Page 51 of Preacher Man

“Yeah,” he answered belatedly, throwing his leg over the Yamaha XVS1300 Custom, kick-starting her into a gurgle that sounded more like a bad case of whooping cough. She was a thing of beauty, the exterior was still in excellent condition, but some joker had ridden her into exhaustion. He revved it one more time, listening to the distinct noise. If he had half of Red Light’s skills with engines he could probably diagnose what was wrong just from that sound. Instead, Preacher went about taking the baby apart.

“I can tag along if you want? Rider would probably clear me for a few days.”

“Fighting all my battles?” Preacher looked over. Grinder was the only one he’d told of the animosity he’d faced from Red Light the last trip. “I’m good, but thanks, bro. Not gonna be gone long. Long enough to sort whatever shit H has for me this time. The man needs to learn to delegate to his own lazy crew.”

“The offer is there.”

Preacher appreciated it, but he’d go to Nebraska alone.

Grinder was his boy. His best bud and they were complete opposites in everything but they both had wanted to belong to something. After Preacher had been discharged from the army with highest honors for killing a score of the enemy, feeling none of the honor and all of the survivors guilt, he'd wandered aimlessly suffering from nightmares almost to the point of madness, it came close, too close to losing his mind, he dropped off the face of the earth, ignoring all attempts by his family, he couldn't deal with their pity, worse, the blame, it choked him most nights and it was on one of those nights he'd stumbled into a bar, drank his weight in whatever his money could buy and it was there he found Grinder. Or Grinder had found him.

Five years ago.

"That your hog outside?"

The question came from the right of him. Ash moved his arm to look up at a tall, dark short-haired bearded man wearing all black and a pair of shades tucked into the neckline of his T-shirt.

He couldn’t even remember what state he was in, let alone the city, the last one was Delaware, maybe. Or was that last week? It didn’t matter, they all looked the same from inside a beer bottle.

"What gave it away, my leather jacket, the biker rings or sparkly nature?" He slurred smiling. Ash was never a nasty drunk if anything he became friendlier, but that was the last thing he wanted to be now, he kept to himself and liked it that way, he had too much hollow in his chest to deal with letting people in with conversations and their general nosiness that gravitate them towards Ash like flies around shit. Him being the shit in that equation. He took a slug of his beer and found it empty, frowning, shoulders hunched, he called down to the barman "Yo, Preston, my man, hit me again and bring one for my friend here."

"You know his name is Kane, right?" smirked the smartass guy straddling the stool one down from him. Ash shrugged a big shoulder. Who cared, he looked like a Preston and the guy never corrected him. Names weren't important. He'd been a rank for a long-ass time; Lieutenant Colonel of the United States army. Now he had no idea where he fit in.He was nothing.

Roaming and getting lost while he did it. Maybe if he got so lost he'd forget about himself, he'd get so lost he'd forget where he was, who he was, what he'd done, but until then he'd ride and he'd drink. The life suited Ash. The peace would come, maybe. In time. It had to if he kept chasing.

“You got a name?” He asked his bar friend. Passing over a twenty to Preston, nix that, Kane, the fucker still looked like a Preston, maybe he knew a Preston and he'd just forgotten. Ash pulled the bowl of roasted nuts towards him, tossing a fist full into his mouth, the food hit his stomach harder than the beer did, reminding Ash he hadn’t eaten since the pizza last night. This bar was as good as any, it had what he'd needed, some down time, loud music and the beer was okay. He’d stopped because of the row of motorcycles parked outside. It was noisy, rowdy and it afforded him the shelter from his own background noise. A few years on the road was a long time with just his own company, some days he forgot how to hold a conversation. He stopped when he wanted to, slept when he absolutely needed it and he fucked as often as he could with bar bitches along his journey, never stopped in one place longer than two-three nights. Keep moving. Outrunning his demons.

PTSD the military doctors said. That was the correct term, people always wanting labels so they could feel better about something. It didn't matter if it was cancer, long as it had a fucking name, didn’t matter that he was screwed in the head now, PTSD the doctors said and put it right there on his medical records. What did they know? Let them see their brother blown to pieces and see how they coped, Ash was doing the best he could at the bottom of a bottle and the doctors could go fuck themselves.

“They call me Grinder.”

“I’m sure there’s a story there.” He smirked passing along a bottle and toasting his new friend before giving his attention back to what was important; being alone.

“And you?”

“Asher Priest.” No one had used his name in eight months six days. The last time he spoke to his father. His mom’s birthday was coming up, he should call home. Taking a long pull of the cold brew, he jutted his stubble chin. “The jacket, you in an MC?”

“Yeah. The Renegade Souls.”

“Hm.”

Maybe the noise sounded judgemental because the guy narrowed his eyes and asked “What?”

“Nothing, man.” Ash shrugged. “Just heard things about them on my travels is all.”

Not all good. Not any good. Downright bad if he was truthful. That was the thing with biker bars, the fuckers gossiped and the Renegade Souls were on a lot of tongues about the shake up and Rex the president who if rumors were believed was about as worse an MC president as Bush was for America.

The guy grimaced and hunched his shoulders over his beer, both facing forward, but his head turned a minute later. “Yeah. Used to be bad. Out with the old, in with the new, you know.”

Out with the old. That’s how he’d felt the day the army had kicked him out. Not that they called it that, it amounted to the same, they couldn’t use his killer services anymore, he was too much of a liability,but thanks for killing a bunch of people for us.Fuckers.

“Looking to join a club? It’s a sweet ride you got outside, a ‘78 right?”

He nodded. “Nope. Clubs ain’t for me. I’m not a team player.” Anymore.

“You look like shit, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Get the balls on this one, Ash thought, squinting at both of them. Wait. There was only one a minute again. He blinked and the image merged back into one guy,there you are, fucker.

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