Page 3 of Stone

“Jesus, Stone,” she smiles seductively at me. “If you think that’s in anyway a deterrent, then you’re a crazy man.”

“Come on, Ginger. Give me a break. How often do I get a chance to watch a game without the rest of those assholes being around?”

“Okay, okay. I’ll get you a chilled one, alright.” Ginger walks back towards the bar on the other side of the large living area, wiggling her ass all the way. I glance quickly, but my eyes soon focus back on the game.

Having these few hours of peace while the rest of the MC members are out doing different tasks, mainly instigated by me, is rare. The fact my hometown football team is playing a crucial game which, if they win, will get them to the Super Bowl is even rarer. My hometown is Billings, Montana. The team, The Montana Longhorns.

The other guys aren’t into sports, apart from Crave, who confessed to me that he’s a sucker for a good hockey game. Motorcycle reality shows, or porn is what’s usually playing on the big screen. The carpet and soft furnishings some of the club women have added to the otherwise male-dominated area have the cum stains to prove it.

Why do they call me Stone? Well, that’s a tale and a half. The short version, when Smoke found me and took me into the club, I was so stoned out of my head I could barely stand up. The long version, here you go.

After graduating from Billings West High School at the tender age of eighteen with a respectful qualification but little knowledge of what I wanted to do with my life, I signed up for the Marines. My family consisted of my older brother, who, after losing our parents, had stepped in as my legal guardian so at least we could stay together. But it soon became clear to me that I was holding him back. How could a twenty-year-old guy at the time have a normal life with his sixteen-year-old emotionally damaged brother hanging in his shadow? So, as soon as I left school, I thought the military was the perfect answer. It gave my brother the freedom to live his life guilt-free and me a chance to become a man and stand on my own two feet. I absolutely loved it, lived, and breathed it, but then one day, it all changed.

While on tour in Afghanistan, a mortar attack hit the military vehicle I’d been in, taking out six of the nine men in the vehicle and seriously injuring the rest. Jeb lost both his legs from the knee down. Buster took a hit to his back, leaving a vicious gaping hole the size of my fist that took some serious surgery. He pulled through, but his spinal cord was severed, leaving him paralysed from the neck down.

Me? I came out of it with barely a scratch, but the impact my head had taken was enough to throw me into a coma for three months solid. That will teach me to take my lid off to run my fingers through my sweat-caked hair before splashing it with some of my drinking water to get at least a small respite from the sticky heat.

Three months of lying in a hospital bed, another eight months, give or take a week, of physical rehab, and I was out of the Marines and on my own. Despite the constant barrage from my brother to go stay with him, my mental health was not good and the last thing I wanted was to be a burden to him. I cut him and his young wife, Savannah, out of my life while I wallowed in my self-pity, refusing to take their outstretched hand of help.

My life had turned to shit, and after bumming around for a while, I found solace in Bush. Yep, good old marijuana mixed with a little cocaine. I hit it hard because, for me, it had a special kind of addiction, the type that made you forget the nerve-tearing screams and the pungent smell of burning flesh from my horror-filled mind. I did some less-than-favorable things to get enough greenback to feed my habit. When teased with an amount of money that would keep me out of my head for a good few months, I couldn’t turn it down even if I wanted to. I was too deep into the murky world of denial, so I took the bait and set about stealing a 2016 Indian Scout motorcycle from the local MC club, despite knowing it could be a suicide mission.

The first thought that had rocketed into my brain as the cold steel of a gun barrel hit my temple was ‘fuck’, but it was quickly followed by a tidal wave of peace. Just think, no more pain, no more festering, mind-torturing memories. No such luck. A bullet never left the chamber.

That was then.

Now? I’m so absorbed within the club, it’s my home, my family and my life saver.

“Stone,” Smoke hollers across the room from where he stands outside his office. “Need a word.”

“There’s twenty-two minutes left on the clock, then I’ll be right in,” I bark back to the president of the Young Outlaws motorcycle club, Reno, Nevada chapter, my attention not once swaying from the big screen as the Longhorns quarterback, Dallas Rucker launches the ball down the field.

“Fuck the game. This is urgent.” His voice has a rasp with it that rattles from way down in his throat until it sprays like a flame thrower, burning your ears when it hits. “Get. Your. Ass. In. Here.”

“Fuck,” I mumble under my breath while hitting the off button on the remote control. I’d really like to tell him to shove his urgent crap where the sun doesn’t shine, so for once, I can finish watching the game in peace, but there are two very good reasons why I don’t.

He’s my president, for one thing. The other, I can still remember the punishing kicks of his heavy motorcycle boot as it smashed into my face repeatedly as he beat me to a pulp for trying to steal his precious ride, leaving me unrecognizable. The ache and scars on my jaw and cheek still linger, which is why I no longer shave my face. The thick, black beard looks good anyway, much better than any poser designer stubble.

I reluctantly haul myself up from my seat and walk across the hardwood floor towards where Smoke is leaning up against the door frame. As I get closer, I can see his brow knitted together, eyes mere slits, his mouth pressed into a single tight line, disguising his usual full, almost bulbous lips.

To look at him, you wouldn’t dream he was a member of an MC, never mind the leader. With his long hair, pretty facial features that don’t belong on a dirty biker and a tash and goatee without one hair out of place. If he was holding a guitar and microphone, you’d bet your last dollar he was some famous rock god or something.

Despite the beating he gave me when caught trying to steal his ride, I have nothing but the greatest respect for this man. Turned out he is a fellow ex-marine, albeit from another platoon, but while I was still unconscious from the beating, he had rifled through my meagre belongings and found my ID and dog tags. Who would have known that googling someone would bring up enough shit on me that pretty much gave him my life story? I don’t know; maybe he took pity on me, not that I thought that at the time while he had me locked up in the cellar.

The withdrawal was nightmarish. With the cocaine, I had agitation, depression, and fatigue. That, mixed with the anger, sweats, chills and strange as fuck dreams from the cannabis, was enough to put me off for life. Liquor is my one and only vice now. Well, that and punishing some fucker that has disrespected my club or me.

ChapterTwo

Stone

Smoke turns, moving through the entrance into his office, not even attempting to hold it open for me to follow. I catch hold of it before it shuts and step into the room. Something has crawled up his ass for him to act this way. Because for the last five years, since the day he hiked me up onto my own two feet and gave me a reason to take a grip on life, a family, and a friendship that has grown so strong that I’m now his VP, we never bump heads. But he’s pissed. Really pissed.

“What’s going on, Smoke?” I question. He drops his ass into the brown, cracked leather, high-backed swivel chair and sparks up a Marlboro with the flick of his zippo before responding.

“There’s a call for you.” He raises a brow and points to the old black office phone, the receiver laying on the surface of the solid wood kitchen table he uses as a desk. “It’s the cops.”

“Ah, shit. What are they trying to pin on us now?” I grunt, moving nearer to the desk.

“It’s not the Reno police department, it’s Billings, and they’re asking specifically for you.”

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