Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC) Page 6

  Pulling up his shirt, he looked at the block-lettered words on the ribs on his left side, The journey is the reward, in stark black. He thought for a second about going by the truck stop and showing Jen, but then laughed viciously at himself, remembering she had been relieved he was leaving. He’d take her lesson to heart, and the tat would always remind him there was more to learn, and he needed to slow down and take it all in.

  Dropping the hem of his shirt, he pulled up his left sleeve, seeing the angel with the bowed head, naked sword in one hand, gun in the other, arms and body flexed and tense. Wrapped tightly in its own gossamer wings, the sentinel was looking down at the words under its feet, which were supporting it, My Brother’s Keeper.

  Andy nodded to himself, pulling his sleeve down and shrugging on his jacket. Slinging a leg over the bike, he quickly took stock and decided he was as ready as he could get—late start or not, he was headed for Durango.

  ***

  Three months later, Andy pushed a bar rag across a tabletop in Las Cruces, picking up the coasters and stacking them back into the middle of the empty table. He stood, rolling his shoulders to work tension out of his neck and looked around the bar, thinking, Thank God, only a couple diehards are still here for last call on a Tuesday night.

  Walking behind the bar, he picked up his water bottle and took a long drink, running through his closing checklist in his head. He needed to stage the next kegs of draft for the day shift gal, pre-chilling them and making it easy for her to tap them when needed.

  Then, there was the cleaning. Bathroom cleaning was a fucking constant when you worked in a bar. He swore if he never had to clean up man-puke again, he would be fucking ecstatic. Chicks nearly always hit the toilet with their vomit, but men simply spewed where they stood…and they didn’t fucking chew their food. Fuck. He’d finally begged Arlon, the owner, to buy a long-handled brush to scrub the back of the toilet tank. It was too hard to clean otherwise, but he couldn’t stand the smell if he left the puke back there.

  Okay, back on track—kegs, bathroom, chairs on tables to make it easier on the cleaning crew, stock the well bottles, cut up fruit garnishes for the day gal, stack the empty liquor bottles for inventory, fill up condiment bottles, run the dishes, do a load of bar rags, and finish wiping down the tables. Easy breezy.

  With his hands busy with the work he had outlined in his head, he let his mind drift to the last conversation he’d had with Ben. It was his fifteenth birthday, and Andy was pretty sure the kid was drunk when they were talking on the phone. He was still seeing that Owens girl, and GeeMa said nineteen-year-old Benita gave Ben a car to drive. Kid wasn’t old enough to get his license, but he was driving a loaned car around town. Fuck.

  GeeMa’d cried on the phone, telling Andy about the language Ben used when talking to her and it seriously pissed him off. Physically, Ben might be a young man, but he was turning into a dick to his grandmother. They’d decided months ago that she needed to stop giving Ben money, which would prod him to find a job, because they thought working would probably help him mature. But, he hadn’t gotten a job; he hadn’t even looked for one from how it sounded. Instead, Benita simply gave him more money when he asked for it.

  GeeMa had asked Andy to come home, but he was in southern New Mexico now; the bar job was good, steady work, and in air conditioning. He made decent tips, and was able to live off those pretty much exclusively, sending nearly all his paychecks home. He explained to her that he’d have to take a week off work to come visit; it would be three days up and back, leaving only one day to be in Enoch. She seemed to understand, and stopped asking him.

  With only fifteen minutes until last call, he looked up, startled when the door banged open and saw nearly a half-dozen men stroll in. Bikers, they had on leather vests with back patches showing the American flag, staged with empty boots and a rifle. These were Southern Soldiers; he’d seen them around town some.

  Andy’d gotten used to chatting with bikers wherever he went. It seemed like simply owning and riding a bike made him a small part of a large brotherhood. He loved the low, underhand waves and two-fingered gestures bikers gave each other as they passed on the road. More than once, he had ridden alongside strangers for long miles, never stopping and meeting, just waving goodbye as their ways parted, brothers in spirit.

  These men looked the room over, and the man in front made a motion to the bar, so they all pulled up stools instead of going to a table. Good, that would be easier on him, because it meant he could keep working on his list in-between serving them.

  Wiping his hands on a bar rag, he approached them. “What can I getcha? Fair warning, we’re only fifteen minutes from last call, so you need to order heavy and fast.” He grinned at them, seeing a white smile parting the leader’s dark beard in return.

  “Shot of Jack and a draft,” he said.

  “All around?” Andy asked, his hands already pulling up iced mugs for the beer and a stack of shot glasses for the whiskey.

  Nodding, the tall biker slapped a fifty onto the bar and Andy acknowledged it with a return nod. He set up a mug under the tap, starting it on the tilted side of the glass first to reduce the head, and then picked up a bottle of Jack, pouring it up and down the sides of the stacked shot glasses, getting an overflow start on filling them. Alternating between the beer and the shots, he served the men quickly, taking the money and returning the change to the bar in front of the dark-haired man.

  Walking away from the group, he cleared empty glasses and bottles from the rest of the bar, realizing the remaining patrons had vacated while he was serving the bikers. At least everyone had already cashed out their tab, and several of them had left tips. He collected those along with the empties, and pushed the money into the jar on the bar back. The jukebox did its random thing, and started playing Ladies and Gentlemen by Saliva. Andy grinned down at the tabletop he was wiping; that song was an anthem for his life recently.

  “Whose Indian is that out back?” The question came from down the bar and Andy looked up, wiping down the inside of the ice bucket.

  “She’s mine,” he smiled proudly.

  “Nice ride, man,” came from the man closest to him, a blond beast with a nonexistent neck.

  “Thanks, I try to keep her spiffy,” he nodded, and turned back to his work.

  “Who do you ride with?” That came from the far end of the group, a dude with brown hair and swirling tattoos on his face.

  “I’m not affiliated, man, just moving through. Here for a few months.” Andy tensed up, wondering if this would be a problem here, like it was in Durango.

  He’d been jumped there by some bikers who thought he was a nomad scouting their territory. The beating wasn’t that bad; they stopped once they stripped his shirt and couldn’t find any tats of colors or club brands. He hated that vulnerable feeling though, because he knew they didn’t have to stop…and there was nothing he could have done either way.

  Standing upright behind the bar, Andy mentally ran through the motions it would take him to reach the shotgun under the countertop at the other end of the bar. “That a problem?” he asked the group.

  “Nah, ain’t no big thang,” said the leader, taking a long drink of his beer.

  Nodding, Andy pointed at their empty shot glasses and almost empty beer mugs, asking, “Want another round?”

  Flipping out a twenty to add to the money on the bar, the leader answered him wordlessly, and Andy nodded. He moved back down the bar and started the process again, serving the men their drinks and ringing up the sale.

  Seeing sudden movement in the mirror, he watched as four of the men descended on one of their own, taking him down to the bar top and holding him there. Spinning around, Andy saw the gun in the man’s hand in the same moment it was plucked from his fingers.

  Tucking the gun into the back waistband of his jeans, the dark-haired leader grinned over at Andy. “Looks like Spider thought he had a problem with that, but he was wrong,” he said, sitting back down on his stool.
>
  Spider was sitting upright again, sandwiched between the blond and the leader; he spit out, “Ain’t right and you know it, Watcher. We don’t need a nomad gettin’ in our business.”

  “Shut up, Spider,” said the blond.

  “You shut up, Opie. You know it too,” came the retort.

  Andy’s head was spinning; he...that guy might have been going to shoot him. “You might want to sit down a minute, kid,” Watcher said, looking at him closely. “You look a little green.” Andy immediately plopped his ass on top of the beer cooler, scooting away from the group and glancing under the counter towards the shotgun.

  “Awww, naw, kid. Don’t do that,” Watcher tisked and shook his head, pointing at the tattooed man and saying, “Pops, grab that scatter gun, wouldja? Devil, why doncha give your Jack to the kid.”

  Watching, Andy saw the tattooed man, Pops, reach over and pull the shotgun from the rack underneath the bar. Andy laughed weakly. Opie, Spider, Watcher, Devil, and Pops—he was about to be killed by a group of men with comic book names.

  Something bumped his hand, and he looked up to see Devil’s face inches from his own; he was pushing his still-full shot glass into Andy’s hand. Narrowing his eyes, Andy took the glass and brought it up between their faces, drank it down, and then set the glass carefully on top of the cooler next to his leg, staring into Devil’s eyes the whole time.

  Devil laughed loudly and reached out a tattooed hand, ruffling Andy’s hair. Moving to sit back on his stool, he said, “He’s a keeper, Watcher. Look at this fucker; he’s not even sweating.” Andy’s eyes flickered between Watcher and Spider, believing there would be another test, but not knowing where it would come from. He glanced at the clock on the wall across the room and took a breath.

  Pushing to his feet, he grabbed a bar rag, saying, “Last call, gentlemen.” His hand scrubbed his jaw hard and he ran one hand through his hair, even though he knew attempting to straighten it was a futile effort.

  All five men hooted with laughter, slapping the bar and each other’s backs in amusement. Spider stopped laughing and abruptly launched himself across the bar towards Andy. His moves had been telegraphed long before he acted on them, and Andy smiled grimly at how easy it was to sidestep him, knocking him onto his face into the narrow aisle behind the bar.

  He dropped a knee hard onto the man’s tailbone, knowing how bad it hurt to have your dick smashed into the floor like this. He used his hands and legs to secure the man on the floor, leveraging the limited space to his advantage, hearing the liquor bottles in the well rattle together with the force of Spider’s efforts to get up. Looking up, he saw four interested faces peering over the bar at them. “You dropped something, Watcher,” he said dryly.

  “Let the fucker up, kid,” Watcher drawled, looking hard into Spider’s face. “He’s done.” Andy looked down in time to see Spider’s face go gray. Gazing back up at Watcher, he stood quickly and stepped out of reach, keeping Spider trapped in one corner of the bar. “Let’s have one more round.” Watcher flipped another fifty onto the bar. Looking at Andy, he grinned through his dark beard again. “Let Spider serve and you come sit. Got a name, kid?”

  “Name’s Andy, and I got this,” he said as he backed up to the middle of the bar, flipping up the pass through for Spider. He let him walk through and closed it behind him, but remained tense and strung tight as a wire as he approached the group again.

  Going through the actions one last time, he poured the shots and handed them out along with the beer. Turning sideways this time, he rang up the transaction while keeping an unsubtle eye on the group of men. “Well, that’s a shit road name, Andy,” Opie laughed. “We should call you Ice Man.”

  “Yeah, Ice Man, because you are cool under pressure,” said Watcher. “Pour yourself a shot, Ice Man. Drink with the Southern Soldiers before you close up.”

  There was no more drama before the men left, and Andy locked the doors behind them with a huge sigh of relief. Watcher had left all the change on the bar, and Andy set it aside in case he came back for it tomorrow, he wasn’t sure he wanted to assume it was a tip.

  He secured the shotgun back in its place under the bar and finished up his list of duties quickly, ready to head out for an early breakfast and then bed. Exiting through the bar’s backdoor, he locked up using his key and turned to his bike, only then realizing he wasn’t alone in the back alley. “Fuck me,” he muttered underneath his breath, recognizing the two men sitting on their bikes parked next to his.

  He pulled his jacket from the pannier bag, yanking it on as he straddled the bike. “Watcher, Devil.” He nodded as he kicked the bike to life. He wasn’t sure what the protocol was in a situation like this, but when they started their bikes too, Watcher made a motion for him to proceed them, so he pulled out.

  Headed down the main drag towards the diner he frequented, he pulled into the parking lot, not surprised when they pulled in behind him. He waited on his bike while they backed theirs into spots next to him, and sat for a second after they killed their engines. “Can I help you, gentlemen?” he asked, finally.

  Devil laughed hard. “You gotta quit bein’ so fucking funny, Ice Man.” Andy cocked his head, looking at him. “We ain’t no fucking gentlemen. That’s twice tonight you’ve made that joke.”

  Devil laughed again, and Watcher said, “Just wanna have a chat, Ice Man. That’s all. Public place is good for this,” and he stood up off his bike.

  8 -

  Scars

  Nearly a month later, Andy leaned against the edge of the doorway, blocking the men outside from coming into the adobe building. He casually held a length of iron pipe in his hand and scowled starkly at the crowd gathered in the street. He yelled over his shoulder into the house, “Watcher, we got a fuckuva lotta company out here.”

  There was a meaty thud from behind him, and he risked a glance backward into the main room, seeing several men gathered around someone sitting in a chair.

  “Keep ‘em outside, Ice Man,” Watcher said tightly. “We don’t have our money yet.” Andy took a breath and stood up straight, bringing the pipe to rest on his shoulder as if it were a baseball bat. He took one long step forward and saw nearly the entire crowd step back by at least three feet. “Vamonos. No hace falta que te quedes,” he said to the crowd in general, tapping his shoulder lightly with the pipe. “Get the fuck out of here, bastards,” he muttered to himself. “Nothing to see.”

  A large portion of the group broke off, wandering up streets and away from the house. Their departure exposed the people he’d been set to watch for. “Watch, I got green patches,” he called over his shoulder again, muttering, “Fuck me,” when those patches didn’t turn and leave like the citizens did. The Soldiers had said to watch for the rival club colors, and here they fucking were. Jesus fucking Christ, what was he doing here in Mexico, getting into a fucking biker gang war? “Fuck me,” he muttered again.

  “Fucking Machos,” Watcher swore from behind him. “Watch ‘em, Ice.” There was another thud, and then he felt a presence at his back, knowing it was Watcher and his club members. He stepped out into the sunshine and off to the side, allowing the Soldiers to take the lead.

  Watcher had brought a full dozen of his patch brothers with him to Mexico; they were trying to find out where the money had gone for one of their last shipments. Either a full case of handguns had gone missing, or the tens of thousands of dollars in payment had. Machos or cartel, either way, the Soldiers wanted payment or restitution, and they’d come hunting one or the other.

  There was a roar coming from the right, and Andy turned to see an old convertible sedan driving quickly up the dirt road. It was lurching back and forth in the ruts between the adobe and cardboard houses. As if they were in a movie, he saw a man pop up from the backseat like a jack-in-a-box. But this version of the children’s toy had its own plaything, and what looked like an AR-15 was pointing at the center of their group. Andy watched as the men around him hit the ground, and either got behind cover o
r retreated into the house.

  He heard a loud bang and knew it had to be gunfire, so he started to crouch down to make himself a smaller target. Before he could move far, there was a ripping pain in his leg. His left leg gave out, and he found himself sprawled in the dirt. Turning his head to look right then left, he saw Soldiers returning fire; Opie was down, bleeding from a wound in his shoulder. The car vanished around a curve in the street. Everyone except the Soldiers had also faded away, leaving the street strangely empty as silence descended in the wake of the car.

  Andy tried to stand, but his leg wasn’t cooperating; he looked down and saw a round hole in his thigh, and his jeans were saturated with blood. Forcing himself to stand, he pulled the bandana off his neck and tied it tightly above the bullet wound in his leg. He felt around the back and found an exit wound. The bleeding had already slowed, so it probably hadn’t hit anything major. His leg felt numb, but he knew it wouldn’t stay like that long, so he had to figure out what he was going to do before the hurt hit.

  He saw one Soldier down behind a barrel and headed over there. The hole in the guy’s shoulder was still bleeding heavily, so Andy got down on his good knee to put pressure on the wound. He pulled the guy’s—fuck...he realized he didn’t even know this guy’s name—vest off, and then used his pocket knife to rip a strip of fabric from the bottom of his t-shirt. “Gonna hurt,” he told the guy.

  Squinting up at him in pain, the man responded, “Just fucking do it.”

  He made two pads, tied them into place in front, and then behind where the bullet had gone through, pulling the guy’s vest back onto him. It would help keep the makeshift bandage in place.

  Grabbing the edges of the guy’s cut, he dragged him into a sitting position, leaning against the barrel, ignoring a gritted, “Fuck.” Andy looked around again, seeing that Opie didn’t need any help; his wound was a shallow groove from a glancing bullet. It didn’t look like anyone else was injured, thank God.