Page 19 of StoryTeller's Tale

Despite that my words indicate I’ve accepted Chaz’s reasonable position, I tense as Claw backs him up. If I was looking for someone to be on my side, then the enforcer is showing he’s not going to be it. For a moment, I wonder if it would help my frustration were I to challenge him to a bout in the gym. Rearranging someone’s face might soothe my soul a bit, though it would probably be sensible to go up against someone other than him. I might have been a SEAL, but Claw served as a Marine. Unless he’s using the knuckleduster he’s named for—the custom made one with knives that shoot out when he clenches his fist—the odds are probably no better than even on which of us would win.

Curving my nails into my palms, I force myself to stay calm, and admit through gritted teeth, “You’re probably right.”

He taps ash off the end of his cigarette and sits forward. While his mouth opens, before he can get any words out, there’s a roar of bikes approaching the clubhouse, and more worryingly, the sound of shots.

Ryder bursts through the clubhouse door. “Soulz, coming in hot.”

Even before the words are out of his mouth, I and my brothers are already on our feet and rushing toward the door.

Gun in hand, I crouch. Taking advantage of any cover I can find, I sum up the situation.Fuck.I identify the leading bike and rider, raise my gun and take aim, ready to open fire at the riders closing on him fast.

Iron and Ryder have the gates open wide, then drop to their stomachs and start to provide cover.

“Hold fire!” Iron suddenly screams leaping to his feet. “Hold your fuckin’ fire.”

My gun’s already back in my holster as I’ve, too, noticed the riders “chasing” our dear leader are actually part of his entourage, and they’re not firing at us. All their weapons are pointed upward. Our guns might have been stood down, but our heart rates? Well, they’re quite a different matter. More than one of my brothers has their hand to their chest as the adrenaline that had risen so fast needs a moment to go back down.

“Fuckin’ cunt!” Chaz, not cowed in the slightest in the presence of greatness, approaches Slugger. “Asshole,” he spits out for good measure as he draws closer.

The man I call the Alpha is uncontrite. He’s still on his bike, leaning on his tank, staring around with a shit-eating grin on his face. He watches Prez approach, and only when he draws close, throws his leg over the saddle and dismounts.

I follow behind Chaz as he goes to greet the newcomer, raising my head at Slugger’s companions as I pass. I’ve met both before. Like me, Oak and Fart are nomads, and often end up as the Alpha’s unofficial escorts, as I’ve done myself.

Having received chin lifts in return, I wait while the prez and Slugger perform their greeting ritual. Then, as Chaz steps back, I move forward and am enveloped in Slugger’s meaty arms, forcing myself to endure the pounding that’s being given to my back.

“Way to make an entrance, Bro.” I roll my eyes.

Slugger snorts, but Chaz glares at him. “You could have been fuckin’ killed. You couldn’t have come in like normal fuckers, eh? Or used the fuckin’ phone and given us a heads-up?”

“What’s the fun in that, Brother?” The titular head of the Wretched Soulz snorts as he responds. “Now, where’s this Arizonan hospitality I’ve heard so much about?”

Chaz indicates Slugger should precede him into the clubhouse, and behind his back he gives me a scowl. I shrug, raising my hands, silently indicating I haven’t been extolling the virtues of our chapter. I certainly didn’t recommend that he come here, but I don’t know whether Chaz believes me or not. And, after that entrance, I doubt Slugger will be making any of our lives easy.

When I’ve been in his company before, I’ve often thought the Alpha’s got a schizophrenic personality. He can be the craziest asshole you’ve ever met, then, in the blink of an eye, be the most serious and deadly. Woe betide anyone who tries to predict which side of him you’ll get. But then, anyone who leads the vast organisation of the Wretched Soulz has to have balls made of fucking steel.

Chaz places his hand on my back and uses it to steer me to the side. “You know why he’s here?” His eyes bore into me.

“Not a fuckin’ clue.” I push back my hair. “It was on the cards as I already told you.”

“He’s not fuckin’ coming in like a man trying to stay under the radar,” he observes.

“He’s fuckin’ crazy. You know this.”

As I state the obvious, Chaz just stares at me, before shaking his head and rolling his eyes once again. “Well, I guess we’re not going to find anything out without talking to him.”

By the time Chaz and I reach the bar, Slugger’s already got a beer in his hand and a sweet butt, Ce Ce, hanging off his arm. He’s got an easy grin on his face, and he’d look like any other brother out to have a good time. That’s if you weren’t aware of who he is. Instead of being approached, men are standing back, only cautiously acknowledging him. Going by the various looks being given to him by those all around, some brothers are wary, some full of admiration, and some downright ready to do some sucking up.

Shitface shoots beers over to myself and Prez, and I take mine to go join Fart and Oak, and stand with them, juggling my bottle while trying to light a cigarette.

“Quite an entrance, Brothers.”

Oak grins at my dry tone. “Thought you’d like some more material for your stories, ST. The one about how the Alpha gets killed, approaching one of his own charters.”

Fart chuckles. “What you even doing back here, Bro? Thought you were still out on the road?”

“Chaz called me back. Seems even a nomad has to do work sometime.” I grin back at him. We all know how it goes. The freedom of nomads is an illusion as we can all be summoned at any time. It’s the price of the patch that we wear. I take a drag of my cigarette, then ask, “You got a new ride, Fart?”

He has, as I’ve already noticed. We spend a few moments discussing his latest sled, and the abrupt demise of its predecessor, an unplanned dismount involving oil on the road and a disgusting amount of road rash indelicately described. I commiserate, as expected.

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