Dead Men Motorcycle Club Page 7

  I tossed him his helmet and we went out to the lot. I strapped my helmet on as he mounted his bike. The way he moved with that machine was nothing short of magical. It behaved like an extension of his body. If he had told me he figured out how to make it ride on water just because he asked it nicely, I would have believed him. I smiled and admired the way the muscles in his arms flexed as he took the handles, knowing that later that evening, the same strength would pull me into his embrace. That was for later, though. Now we had to get the road beneath us.

  "Well," he said, "You gonna get on or just stand there staring at me?" He had that wide smile on his face that told me more about how he felt than all the "I love you's" he could ever say - though that didn't stop him from trying.

  I grinned back at him and turned to my own bike. I'd spent the last two months restoring it and getting it running just the way I liked. Part of me regretted selling my Charger, but I couldn't deny the way the bike made me feel. The day I'd brought it into the lot, Cash was more excited than I'd ever seen him. Zach was with him when I came sputtering into the garage, and had a few choice words about the condition of the bike and my presumed inability to get it running smooth. I'd shown him, just as I knew I could. I wasn't sure if I'd ever develop a relationship with the bike the way Cash had with his, but it felt like a part of me all the same.

  I gave him a nod and the roar of our engines announced to the world that we were ready to ride. We pulled out of the lot and made for Main Street. San Viero might change soon, but for now it was the small town I'd always dreamed of. Cash rode beside me and I knew his dreams were all around him too. As we roared down the street, driving into the setting sun, the same people who scowled at us every day were there again. I smiled at Cash and he smiled back at me. This was the life we'd created for ourselves. With him by my side, I knew we could stand taller and stronger against the winds of change than we ever could alone.

  In Cash, I'd found the strength to make life what I wanted. In the Dead Men, I'd found the family I never knew I was searching for.

  Tell No Tales

  I took a deep breath and pushed my fingers forward slightly. It was a delicate operation and I knew that one false move could ruin the whole thing. My hands weren't shaking, but that couldn't last forever. If you spend enough time focusing on something that small, even a trained professional's eyes would begin to cross and their limbs would begin to quiver.

  "You've got this, Emma, just go for it," Kurt said. He was by my side throughout the process, but somehow his reassurances did more harm than good. I didn't blame him, but I work better with a quiet room.

  Another deep breath went in and out and I knew the time had come. My fingers tensed and my arm shot forward with a sudden burst of speed. The dart flew from my hand with deadly accuracy, spiraling through the air until it penetrated the board with a hard noise. Before I even had time to recognize my own success, a cheer went up from my side of the bar.

  "Holy shit!" Emmett yelled, "She did it again!"

  I took a moment to stand back and admire my handiwork. The dart board was far on the other side of the room, and yet there my dart was - jutting from the center of the board, along with its two brothers. I couldn't help but smile at my own success.

  "Seriously, Emma," Kurt said, "You should go pro or something. That's fucking amazing."

  I shrugged my shoulders. "It's not that big of a deal," I told him humbly, "I've just got good hand-eye coordination."

  When the Dead Men discovered my particular talent for darts, they first tried their hardest to beat me at the game. When that didn't work, they instead turned to betting on my ability to throw trick shots from across the room. Even that action was starting to dry up as more and more people realized they had been throwing their money away by betting against me. Cash strode over to where I was standing and put his arm around my shoulders.

  "Remind me never to bet against you," he said with a smile.

  I turned and gave him a mock-furious expression. "If you ever bet against me," I told him, "Then you'd better start looking for a new mechanic!"

  That got the crowd chuckling and Cash pleading for a stay of execution with a wide grin on his face. The bar was full that night. Cash and I were the center of attention, as we often happened to be. Kurt and Emmett were there was well, already halfway through the bottle of bourbon that they'd been sharing. Karen was sitting at the bar talking to Hep about his daughter's problems at school. Karen didn't have any kids of her own, but somehow she still seemed to be the go-to source for advice about child-rearing. I suppose the members of the Dead Men Motorcycle Club all looked to her as a mother to the club, and so that translated to their real children as well.

  Vickers was sitting on one of the sofas, quiet as ever. It had been almost three months since I arrived in San Viero. On my first day working at the garage, Vickers had made things challenging for me, along with a slight, red-headed mechanic named Mike. To hear Karen tell it, the two of them had been inseparable, but Mike was gone now. When my knight in leather armor had laid him out on the floor of the garage with one strong punch, Mike had taken it as a sign that perhaps he wasn't wanted in this place. He'd never been a member of the club, though he'd had aspirations in that direction. I think that punch had set his life in a completely different direction. If I'd never shown up in town, maybe he would have been patched into the club. He and Vickers would have continued to make things uncomfortable for any woman unlucky enough to stumble into the garage at Peasant Motors and Cash never would have seen just how awful he was until it was too late.

  As it stood, Vickers was alone in the club. He'd never been the most popular guy around, but now even the few who could tolerate his behavior seemed to be turning their backs to him. The poster child for that trend was Tubbs. He'd been there laughing along with Vickers on my first day at work, but he'd made amends and the two of us were becoming close friends. Tubbs had a particular talent as a mechanic that I respected. I may have come to this small pond from my big sea back home, but I'd never been sure of my abilities as a mechanic until Peasant Motors. Now I knew for certain that I was good enough for this kind of work. Tubbs and I were the best grease monkeys in the shop and we weren't about to let anyone forget it.

  We were sitting around on a Saturday night at the clubhouse. Ordinarily, on a night like this, the Dead Men would be riding out to do business or at least to spend some time at one of the favorite watering holes in San Viero. Tonight was different though. Tonight we were waiting for a guest. Cash had entered the club into a deal with a guy named Reginald Donnovan. He wanted to buy up land around the town and become the new mayor or something like that. Titles were unimportant. I just knew he was a rich guy who was looking to get a bit richer. His plan was to use the Dead Men to stir up trouble for Mayor Taylor. To that end, he was sending his son along as his proxy. Cash said he was just trying to keep an eye on his, but that he didn't mind. When it came to business, the Dead Men were professionals. "There won't be any mistakes for him to report back," Cash had told me.

  I walked over to the bar where Karen was embroiled in a lengthy discussion about whether a seven-year-old girl should have a cell phone with Hep. She spared a brief moment to tell me "nice shot" before she went back into her descriptions of the bullying that young girls face and the pressure of being different when all of your friends have phones. I smiled and continued on towards the back of the bar with Cash following behind me.

  "Victory drink?" he asked.

  "You know it," I told him, "What'll ya have, Mr. President?"

  "Nothing for me," he said stoically, "Donnovan's kid should be here soon and I want to make a good impression." I nodded to him and began fixing myself a vodka cranberry. I knew he wouldn't fault me in my celebratory drink even if he was abstaining. The fact that he was able to resist a drink was one of the things I loved so much about Cash. He knew when to restrain himself. That he didn't complain about other people's vices was another thing that I loved about him. He was that r
are breed of guy who knew how to have a good time but didn't always need to. I've spent most of my life working in a garage, and I don't think I could live with a man who couldn't get to work once in a while.

  I had gotten no more than a sip of my drink before I heard the sound of a car arriving in the parking lot. My eyes met Cash and he nodded to me.

  "Sounds like he's here," he said, "I'll go out and meet him and then bring him in."

  "Good luck," I told him with a smile as I leaned on the bar and had another sip of my drink. Around me, the other members of the Dead Men were finishing up conversations and drinks of their own, well aware that the time for business was just about upon them. Even Vickers seemed to break from his quiet stupor at the sound of the car outside. I was used to machines, and whenever an organization of people worked seamlessly together, I loved to watch it. People are usually so unpredictable and wild compared to a machine. Inside a car, you know what every part is going to do because that's what it was made for. People change, though. You can guess at their intentions, but you never know what will happen in reality.

  Cash stepped out the door of the clubhouse to meet up with our new associate. I found myself without anyone to talk to. I really wished there had been someone there to fill me in on this guy's plans and intentions, but I knew that everyone was just as in the dark as I was. We knew what Donnovan was planning in the long term, but none of us knew the details. I had spent nearly three months trying not to get worried about what Cash got up to when he was working on club business, but it was a challenge. Of course, I simply wanted him to come home safe. Itwas hard walking the line between well-wishing and being overprotective though. Cash and the other Dead Men knew more about their business and about their own capabilities than I ever would. I might be a great mechanic, but I was only 23. There's still a lot of the world that's a mystery to me.

  The door opened and Cash stepped through it looking somber. Behind him was a tall man with blonde hair. He was wearing a leather jacket, but not the kind that the Dead Men wore. This was the kind of jacket you buy in Manhattan or Hollywood or somewhere in Europe. It was dyed red and black and even if the rest of him hadn't been a clue, you could peg him as being rich with one look at. Of course, he wasn't representing himself differently with the rest of his attire. He wore a tailored shirt beneath the jacket and a pair of expensive shoes that seemed chosen to perfectly complement his pants. His hair was styled and recently cut. His skin was clear and free from scars and decoration. Aside from the material that made up his jacket, he was as out of place in the Dead Men Motorcycle Club as anyone could be.

  All conversation quieted as they entered the room. I smiled inwardly as I watched the members of the club turn their attention to the newcomer. It was that kind of machine-like synchronicity that gave me such a thrill when I found it. To his credit, the new guy didn't seem to be nervous. He wasn't walking into a clubhouse full of bikers the way most people in expensive shirts would. Even the people who passed as wealthy in San Viero were usually a little uncomfortable in a place like this. There was more to the young Donnovan than met the eye - that much was certain.

  "Everybody," Cash said, stepping into the middle of the room, "this is Alexander Donnovan." There were only a few murmured greetings, but Alexander seemed unflappable.

  He stepped next to Cash and spoke as though he'd received a standing ovation upon entering. I recognized immediately that it was hubris that was driving these behaviors. He knew the club's reaction to his arrival was less than energetic. He also knew that the best way to generate that kind of energy is to act like it already exists.

  "Glad to be here," he said, "I've heard good things about the Dead Men. I'm sure we're going to do great things together. Now - how about a drink?"

  I frowned at that. It was just a drink, but I knew that somewhere deep inside, Cash was feeling chagrined about his earlier refusal to share a drink with me. Apparently Alexander was more interested in relaxing than he was doing sober business. I didn't like to see my man being proven wrong. Even as he was walking up to the bar - and without any real reason for the impression - I already found myself disliking Alexander. He was slick and polished in all the ways Cash wasn't, but it wasn't that that turned me off of him. It was the threat his borrowed authority presented to Cash. They say power is the ultimate aphrodisiac, but I was perfectly happy being the girlfriend of the club president and I didn't want anything to upset the balance we'd achieved.

  Alexander made his way to the bar where he pulled out a stool and sat, as comfortable as though this were the place he spent all of his days and nights. I couldn’t help but feel a little jealous at the way he so seamlessly adapted to the new environment. It had taken me three months and I still felt uneasy here in the clubhouse. I was still standing behind the bar when he sat down, which made me the de-facto bartender.

  “Can I get a scotch and soda?” he asked. I shrugged and reached for the bottles. I didn’t mind fetching his drink for him, and it gave me a chance to look at him more closely in any case. Up close I could tell that he’d shaven recently. It was nearly nine o’clock at night, but there wasn’t a single trace of stubble on his face. I had to remind myself that men who put that kind of attention into their appearance still existed in this world. Even Cash, who was about as styled as any of the Dead Men got to be, had a layer of razor-sharp stubble coating his jaw at this hour.

  I set the drink down in front of him as Cash stepped to the side of the bar, where he put his hands down. I reached for the refrigerator door and got him a beer, just the kind I knew he liked. I figured a bit of familiarity and the knowledge that I knew him that well would go a long way.

  “Are you the bartender around here?” Alexander asked as I handed Cash the beer.

  Cash took my hand and, before I could say anything, told the young visitor, “Emma is our best mechanic.” As he said it, he stroked my hand softly. I knew it wasn’t for my benefit, but rather as a show to Alexander, telling him that I was spoken for. I didn’t particularly care for having Cash speak on my behalf, and the jealous side of him was something I’d hoped to avoid. Around the clubhouse, there was no use for behavior like that. Not even Vickers would think to make a move on me. Every one of the Dead Men knew how much Cash and I meant to one another. They were just happy we were happy.

  Maybe it was being out of practice that did it, or maybe Cash really did have a jealous side that I’d never guessed at. In either case, he perched over me like a hawk for the rest of the evening. Every stray glance that Alexander paid me seemed to be a stab for Cash to intercept and deflect. Time after time, Alexander would ask simple, friendly questions to either of us about the club, the clubhouse and the garage. And every time, Cash would deflect it and try to steer the conversation back to business. By the time half an hour had passed, I was getting bored of being rescued from nothing in particular.

  The club’s business was always something I left to Cash. I could help him deal with the consequences of his actions and the actions of others, but as to offering advice, I was usually silent. There were old grudges that I didn’t know anything about and even after three months, the capabilities of the members of the Dead Men were often surprising to me. Even so, I couldn’t help but feel for Cash as he was pressed into this conversation with Alexander Donnovan. The outsider seemed to want nothing to do with the business at hand, preferring to drink away the evening discussing things of no consequence whatsoever. The dynamic man I’d devoted so much of my life to over the past months seemed paralyzed by the presence of an outsider. It couldn’t last forever, though. Eventually Cash would crack and would stark demanding things from Alexander. I didn’t want to see that happen, but I couldn’t think of a way to repair the situation.

  Finally, I realized the best course of action was just to excuse myself. Cash’s sudden change of demeanor and Alexander’s vague flirtations were both becoming tired and I hoped that by removing myself from the equation, maybe it would turn them both from the paths they seemed s
o intent on following.

  “I’m going to go wrap some things up in the garage,” I told them.

  “Okay,” Cash said, touching my hand once more, “I’ll be out to see you in a while.”

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Emma,” Alexander told me, smiling. I had to admit that his fine appearance was pleasing to me. I’d been surrounded by men who were tough as nails and looked like they had hammered a few in with their faces, most of the time. Even Cash showed signs of the time he’d spent on the road. Alexander might be a stranger and he might be dripping with false compliments at every turn, but he was still a breath of fresh air.

  I gave Cash a quick kiss on the cheek and headed out to the garage. Some time spent working on a car or bike would help me, I was sure. Business at the garage had been slow lately, but if nothing else I could tinker with my bike. I’d owned it for only a couple weeks at that point, and I was still spending a lot of time disassembling it and reassembling it, trying to memorize every last piece. When it comes to machines or relationships, I have a similar method I suppose. I take things apart. I study them. I put them back together. The way I see it, the only way to understand how you can make something work better is to understand the importance of all of the parts. With a car it could be any one of a hundred different hunks of specialized metal. With a relationship, it was things like how you acted around one another in public or how often you thanked each other. The theory was the same for both. If it isn’t working – replace it.

  Tubbs was in the garage when I got there, going over a checklist on the Jeep we’d patched up earlier in the day. He was the kind of guy who liked to triple-check things before giving them back to the customer. He never liked to sign his name to inferior work and I understood the reasoning. A mechanic, like a motorcycle club, lives and dies on its reputation. If you do a bad job, the stain of it is going to haunt you forever – or at least until the unhappy customer leaves town.