettes and weed floated into the already hazy room. 

Samuel waited until the room emptied before leaving his seat and joining Terry at the bar where a bottle of beer and a shot of whiskey were waiting patiently for him.  He and Terry were currently the only members at the table who weren’t single.  Fletch had never married and Kong’s Old Lady had grown tired of his dick wandering too close to home and had left him more than twenty years ago.  The others all seemed happy enough sticking to the free pussy that was readily available any hour of the day that they could take or leave as they pleased.  Samuel was hopeful that he might get some grandchildren out of his kids, but they were still young with plenty of time ahead of them.  

The Prospects, Morse, Sinatra and Geoff were alternately behind the bar serving drinks, making sure that bottles and glasses were cleared from the tables or generally just being available for whatever chore one of the patched members chose to award them.  Morse had been named for his incredibly annoying habit of constantly tapping his fingertips, despite Chiz threatening to break his hands several times.  Sinatra’s bright blue eyes and constant tuneful humming had inspired his name.  Geoff hadn’t been granted a nickname simply because he’d been so desperate for one.  If he wanted to be known by anything other than his given name, he was going to have to do something fairly spectacular to earn a fresh moniker. 

Samuel was satisfied with all three, although right that minute he was thinking of following Chiz’s example and threatening to do something about Morse’s habit since he was tapping away right by Samuel’s elbow.  But when it came down to it they were steady, reliable and smart.  It relaxed Samuel to be able to see a future for his club.  Casting an eye in the direction of Dean, who was guiding two of the sweetbutts back to his dorm room, Samuel sighed.  The future of his club might appear settled, but he still had some work to do regarding his family.

Fletch settled himself onto a stool at Samuel’s side:  “How’s our girl doin?” 

Fletch and Kong were both due to hit seventy that year and both fully considered themselves surrogate grandfathers to Samuel’s children.  Since he’d prospected at eighteen they hadn’t had much chance to exercise their whims on Dean, so they’d doubled their focus on Ashleigh.

Samuel took a moment to consider his answer.  “She’s okay. Seems to be.  Now the divorce is all finalized she says she can move on.  She went out with a couple of the girls from the office last Saturday to celebrate.”

“Don’t see why that piece of shit should still be wastin’ oxygen; breakin’ our girl’s heart like that.”  Kong interjected from his seat deep in one of the sofas despite being mostly buried under two giggling women who were young enough to giggle in a way that was cute rather than affected.

Fletch and Kong were almost polar opposites.  Where Fletch’s drawl was soft, almost hard to hear; Kong’s tone was loud and rambunctious and probably audible in Canada.  Fletch was well over six foot, long and lean. His hair had started to turn grey in his late thirties and it, along with the astounding handlebar moustache he took great pride in, were now bright silver.   Kong was the shortest member at the table and of equal girth to height ratio.  He defined the term ‘barrel chested’.  His wildly curly hair and equally riotously curly beard had stubbornly retained its muddy brown color, much to Fletch’s disgust. 

Samuel drained his beer.  Morse replaced it immediately.  “I know, I know.  Believe me I have thought over and over what I would like to do to that boy.  Throws five years of marriage away on gash not even old enough to buy herself a beer.”

“And tells her on her fuckin’ birthday no less.”  Tag added from over by the pool table where he had obviously been listening while attempting to play against Crash.

“Yeah thanks, we needed remindin’ about that.”  Dizzy admonished quietly from his seat by Terry.

“She told me outright right after it happened she didn’t want to be seein’ it on the news that he’d turned up in a ditch or disappeared.”  Samuel shrugged.

Chiz had some difficulty unwrapping himself from the girl half seated in his lap before he could speak.  “Do it right and it wouldn’t be on the news.  Me and Crash could make that happen.”  Crash had come about his patch by a circuitous route.  He’d joined the Marine Corps out of school and had seemed to be happy there.  Samuel was certain that Crash would have remained enlisted if he hadn’t been injured.  He’d caught part of a mortar round across his skull during a dire fight in the Gulf.  The lingering effects of the brain damage made him unsteady on his bike sometimes and had landed him with his nickname.  What he now lacked in riding skills he made up for with his ability to make any computer with an internet connection give him just about any information he wanted.

“Awww, baby that is so sweet!” The girl in Chiz’s lap simpered.

“That’s me, sugar.  I’m all about the chivalry.  Perfect southern gentleman.”

Fletch and Dizzy both snorted beer out of their noses at Chiz’s response, having been involved more than once on clean up duty when he hadn’t been quite so gentlemanly.

“Thanks for the offer, Chiz, but it won’t be necessary.  She was very adamant that we not get involved.”  Samuel let his disagreement with that decision color his tone. 

The conversation was dropped and everyone kept their minds on getting drunk or stoned or both until the sound of laughter had heads turning to see Dean re-emerging from the dorms, propelling the two girls in front of him with his hand at the small of their backs.  He gave them both a kiss on the cheek and a wink and slapped their asses as he sent them on their way.  They left him and headed over to the stripper poles to try and attract some more attention.  Dean joined Tag and Crash at the pool table.  He and Jason ‘Crash’ Palmer, Gerry Palmer’s boy, were the only two legacy patches since Samuel. 

Watching the boys laughing and drinking, Samuel asked Fletch idly, “You ever think about grandbabies?”

“Sometimes.  But grandbabies mean a wife, an Old Lady, someone who’s gonna stay knocked up and stick around after.  I ain’t never met someone I could find that sort of trust with.”

“Who’d want to?”  Kong boomed from the couch.  “It’s bad enough you’ve got to do it all the first time around.  Then your kids have kids and you’re doin’ it all over again.”

“And what would you know about it?  You haven’t got any kids... that you know of.”  Chiz asked, with an eyebrow raised meaningfully at the girls now arranged either side of Kong who were currently working on pulling his dick out of his jeans.

“Good thing too,” Terry muttered under his breath, only just loud enough for Samuel to hear over the music and competing conversations.

The girl wrapped around Chiz was on a similar mission to the girls at Kong’s side.  It wasn’t prudishness that had Samuel turning to the bar; he’d seen it all before and he didn’t need to see it all again.  He signaled to Morse for another beer and more whiskey and decided that he might as well live up to Moira’s prediction.

Chapter
Two

Paul dismounted outside the clubhouse that was the home of the Rabid Dogs MC.  The building was set down into the ground, which meant that the line of bikes outside almost completely obscured the wide, arched windows covered in latticed ironwork and the white, stucco walls that reached almost to the red tile roof.  His trip to Houston had been long and tiring, but very necessary.  Now his duty was done and, having made as few stops as absolutely possible, he’d made it back in time for Friday Church.  Jimmy had given him a pass since he’d been on urgent club business, but since he’d made it – although with barely any time to spare – Paul had decided to attend rather than abuse the privilege.

The door to the building was set in one of the arches, and was ajar to let in the evening air.  It was a feeble attempt to freshen the building up before the night’s activities created an almost solid fog of smoke and body odor.  Paul left it open slightly after he’d stepped through it and descended the short flight of stairs into the main room of the clubhouse.  At the present time, the air was relatively clear inside and Paul relished the cool sanctuary after the heat of the road.  Rabbit, leaning on the bar at the opposite side of the room, saw him first.

“For Christ’s sake, get that man whiskey, lots and lots of whiskey!”  He called across the room, ensuring that all the eyes that hadn’t lifted out of curiosity to see who had walked in were now turned in his direction.

“I look that rough, huh?”  Paul knew he was dusty; he could feel the grit on his skin under his clothes.  He was in desperate need of a shower.

“Yeah, you do.”  Rabbit nodded.

Paul crossed the room to the bar.  As he reached Rabbit, Sloth, one of the Prospects, pushed a steaming mug across the bar towards him.  “Fresh brewed,” was all he offered in reply to Paul’s raised eyebrow before turning to pour him a generous amount of Jack Daniels.  Paul nodded before taking the mug.  That was good; the sludge that haunted the bottom of the pot on most days wasn’t even fit for cleaning the urinals.  Sloth was the opposite of his nickname.  He looked a little dopey, but he was keen and did any task he was given quickly and efficiently.  He also had a thing about working out religiously; regardless of whatever else he had to do, he always managed to fit at least an hour in the gym into his day and it was beginning to make a difference to his nineteen-year-old frame.  He was a smart kid; he always remembered that Paul, or Shark to most of his brothers, preferred a hit of strong coffee as his first drink after a long ride.

As he took a sip of the hot brew and looked around, Paul realized that the doors to the Chapel were closed and that Jimmy, the President, and Giles, the Vice President, were missing.  It wasn’t unusual for them to discuss some business before bringing it to the rest of the table, usually the major or more complex matters.  Paul was glad of the extra few minutes so that he could drink both his coffee and his whiskey before taking his seat.

He’d finished his coffee and half the whiskey when the doors opened and Giles motioned everyone inside.  Paul threw back the rest of his drink and followed his brothers to the inner sanctum.  The Chapel room had originally been constructed by partitioning off a section of the main room, so there were no windows, ensuring that it was oppressive and dim regardless of the time of day.

Giles had already resumed his seat on Jimmy’s right.  Jimmy’s deeply lined face gave him an air of permanent concern.  His brows were always drawn over his bright eyes.  Paul figured that having to parent such a young table would weigh on anyone.  Giles simply looked irritated as everyone filed in chatting and laughing.  He looked like he could have been a brother to Paul.  He was only marginally shorter in height and packed only slightly less muscle mass, but it wasn’t for lack of effort.  They often worked out together.  It was their black eyes that made everyone think they were relations, and that was only enhanced by the fact that they both shaved their heads down to the scalp.

As soon as everyone was seated and relatively focused, Jimmy ran through the formalities of calling the meeting to order, before updating the table on the outcome of the latest run.

“I know y’all are already well aware, but all those stuffed bunnies got to where they were s’posed to go and we didn’t get no hassle.  That’s about as good as these things get.”

Giles continued, “We’re waitin’ on details of our next ride out.  No reason to think it won’t be the usual, probably a month or so.  We can concentrate on our business closer to home ‘til then.”

“Travis, how’re we doin’ elsewhere?”  Jimmy asked.

Travis, the only other member at the table close in age to Jimmy, and Treasurer of the club, outlined their current financial position.  “Elvis and Rabbit, boys, you still owe some dues.  And Elvis, king or not brother, you still ain’t paid the fine for bein’ late to the table last week.  Don’t make me wait for it or I’ll double it.”

“I’ll settle up tomorrow.  I’ll get it to you before noon.”  Elvis mumbled, looking suitably embarrassed. 

Rabbit did not look embarrassed.  Paul didn’t think there was anything on earth that could embarrass Rabbit.  “Sure, it’s on its way.”

“How’s the pussy collective doin’?”  Jimmy asked Rabbit when Travis had finished his report.  Jimmy was referring to the number of strip clubs owned by the MC that were located across the southern half of the state.  They were probably the only ones in south Texas that didn’t have religious nuts patrolling with placards outside.  The god-fearing folk trying to save people’s souls were aware that the MC had no compunctions about sending them to meet their maker early if they got in the way.  It made for an advantage over their competitors.  Rabbit was the point of contact between the MC and the clubs.

“They’re all doin’ just fine.  Good turnover.  No problems with the girls beyond the usual bitch-slappin’ and whinin’ from the usual suspects.  Lucy’s back in town after her tour with Orchid, if any of you fellas missed her and wanna pay her a visit.”

“I like Lucy.”  Cross leered.  Cross was a single dad, his eight-year-old daughter Jennifer had been his world since his Old Lady, Kelly-Jo, had abandoned both of them.  Paul wondered if it wasn’t some sort of futile attempt at revenge, rather than taking advantage of the opportunity, that was driving Cross to plough through the women associated with the club since Kelly-Jo had left.

“Yeah, well I like to keep my floss in the bathroom.”  Garfield, the club Sergeant at Arms, named for his ginger hair and beard, responded.

Paul kept his opinions to himself.  They were talking about one of the local girls who kept things au naturel and seemed to enjoy a steady client base who were in favor of the natural way of things.  It wasn’t his scene, but to each their own.

“It’s so fluffy I’m gonna die!”  Cross squealed for effect.

“Dude, did you just quote Despicable Me?”  Elvis asked incredulously.  Elvis was one of the newer patches.  Most of the older members thought his obsession with the King’s music, to the point of attempting to keep his hair in a patent black quiff even when wearing a brain bucket, was as amusing as all get out.

“It’s on loop in our house.  It’s Jenny’s favorite film.”  Cross replied defensively, then his expression changed and he leaned forward, grinning widely.  “Wait!  You know it well enough to know I’m quoting it and you’re calling me?”

“Well it’s a favorite of Thea’s too.”  Elvis tried to shrug the point off.

“Bro, my girl is eight.  If it’s your girlfriend’s favorite film too I have to question the legality of your relationship.”  Cross smirked.

“Boys. Do you think we can get some more business done now?”   At the sound of Jimmy’s frustration the joking around the table came to a sudden halt.  The average age of the table had decreased significantly since Paul had joined the club almost twenty years before.  Many of the older members had patched out or patched into non-outlaw clubs over the past ten years.  There was usually an exodus after any trouble resulting from their deal with the Rojas family and the Priests.  Most decided that it was too hectic for their peace of mind.  They didn’t like the constant threat of turf war with the Mexican and Colombian cartels or that the cartels weren’t above going for families when seeking retribution.  The younger members generally did not have women and children to worry about and enjoyed the fast pace and excitement more, but Paul swore that sometimes it was like trying to organize a group of toddlers.

Jimmy turned his attention to Paul.  “Shark, brother, I think we got something to raise here if that’s good with you?”

“Yeah, boss.”  He had no problem with laying this out in front of his brothers; in fact he would welcome their views on it.  He looked around the table. “I had a call from Charlie, from the Priests.”

“Oh yeah, how’s his leg doin?”  Garfield interrupted.

There was raucous laughter around the table.  The story of how Charlie had injured his leg had made it to Texas before Charlie was out of the hospital.

Paul smiled.  “He’s good. Be in the cast for another two months at least though, maybe three, then he’ll need some physical therapy after that before he can ride again.  He wanted to know if I was interested in joinin’ their table.”

Jimmy spoke into the silence that had fallen utterly and completely across the table.  “Yeah I had a call from Sam.  Your time on the road give you opportunity to think on an answer?”

Paul took a beat.  He had been thinking about it.  He had no reason to leave, but then he also didn’t have that many reasons to stay.   It wasn’t like he had a wife and kids anchoring him.  Apart from the club, the area itself had nothing but bad memories for him.  He would take a bullet for any one of his brothers, but he didn’t have any deeper connection with any of them beyond the leather on their backs.  Jimmy had been a sort of surrogate father, but always a little distant, more like an uncle.  Giles was more of a mentor than a friend, and the others actually knew very little about him or his history.  Charlie, on the other hand, had been his friend, his best friend, his only friend, for years.  He’d prospected for the Rabids, but before he patched into the club Charlie’s aunt had gotten sick and his father had moved to Louisiana to care for her and Charlie had gone with him to help out.

“The club is my home.  Only home I’ve ever known.  I know that we’ve got some snags, that the lack of space at the table is puttin’ boys off startin’ to prospect.  If you need me to make way at the table I will.”

“You know we don’t wanna see you go.  But there’s an opportunity for you there, see something else besides the dust here.  It don’t havta be a permanent move.  They’re reachin’ out for help; they’re okay with you goin’ on loan.  How you do it is up to you.”

“Seems wrong to me to do that.  If I’m askin’ them to have my back, seems only fair to go all the way.”

Jimmy nodded his head.  “That’s a good view.  Like I said, it’s up to you how you do it.  There’ll always be a seat here for you, brother.”

A spark of disquiet lit in Paul’s stomach.  There wouldn’t always be a seat for him; not really, they would fill his before it was cold.  That spark helped him make his mind up.

“Yeah, I’m gonna go.  I’ll patch over to the Priests.”

“We’ll be sorry to lose you, brother.”  Giles voice had the timbre of a forty-a-day smoker, even though to the best of Paul’s knowledge he never touched anything other than the occasional joint.

Jimmy called out.  “Right, that’s enough for today.”  He looked at Paul.  “We’ll discuss details another time.”  He looked back round the table.  “Be off with you, you load of miscreants.”  He banged the gavel which preceded a significant rise in the volume of chatter as voices fought to be heard over the scraping of chairs and the tramping of boots.

Paul had half risen out of his seat when Jimmy’s low voice cut through the melee.  “Paul.  You got a minute for us?” 

Neither Jimmy nor Giles had risen from their seats.  With a nod to Rabbit’s questioning look, Paul resumed his.  Rabbit nodded back and, as the last person to leave the room, closed the doors behind him.

Jimmy waited.  Paul wasn’t sure what he was waiting for; everyone had gone, but he heard the ticking of the clock on the wall as it counted out the seconds in the near silence.  Eventually, whatever stars Jimmy was waiting on to align slid into place.

“Brother, you’ve been a part of this club a long time.  You’ve shed blood for us, and you’ve spilt it in the name of the club, more than most.  I’ve got a big ask for you now, son.”