Page 52 of Red's Peril: Part 1

But Drummer had been right. Whether he would or not is not the point. If I’m going, I’ve got to give it one hundred percent, and not depend on a lifeline. “It will work out, Wraith. I’ll make fuckin’ sure of it.”

At the hastily called church, with Brick and Rainman in attendance, the brothers looked away when the opportunity was discussed. As Drummer had predicted, none of the fuckers had wanted to switch clubs. My raised hand was the only one, and that was met with disbelief, and enough conversation to make me satisfied I’d be missed.

When the decision had been recorded, and Drummer banged the gavel for my final appearance in the Tucson church, there was a party. As Wraith had suggested, he and I had spent a few hours with Pussy, a light-hearted moment when they both told me at least I’d now be able to show the assholes in Vegas how to fuck.

Then, this morning, the final farewells and enough back slaps to bruise my spine, wishes from Beef and Rock to keep the shiny side up and the dirty side down, and advice from Wraith to ensure I always wrapped my shit up, I headed out to my bike laden with saddlebags just like I’d arrived three years back.

If I had to wipe moisture from my eye, it was only the dust in the wind making them water. Or so I told myself.

Then I’d metaphorically straightened my back as I’d kicked up my stand, and at a sign from Brick, I’d knocked down into first. Then let out the clutch, twisted the throttle and commenced on the next chapter of my life, heading into the unknown for an uncertain future once again.

During the first few miles, I let memories wash over me, recollections of all that I’ll miss from the club that I’ve just left. The club girls, the wives, and every fucking one of my brothers. The great accommodation, the swimming pool and the gym. Until we reach the point where we stop to remove our Satan’s Devils cuts, replacing them with sweatshirts carrying the more discreet SDMC lettering, I wallow in regrets for what I’m leaving behind.

We top off our bikes, then Brick steps to my side. He eyes me for a moment, then without speaking, lays his hand on my back and taps it twice. He returns to his ride and his engine roars.

It’s at that point I make the conscious decision to stop looking back, and as I follow my new prez and VP again, I begin wondering what Vegas will have to offer.

With each hour of the journey behind us, my sadness fades and excitement takes hold. Will Vegas be the end of the journey or just another stopping off place? Whichever, and wherever my road will lead me, I’ll give it my best shot.

I haven’t spent all day on the road for a while, not nonstop, only breaking for gas, since I headed south from Vermont, so I’m stiff and my hands need flexing to get some of the movement back by the time we slow down on the outskirts of Vegas and outside a not so promising looking warehouse. As I ride through the gate, I have an immediate pang of homesickness. Instead of forest and mountains and an ex-vacation resort, this place is industrial, and set against the backdrop of harsh looking desert. No saguaro, I notice, noticing the surroundings lack character.

I’d always thought Las Vegas a noisy place, but here, away from the bright lights and strip, it’s at least peaceful.

Letting my engine idle for a moment before turning it off, I try to fortify my nerves. In Tucson, I had to work to get accepted, here, I was going to have to do it again but this time without the benefit of wearing a prospect patch. Prospects are meant to fuck up, it’s all part of the process. At this club, I’m coming on board as a full member. Of course, I prefer it, but I’m not sure how I’m going to work it.

Rainman comes over and offers me a cigarette. Lighting it, I leave it between my lips as I take off my saddlebags and hoist them over my shoulder. Removing it, I tap off the ash. “Lead on, MacDuff,” I say with a grin.

“You look like a fuckin’ Christian being thrown to the lions.” He smirks.

That pretty much sums up the way I’m feeling. When he slaps my back, I stub out my cigarette, and step toward the heavy wooden door. It creaks as it opens which is par for the course. I wouldn’t be surprised if I walked into the set of a horror movie.

Instead, I’m pleasantly surprised. The odour hits me first, smoke, stale beer, and male sweat, but alongside that is the hint of polish. I blink for a moment as the interior is dark compared to the bright evening light outside, but as my eyes begin to adapt, I see the layout is familiar, as if there’s a blueprint for Satan’s Devils’ clubrooms. A long bar stretches along one side, a few game machines are dotted around. There’s the obligatory pool table, and in the centre, there are tables and chairs, many of which are occupied.

The men seated stand as I enter, and the heavy metal music is immediately turned down. I’m the subject of their attention while they wait as if they are a tableau in a painting. I take a deep breath, then another, and then do what any biker does, head straight for the bar.

“Any prospects around here?” I knock on the bar top.

“Yeah. I’m here.” A tall, stout but muscled man pops his head up. “What can I get you?”

“Beer.” I notice his prospect patch as he turns.

“Got your priorities right.” A man comes up to my side. “Make that two, Josh. I’m Crash, by the way. Sergeant-at-arms.” He turns his body slightly. “Twister? Come meet our new member.”

“Hey, pleased to meetcha.” Twister holds out his hand and smirks. “Don’t have to ask who you are, that hair would give you away anywhere.”

I grin. “Yeah, it’s hard to go incognito.”

“You know anyone?” Twister gestures to the prospect that he, too, needs a drink.

I raise my own to my lips, wet my throat, then answer, “Nah. Been a while since the chapters have met. I think I’ve seen you at a ride out—”

“Yeah, that was about twelve months back. Fox was with me. Hey, Fox. C’mere.”

The man I vaguely recognise comes over with his arm around a pretty girl. She’s cute, good figure, but not dressed like a sweet butt. Still, it’s probably the reason she’s here. I let my eyes roam over her.

I feel a sharp pain around the back of my head. “Show some respect,” Fox growls, being the culprit who slapped me. “This ‘ere is my old lady, Tiffany. And keep your fuckin’ eyes to yourself.”

Seems like I should learn how the land lies. “No disrespect meant. Nice to meet you, Tiffany.”

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