Page 14 of Minus

“What did you do to your hand?” he asked.

“Nothing big, I’ll tell you all about it later. Right now, I just want to unwind.”

I grinned and led my brother up the stairs and back into the family room, where me, my IPA, and my ice pack settled in next to Poppy to watch the rest of the movie. Well, Hatch and Maisie snuggled close until Maisie fell asleep, but Poppy and I managed to make it until the end credits.After the day I’d had, I decided to crash on their couch.

* * *

Minus

“Well, that could’ve gone better,” Cutter said, as he walked around his desk, opened the bottom drawer, and produced a bottle of Jim Beam and small black medical bag. The type old timey doctors took on house calls back in the day. “There should be some bandages and ointment and shit for your face in here. You can use my bathroom to clean up,” he said, handing me the bag and motioning to the bathroom door.

“Cutter, what the fuck—”

“Just get cleaned up and meet me out there with the others. Just don’t take too long. You and I can talk about all this later. I’ve got to go talk to the club, and tell them what’s going on, but for now, let’s just keep this little conversation between us.”

Little conversation? Was he out of his fucking gourd?

I nodded, and Cutter exited the office with Warthog in tow. I went to the bathroom mirror and got my first good look at my latest war wound. The minute I stopped applying direct pressure to the cut, blood would pour from my face. I was most definitely in need of stiches, and Cutter’s black bag had everything I needed, so I got to work.

Cricket was right to belt me, and I was happy to know that she was an even stronger person than when I’d last seen her. Acting the way I did tonight, she’d never believe how much I’d changed over the years myself. After the way she stormed out, I’d probably never get the chance to tell her how sorry I was. For now, the sting of the suture needlewould have to serve as my penance.

With Cutter’s whiskey serving as both antiseptic and pain killer, I got to work. When I was done, the bathroom looked like a crime scene. My shirt was soaked in blood, and after finding a Harley T-shirt in Cutter’s desk drawer, I stripped it off and tossed it in the trash. I put my kutte back on, and with four crooked stiches and a whiskey buzz, I was ready for the ball.

“Holy shit, itisMinus!” a familiar voice called out as soon as I opened Cutter’s office door. Apparently, my presence at the clubhouse had not gone unnoticed.

“Hey, Grover. Long time, brother,” I said, greeting my old friend with an arm-wrestle handshake. Grover was one of the five I rode with back in the day including Clutch, Ropes, and his younger brother, Sweet Pea.

“I can’t believe it’s actually you, man. A bunch of guys said they saw you come in earlier… holy shit, bro! What the fuck happened to your face?”

I deflected his question with one of my own. “Hey, have you seen Cricket around anywhere?”

“Cricket Wallace? No man. Why?”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “She was here just a little while ago.”

“No, I haven’t seen Cricket in… no way! Did she do that to your face?” Grover was grinning like the cat that ate the canary, and then went back for the rest of its family. “You’ve been in town for five fuckin’ minutes and you’re already up causing trouble? You’d better steer fuckin’ clear of Cutter, buddy.”

“Me and Cutter are good, for now I guess,” I replied.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Grover asked.

“Tell you what, Grover. I’ll let you know when I know. Now, where’s everyone else?”

“They’re in the great room. Come on, man, let’s go see what the fuck’s going on. God damn, it’s good to see you back home, brother,” Grover said, one arm draped around me as we walked down the hall to the great room.

As we joined the group of already assembled Saints, thefloor shook with three loud thumps, immediately causing a hush among the rowdy crowd. Not a single Saint moved, or even dared blink. This was tradition among brothers. A sign of respect. Every Saint present knew the sound of these blows came from Red Dog’s staff.

“Many years ago, our brother Red Dog laid down his life for this club.” Cutter’s voice boomed as he broke the silence, staff raised high. “All of you in this room have heard of him, and what he did in sacrifice for his club. Some of you rode with him. A few of you, like me, were there when he died. Red Dog’s staff is a symbol of what it means to be a member of the Burning Saints Motorcycle Club. A totem which symbolizes what it means to lay down your very life in service to your club and your brothers. Red Dog’s staff is also a symbol of assembly. So, with this staff I officially call this meeting to disorder!”

The staff struck the floor, three more times, causing the room to erupt in cheers, howls, and breaking bottles.

“Alright, you filthy fucking animals, calm down,” Cutter said, and the room began to hush. Warthog brought Cutter a high barstool and took the staff from him.

The staff had started its life as a county hospital crutch Red Dog needed after he broke his leg in a crash. Over the years, it had been spray-painted, covered in blood, decorated, and adorned with all manner of biker paraphernalia. The crutch was eventually modified, including extending and reinforcing the base, and once he’d died, affixing Red Dog’s actual skull on top. No one was sure how the club had obtained Red Dog’s skull, but there were many rumors and stories on the subject.

“I know you’re probably wondering why the fuck I’ve gathered us all here tonight. I also know that you’ve all been gossiping like a bunch of bitches since I called the meeting, so I won’t torture you with the suspense any longer,” Cutter said to laughs all around. Cutter didn’t laugh, though. He kept direct eye contact with every Saint in the room. Making sure he felt a connection to each one of them before continuing. “Brothers, the time has come for me to hang up myriding gloves. I’m retiring as president of the Burning Saints.”

A wave of low murmurs washed through the room. Clutch shot me a look that let me know he had no idea this was coming. Cutter wasn’t bullshitting. He’d kept this information close to his kutte. I shrugged back at Clutch, unable to do anything else. I didn’t understand what the hell was going on any more than he did. Hell, I was probably even more confused. Why would Cutter intentionally keep his Sergeant at Arms in the dark about his condition, and then try to give me, someone he’s barely spoken to in years, the President’s patch?

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