Thrash (Rebel Riders MC Book 1) Page 3

  “Ok, mom, that’s enough.”

  “No promises. Now, shh, let me watch my show. And no talking while he’s on screen,” she says, admonishing me in a partly-serious, partly-joking way. “I don’t give a damn about the rest of the show, but I will not have my time with Special Agent Gibson interrupted.”

  I laugh and pull her back closer to me. It feels good to see glimpses of my mom being lively again. Even if it involves her being openly thirsty for a man old enough to be my dad.

  This is why I’m working so hard, I remind myself. This is all worth it. Even if I’m working a job way below my qualifications, and even if there are random scary men trying to interrupt my work, she makes it all worth it.

  I’m doing this for her.

  And I’ll keep doing this, no matter what obstacles come up.

  No leather-wearing biker is going to stop me.

  Chapter Four

  Thrash

  “What the fuck happened to your face?”

  Mark ‘Riot’ White sits up from where he’s reclining on the busted old couch we keep in the garage of our clubhouse and stares at me with an infuriating grin on his face.

  He and Rhett ‘Creole’ James, enforcer for our club – the Rebel Riders MC – are playing poker on the coffee table in front of them. And looking at me like they’re ready to give me hell.

  I’m prepared for it. I knew once I let things get out of hand with that woman in the car, that I should expect to hear about it from my brothers. They wouldn’t be my brothers otherwise.

  “A taco happened,” I say. “Al pastor.”

  “You know, that’s not how you eat a taco, Thrash,” says Creole. “Maybe sometime I’ll take you out for Mexican and I can show you how it’s done, yeah?”

  “That’s not what I was talking about,” says Riot. “I was asking about the rest of him… Were you always this ugly?”

  “Fuck off,” I say, grinning. “I’m good looking enough for your mom.”

  “How dare you say that about my mother,” Riot says, standing up. “She helped raised you. She took you in. And now you slander her?”

  He’s trying to look angry, except he definitely can’t suppress the grin on his face. Riot’s been my best friend since the week after I turned sixteen, back before either of us joined the MC and were just a couple of kids kicking around on motorcycles. Back then, I was just a kid from a few towns over, taking every chance I could to get out of a broken home.

  One week after getting my motorcycle license, while on a long ride after a fight with my deadbeat drunk father, I arrived in Crescent Falls. I met Riot – though he just went by Mark back then — outside a convenience store on the outskirts of town. Together, we shoplifted a few forties and spent the day getting drunk and raising hell.

  He’s been my best friend ever since.

  “Seriously, Riot, cut the bullshit — there’s nothing ‘daring’ about banging your mother; there isn’t a man in town that hasn’t done it. Fucking your mom is about as daring as buying a coffee; everyone does it and it costs about the same,” I say.

  “Seriously, man, she could give lessons on dick-sucking to some of the club girls. Your mom is a gigantic whore,” Creole adds, grinning.

  Riot glares at me, but he knows it’s all in good fun. I only say it to him because it’s fun as hell to rile him up. Truthfully, his family gave me a place to crash plenty of times when I was younger, and I practically lived in their garage for a couple weeks when I first moved out to Crescent Falls and started prospecting for the MC.

  “Enough, man,” Riot says. “Let’s get back to the subject at hand: why the fuck do you have salsa all over your face? What happened to the shipment you were supposed to pick up? Creole and I waited for your call so we could go pick up your bike once you’d secured the car.”

  Just him mentioning it brings me back to thinking about her. That woman in the car who took me down a notch with a well-placed taco. And about how badly I want to take her for a ride.

  How the hell she is mixed up with the Reaper’s Sons? She looked way too smart to be one of the Reaper’s girls or related to any of the those bastards — it ain’t too hard to spot them since inbreeding that severe tends to be a pretty visible affliction.

  She’s got to be pretty new to town. I’d remember seeing a face like hers.

  So what’s she doing in with the Reapers?

  “I didn’t come through with it,” I say. “Creole, the information you got was good, I’m sure of that. But when I went to take the car so we could snatch the cargo, there was some chick driving it that I haven’t seen before. I think I’ll need to take a different approach next time.”

  Creole frowns. “Thrash, I gave you that info because you promised to be subtle. There’s nothing fucking subtle about getting a taco to the face and botching a robbery. We can’t go tipping off the Reapers, there’s supposed to be a truce between our clubs, remember?”

  I shoot him a sharp look.

  “Yeah, there’s a truce. And while we’re sitting around fondling our cocks, the Reapers are expanding their business and set up a direct connection with fucking Mexico. What’ve we done?”

  “There’s the pot growing op that Bull’s setting up out in that old abandoned lumber camp,” Riot says.

  I shrug. Bull’s our VP. Of our club’s leadership, Hunter ‘Bull’ Bennett is the only one who doesn’t have his eyes glued to the rearview mirror. Still, his plan ain’t much and I know we should be making bigger moves to expand our business.

  But like so much, he’s hampered by our president, Hawk. Hawk has as much forward vision as a rearview mirror.

  “Tell me, Riot, what’s the value of a good ounce of weed?” I say.

  He shrugs. “Depends. Maybe two, three hundred depending on the quality. But it’s legal now, so it’s less risk.”

  “That’s only partly true. It’s still a federal crime and you know anything any MC does has good odds at attracting federal attention — which means you’re talking RICO and anything else the Feds want to use to nail us up the ass. Now, Creole, what kind of prices do you think the Reaper’s Sons would be getting for their cocaine or whatever the fuck else they’re bringing up from Mexico?”

  “More than pot,” he says. “The fun stuff costs a premium.”

  “Exactly. So if we’re going to get fucked either way — whether it’s pot or coke or anything else — why not go for the greater cash? It’s just a simple value proposition.”

  “He makes a good business case, Creole,” Riot says.

  I know I can always count on Riot to back me up.

  Creole shakes his head. “What the fuck do you know about business, Riot?”

  “I read that Tim Ferriss book once. The business one, about the workweek. Learned a lot.”

  “Oh yeah? And what would Tim Ferriss say about Thrash’s plans?”

  “Tim’s all about getting the greatest value for your time. He’d probably agree with it,” Riot says. “He’d also probably recommend we hire some virtual assistant in India to do all the menial bookkeeping and other work.”

  I give him a nod when Creole isn’t looking to let him know I appreciate the backup. Between the two of us, we can convince Creole to stick with my plan of muscling our way in to disrupt the Reaper’s Sons business and make a fair bit of cash for ourselves and for our MC, the Rebel Riders.

  “My point is, while the truce is great and all, the Reaper’s Sons are positioning themselves to make a much bigger chunk of change. Money is power, and once they set their drug operation up and start out-earning us, what’s to stop them from deciding that they don’t want a truce anymore? We’ll be fucked. We need to take them down a peg. And why not earn some cash doing it?”

  Creole nods. “Fine. Next time my buddy with the brother in the Reaper’s Sons and I play cards, I’ll see what I can get out of him. Should be tomorrow night. Son of a bitch loves to blab like he’s the next Tony Montana just by associating with the MC, so I doubt I’ll even have to fucking a
sk him.”

  “Thanks, Creole,” I say.

  “Just be careful, alright? You end up starting some shit with the Reaper’s Sons and Hawk will have all our asses.”

  Creole isn’t lying. Hawk is old-school and his concept of justice and leadership is Old Testament biblical.

  I nod and look around the garage while he lectures me about being careful not to tip off the Reaper’s Sons that we’re poking around their drug business and looking to jack their cargo. Personally, I don’t see why Creole’s so adamant about it — he might be giving me the information, but this has been my show from the start. I’m the one out there putting my ass on the line. And when we take a load of their cargo and start to push them out of their drug business, I’ll make sure I get my fair share of the cash.

  But the more I think about the problem, the more I come back to the one obstacle that stands in my way: that woman who stared at the gun in my hand like she just doesn’t give a damn.

  There’s got to be some way to convince her that it’s in her best interest to work with me.

  And then, once we’re in bed together in a business sense, I’ll see if I can get myself a taste.

  My eyes settle on a set of wrenches while Creole blathers on with his warning. I get an idea.

  “Thrash, are you listening?” Creole says, snapping his fingers at me to get my attention.

  “Yeah, man, don’t worry. I’ll be real fucking subtle.”

  I know just what I need to do to win her over.

  Chapter Five

  Alice

  “So, Al, be honest. How is the new job treating you?”

  Lexie shifts on her bar stool as she talks to me, her hand twirling her stirring-straw in her gin and tonic.

  It’s quiet in The Smiling Skull saloon right now. It’s maybe half an hour after opening, which puts us well before lunchtime. The only people in here are a few Reaper’s Sons in a corner booth, and even they’re not drinking — they’ve got coffee in front of them, to go along with some takeaway breakfasts from Al’s Diner down the street. They’ll probably be here for an hour or so while they hang out and get through breakfast, before heading off to the auto yard, or to run some other business for the MC.

  Given the small crowd and the deep bass of a Johnny Cash song coming from the jukebox, I feel alright talking to my best friend about work while I’m actually at work.

  “Not bad. I’m actually liking it a lot more than I thought I would.”

  “You look a lot more relaxed. It’s really nice to see.”

  “That’s called actually having a little bit of breathing room and something to do with my time other than taking care of mom all day,” I say with a sheepish grin. “Not that I wouldn’t take care of her full time if I had to, but now, I can actually feel like I’m productive, you know?

  “That’s great, Al. Are you doing ok otherwise?” she says, slowly.

  “Like?”

  “You know. With money. Look, I’m as uncomfortable asking about it as you might be answering, but I know you haven’t been going through the easiest time. I have a cousin who went through what your mom’s going through, only she had some different kind of cancer instead of breast cancer, and I have a pretty good idea of how much it can cost. It’s insane.”

  She says it slow. She’s as uncomfortable saying it as I am hearing it, or even thinking about it. I’ve accepted how hard things are — that’s why I applied to The Smiling Skull, which is a job way below where I used to work — but there’s a difference between accepting something on the inside and saying it out loud. Saying it out loud makes it more real.

  “It’s… not the best. I had an emergency fund, but, well, this was one big-ass emergency and so I used it up. So, yeah, I’m broke and I’m just thankful to have this job and not feeling so scared all the damn time,” I say. I pour myself a small glass of beer and take a drink even though it’s still well before noon. “Listen, can we just leave it? I’m going to be fine — I got nearly a grand yesterday for running an extra job for Hammer. It’s a good start and some actual breathing room.”

  She sits up straighter as I say that.

  “A grand? Seriously? What’d you do? And, more importantly, can I do it too?” She says. Then, adds “as long as it isn’t sexual. Hammer’s not my type.”

  I grin.

  “Funny, cause based on what he’s told me, you’d be exactly his type. But, no, it wasn’t sex. I transported a car from his dealership down to some town just south of Tijuana and brought back one of his cars from down there.”

  She frowns and ponders the lime floating in her gin and tonic.

  “That’s it?” She says. “What’s the catch?”

  I shrug. “It was a long drive. And it was a bit creepy, I drove through some places that were kind of sketchy and definitely wouldn’t want to have broken down in. I probably should’ve brought mace or something.”

  She leans forward.

  “Are you sure it was legal? The Reaper’s Sons haven’t always been a, um, legitimate organization. I grew up here, I remember the stuff they got into with that other club, the Rebel Riders. It was violent and ugly.”

  “I made it through the border fine. And the papers that came with the car checked out. Honestly, I don’t care. I really don’t. I need this job, I need the money, everything else doesn’t matter to me right now. If I lose this, all I’d have left is to start some GoFundMe or something and just beg for money.”

  Lexie nods and then pats me on the forearm. “Just take care of yourself. Please. And if it gets too suspicious, maybe see if Hammer has other jobs you can do to earn money.”

  I give her a non-committal grunt.

  “We’ll see.”

  “Anyways, I’m glad you’re doing better. And if you need help with anything, just tell me,” she says, finishing her drink then setting the empty glass down on the bartop just a little bit closer to me. “It is nice though having a friend who’s a bartender. I can see myself coming in here quite often.”

  I look down at the empty glass. “You still have to pay.”

  “You serious?” She says.

  I grin. “No. But you should tip your bartender.”

  She laughs and puts a few bills on the table. “So, bartender, can I get another?”

  I start to make her another drink when some shouting comes from the booth in the corner. “Ms. Alice, come over her for a second, will ya?”

  Lexie stares at me with a bemused look on her face.

  “Ms. Alice? You’re Ms. Alice, now? Did you get knighted or whatever when you got this job? Is the Queen back there? I love her hats.”

  I shoot her a look before I quickly finish making her drink, extra-strong this time, and slap it down on the bar in front of her with just a little bit more gusto than usual.

  “Shut up,” I say, smiling. “Hammer calls me that. The rest of the guys just sort of took it up. It’s better than what I’ve heard them call some people, so I’ll take it.”

  “Why did he start calling you that?”

  “I think to make fun of my education. But I don’t mind it, really. I’m actually kind of starting to like it.”

  “Alright, well, Ms. Alice, don’t let me keep you from helping that customer over there.”

  I give her a last look to remind her to behave herself while I’m not around and then I walk over to the booth where some of the Reaper’s Sons are having breakfast.

  The one who called me over, Lucky, is a veteran member of the club. He’s been one of the more frequent visitors to The Smiling Skull and, when Hammer’s not around and I have a question, he’s the first I turn to. Though he’s just a patched member and doesn’t have a higher rank like Enforcer — which is Hammer’s rank — he still has that kind of confidence around him that only comes with experience.

  “What is it, Lucky?” I say.

  “Hammer sent me over. Can I get a pint of that IPA we got on tap?”

  “He sent you over to drink a beer?” I say. “Was he that despe
rate to get rid of you?”

  “No, wise-ass,” Lucky says with a bit of a chuckle. “I’m to tell you that there’s another drive in two days. Head to the auto yard at the same time as the last time, pick up the car — it’s the red Mustang, it’ll be parked out front — and take it down to the same place in Rosarito.”

  I nod. It’s nice knowing there’s more work for me and the chance to put even more distance between myself and bankruptcy.

  “Got it. Same pay?”

  He nods.

  “Same.”

  I pause for a second, considering.

  “Listen, Lucky, I had something else I wanted to ask you…” I say, then I stop and look over at the man sitting next to Lucky. I don’t recognize him and he’s not wearing a patch.

  Lucky nods, letting me know to relax. “He’s ok. Ms. Alice, meet my brother, Richie. Richie, this is Ms. Alice, our bartender and the woman who helps run errands for Hammer. She’s off limits.”

  He says that last bit in a far more serious tone than the rest of his introduction. I think I spot Lucky deliver an elbow under the table to Richie, too.

  “Got it,” Richie says. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Alice.”

  “Nice to meet you, too,” I say.

  “Now, what did you want to ask me?” Lucky says.

  I clear my throat, nervously. “I wanted to know if there were other jobs, with the bar or with the auto yard or whatever, that I could take on in my spare time.”

  Lucky pauses for a moment and a serious look comes across his face. Concentration crinkles the mustache riding his upper lip. “How do you feel about selling drugs? Richie here is getting in a shipment of MDMA — Molly — in a few days and could use help distributing.” He stares at me for a second, taking in the confused look on my face, and then his serious look melts away into a chortle. “I’m kidding, Ms. Alice! Lighten the fuck up. You’re doing great, but, no, we don’t have anything else for you. If something comes up where we need someone with legitimate professional business experience, or even if we need someone to stand in front of the auto yard, wearing a bikini and holding a sign, I’ll let you know.”