Thrash (Rebel Riders MC Book 1) Page 4

  “Thanks, Lucky. Now, what can I get your brother?”

  “I’ll have that IPA, too.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief and take a note of their order.

  I don’t know which is worse: that for a moment it really did feel like Lucky was offering me the chance to sell drugs, or that there was a part of me that — if I absolutely had to in order to keep helping out my mom — would say ‘yes’.

  It takes me three tries just to pull each of their beers from the tap, I’m so damn lost in my thoughts I keep spilling.

  But I end up hitting a realization when I finish pouring their drinks. I’d do anything for my family, and whatever it takes to keep my own head above water instead of going broke.

  Desperate times call for desperate measures and I’m about as desperate as they come.

  Chapter Six

  Thrash

  “You sure about this, Thrash?”

  Riot gives me the kind of sideways look that tells me he’s right on the edge of advising me that I am one-hundred-percent insane. And maybe I am. But I can’t let this second shipment get by me, and I sure as hell can’t let my MC fall further behind the Reaper’s Sons.

  I nod and keep my eyes on the road in front of me. This is no time for doubt. We’re parked on the shoulder of a long curve just before a big old stretch of straightaway before the mountain road into Crescent Falls. We can see for miles. Our target should be here soon.

  “Thrash?” Riot says again.

  “Yes, Riot, I’m sure. Creole’s information is good — I saw that woman leave the Reaper’s Sons’ auto yard this morning. I’ve been checking traffic all damn day, and, except for the usual shitstorm around Los Angeles, the traffic is fine. She’ll be by here around the same time as the last time, and then we’ll pull her over.”

  Riot gestures to the set of tools strapped to my bike.

  “And the wrenches? What the hell are those for?”

  “She didn’t believe me last time. I’m going to make sure she takes me seriously.”

  “You have a gun, you know,” he says, patting his shoulder where his pistol is holstered. “That’s pretty fucking serious, too.”

  “I’m not going to shoot her, man. This is different. It’s about principle.”

  “Principle? Since when do you give a fuck about what some woman thinks? Especially a drug-runner for the Reaper’s Sons?” The tone in his voice edges even closer to that breaking point of calling my bullshit out.

  “Since they throw spicy salsa into my fucking eyes. That makes it a special kind of personal.”

  “You’re fucking nuts,” he says.

  “Maybe I am.” I look over at him, completely serious. “But I’ve got a plan to turn this into an even bigger score than we were thinking. We’re going to take the Reaper’s Sons for all their fucking worth if this pans out. Not just one carload. Now, are you going to have my back here or are you going to keep second-guessing me? Otherwise, you can leave at any time, you know. I can handle this myself.”

  “Fuck that. You’re practically blood, no way I’m leaving. But that doesn’t mean I can’t tell you when you’re full of shit.”

  An hour passes by while we wait.

  The sun drops down below the horizon, turning into a blood-orange ball of fire. Riot and I reminisce about our younger days, about women we’ve fucked, about fights we’ve had, and what we’d buy if we’d won the mother of all lotteries and money were no object.

  Riot would buy himself a high-end Ducati concept bike, the kind of bike you take out once a month to go faster than you’ve ever gone in your life — so fast you fucking piss yourself — and then you spend the rest of the time obsessing over and protecting because it’s so damn expensive.

  There isn’t much I would buy. Sure, I’d probably renovate my house a bit, maybe upgrade the bike, and I’d probably throw a big party and hook up a foursome, but that’s it.

  “That’s it?” Riot says when I tell him my plan. “Group sex and a new kitchen?”

  “That’s it. Most of it, I’d put away. Invest it. Get a fucking Roth IRA,” I say.

  “What the fuck does a terrorist group in Ireland have to do with this? Who are you, man?”

  “Absolutely nothing. Not that kind of IRA. A fucking retirement account. When I’m old, I don’t want to have to depend on anyone. Not the club or whatever handouts or kickbacks they give, and I am sure as fuck not depending on my family.”

  My family — deadbeats and drunks that they are — are nothing more than some ink on my fucking birth certificate.

  A car comes into view in the distance.

  I’m sure it’s her.

  Riot and I leave the shoulder once she gets close enough and move to intercept her. I take my pistol out and fire a warning shot to let her know not to try any shit and then direct her to the curb.

  This time, she cooperates.

  We come to a stop next to the driver’s side door and she rolls down her window. There’s an exasperated look on her pretty face and not a single bit of fear in her voice as she glares at Riot and me. This is just business to her, and we’re just an annoyance standing in the way of her getting paid.

  I respect that.

  “You again? You know, I have more tacos. I even bought extra, so there’s enough for your friend, too,” she says.

  “Shut up. Get out of the car,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “We went through this the last time. Go. Fuck. Yourself.”

  “I’m not going to steal it from you,” I say.

  Riot looks at me sideways. “You’re not? What the fuck are we doing here then, man?”

  “I told you, this is personal,” I say to him. Then I turn back to her. “Look, keep the keys, we’ll put our guns away, we are not taking your car. I promise. I just want to show you something.”

  She shakes her head, defiant.

  “I’m not an idiot. Don’t just put your guns away — give me one.”

  Riot scoffs, but I nod my head. “Fine. Riot, give her your gun.”

  “Seriously?” He says.

  “Trust me,” I reply. “Now, Ms. Genius, get out of the car, stand on the shoulder over there, and watch.”

  She does as she’s told and stands on the gravel shoulder with her arms crossed while looking like this whole thing was her idea in the first place.

  Fuck, it’s infuriating.

  And fucking hot the way her perky tits stand out even more against her crossed arms. The way her lips get fuller as she purses them in exasperation.

  Why does she have to be working for the enemy?

  I push my thoughts as far into the background as I can and I throw open her door. With my tools on the ground beside me, I proceed to dismantle the panel of her driver side door. After a bit of work and some sexy-yet-infuriating scoffs and backtalk from Ms. Genius, I get the panel off and find a small compartment welded into the structure of the door.

  Jackpot.

  Reaching in, I pull out the cargo and toss it onto the ground in front of her. It’s a packet of pills — ecstasy, probably — with a street value of maybe two or three grand, depending on its quality. I’m sure if I dug through the rest of the car, I’d find other drugs with an even higher value. Cocaine and heroin, most definitely, knowing where she just came from.

  “What do you think of that?” I say, grinning triumphantly.

  She just shrugs and looks as unperturbed as if I had told her she had a scratch on her bumper. “I’m not shocked. But you look proud of yourself. Are you proud?”

  “Do you believe me, now? How does it feel to be a drug mule?”

  “I believe you’re a dick. How does that feel?”

  “You’re transporting drugs across the border. That’s a serious felony. You get caught with this, you’ll go away for life. Now, why don’t you give me those keys and let me take this car off your hands.”

  I hold out my hand for her to toss me the keys.

  She just looks at me, very much not amused.


  “If I do that, what are you going to do with them?” She says.

  “What do you think? They’ll be sold.”

  “Seriously, keep up, woman,” Riot says. “This isn’t fucking rocket science.”

  She nods. “Ok. Time for a little thought experiment. If I give this car to you, the drugs get sold. But, in that case, I don’t get any money for them and I risk pissing off the dangerous guy in charge of this drug operation. But, if I keep the car and do the job, I get paid, and the drugs still get sold. See where I’m going here? Or would you like it in simpler terms? Maybe I could draw some pictures for you? Do you have any crayons?”

  “You know, I find it a little surprising a woman like you would be ok with this,” I say.

  “A woman like me? Don’t fucking patronize me. You don’t know who I am. I’m ok with it because I have to be. I don’t like it. But I don’t have any other options, and if I fail, it’s going to be really, really bad for me and for people that mean a lot to me. I like the thought of that even less,” she says, closing her hands around the keys and gesturing towards her car with Riot’s gun. “Now, put the door back together, please.”

  She is cold-blooded, she is all business, and she is absolutely entrancing me.

  “Fine. But this isn’t over.”

  I shove the pills back in her place and re-assemble the door a lot quicker than I took it apart.

  Without so much as a ‘thank you’, she gets back in the driver’s seat and slams the door closed. The car edges forward on the gravel shoulder and, just before the engine surges to live with a two-hundred horsepower roar, she leans out the window and tosses Riot’s pistol to me.

  “Remember: go fuck yourself,” she calls out.

  I watch her speed down the road to town.

  I need to get to those drugs of hers. I want the cash the Reaper’s Sons are making through their business and I have to protect my MC.

  But, most importantly, I have to find out just who the fuck this woman is.

  Chapter Seven

  Alice

  “This way, mom.”

  Mom blinks long and slow and then shuffles towards my outstretched hand. She takes it in her too-weak grip and smiles at me. Today’s not one of her better days.

  “Oh? Do I have another appointment today?”

  I nod and keep the exasperation out of my voice. This is the fourth time this morning that she’s asked me where we’re going. Right now, we’re in the parking lot of her clinic. Even something simple as looking out the window would tell her where we are.

  “Yes, mom. It’s time for another treatment. That’s why I’m here; I took the day off work and I even put a few episodes of that show you like on my phone. I thought we could sit and watch them together. It’ll be fun.”

  Her curious blinking turns into a considering squint.

  “Have I seen them?” She says.

  I shrug.

  “How should I know? But there’s so many episodes, that show has been on for years, and I’m sure that even if you’ve seen them, you’ve probably forgotten them. Even if you haven’t forgotten, I’ll probably never have seen them, so you can explain to me what’s going on,” I say. “We can share it together.”

  She pats my hand.

  “Alright, sweetheart. Well, thank you for getting them for me.”

  I lead her into the clinic — a squat brick building on the outskirts of Crescent Falls. It’s the kind of place that specializes in outpatient care. The building is a little run down, looking like it was last given a makeover in the nineties. It’s the best that I can afford. If I had the money, my mom would be down at the UCLA Medical Center or someplace at the forefront of medical technology, instead of a place that looks like it’s still using treatments from three decades ago.

  “Come on, mom.” I squeeze her hand just a bit tighter — not too tight, the treatment’s made her so fragile. I always get nervous taking her here. There’s always that nagging worry in the back of my mind that, somehow, some way, something is going to go wrong and her health problems will come back and the word ‘remission’ will be just another memory.

  I sigh. My life lately is just one long fight not to drown.

  Our regular nurse, Paige, is waiting in the front lobby when we walk in. Paige is in her forties, she’s heavyset, but she always has a smile on her face and she’s got hair that is always so voluminous and shockingly red that I get jealous of it sometimes. She’s standing next to the front desk, with a clipboard in hand, and she’s checking off boxes on finishing paperwork while talking to an older patient.

  As we enter, my eyes do a quick scan of the little coffee table in the lobby, spying the same magazines as the last time — months-old golfing and senior-living magazines — and I worry for a second that Paige is going to be a while before she can see us and we’ll have to occupy our time with this non-entertainment.

  Fortunately, she looks up right away, scribbles a quick signature on the papers in her clipboard, and hands the sheet over to the outgoing patient.

  Paige comes over to us with a pleasant smile on her face.

  “Hello, Mrs. Riley. How are you feeling today?” She says.

  My mom smiles at her and she and Paige hug gently.

  “Good, thank you, Paige. Though I’m sure I’ll tell you different later. You know how cranky these treatments make me.”

  “Well, let’s get you sit down and set up. Have you eaten this morning, Mrs. Riley?” She says, taking my mom’s hand and leading her through the lobby to the room in the back where they administer the chemotherapy.

  I follow along just a pace behind.

  “No, she hasn’t. She hasn’t had much of an appetite lately and she’s been complaining that most foods don’t even have a taste anymore. Plus, she always gets an upset stomach on days I tell her she’s going to have treatment.”

  “Well, the taste issue is normal and should recede with time,” she says. “I’m going to bring by an apple and a banana and some high-fiber wheat crackers. I’d like you to eat a little; it’ll help with some of the side effects. Can you do that for me, Margaret?”

  My mom nods. “I’ll try.”

  Paige and I work together to get my mom comfortable in her seat and then I pull up a chair beside her. While Paige sets up the IV drip for my mom’s treatment, I put a blanket over my mom to help with the chills that I know she’ll start to feel, and I get my phone out and hook up a set of earbuds.

  “Hold still, mom,” I say to her as I pop one of the earbuds in her ear while Paige administers the IV.

  “What’s this, honey?” she says.

  “It’s so we can watch the show together.”

  Once we’re settled in, I turn on the show.

  These aren’t just random episodes that I put together — I spent a lot of time putting together a playlist after I found some article online about the show’s best episodes and storylines. I want to know why my mom likes this show so much — aside from the handsome older guy who always has a leg up on everyone else — so I can share it with her. It’s going to be a long road to full recovery and there are going to be many times we’ll spend together on the couch watching this show. I need to like it.

  We’re halfway through an episode about solving a Navy Cadet’s murder by anthrax letter, when something in the corner of my eye catches my attention. It’s Paige, and she’s waving subtly to draw my eye. She has a frown on her face, which is something I haven’t seen from her before and instantly makes my stomach drop a foot or two with worry about my mom.

  Maybe her treatment isn’t going so well.

  I take off my earbud and pat my mom on the shoulder to let her know I’ll be right back. She hardly notices.

  “What is it?” I say as I get closer to Paige.

  “Alice, I’m really sorry to have to do this, but Janet at the front desk needs you to stop by.”

  I shake my head. “Can it wait? We’re kind of in the middle of something.”

  “No, I’m really sorry,
it can’t.”

  My stomach drops even lower. The only time I’ve heard Paige be firm is when she’s corralling a patient. That she’d be that way now has me nervous.

  I head back to the front lobby after taking a look back at my mom. Janet runs accounting for this little outpatient center. She has a desk behind the receptionist’s and, though she’s a somewhat-pretty woman in the conventional sense, she’s always got an upset expression on her face, like she’s always constantly discovering it’s Thursday and not Friday. Which is probably why there’s a small cubicle wall that separates her desk from the receptionists — they don’t want any of the patients or visitors to see the dour-looking woman who holds their financial future in her hands.

  I’m familiar with Janet.

  I don’t like her. At all.

  “Hi Ms. Riley, how are you this morning?” She says. Her voice is hesitant. It’s enough to set the alarm bells in my head ringing.

  “My mom’s taking chemotherapy and trying to recover from breast cancer. How do you think I feel?” I blink as soon as the words come out of my mouth and my complexion, I’m sure, goes a shade ashen. It’s probably not a good idea to be mean to the woman who handles billing. “I’m so sorry, Janet. I didn’t mean to sound like a bitch right then; It’s been a rough week and I just started this new job bartending… It’s hard to adjust to the hours and care for mom at the same time; I think I’ve averaged maybe four hours of sleep a night.”

  Janet makes a face like a weasel. She doesn’t look hesitant at all now to break the bad news I’m sure she’s been holding onto.

  “I am so sorry to have to do this to you right now, but your mom’s insurance is disputing some of the charges.”

  “Did you explain to them that it’s all essential and she could die without it?” I don’t hold back any of the bite in my words. I should be at my mom’s side right now, holding her hand through her treatment. Not here at this desk, with this woman who looks like she’s constantly eating lemons.

  “Of course I did. Listen, I don’t mean to put this on you, I’m really sorry, but we need to get that part of the bill covered.”