Page 19 of Gypsy's Lady
Prospecting
Doug hit the floor of the bar and rolled instinctively, knowing this for the right move when the toe of the man’s boot barely grazed his ribs instead of connecting.
“Fuckin’ prospect, get a goddamned move on your ass. Run, don’t walk, because you don’t drink with members when there’re bikes to watch. Ass to the lot, scrub.”
The shouted words followedas his movement ended with him on one knee, back against the leg of a pool table. He stared at the Rebel Wayfarers member towering over him. Not a man he knew, but based on the sneer plastered across his face, this member clearly had heard about Doug. Chewing on the inside of his lip, opening already raw wounds from his efforts to keep his mouth shut, Doug nodded and surged to his feet, careful tokeep a respectful distance between him and the man.
Whispered and not-so-quiet conversations rose around him as he made his way across the room and through the door behind the bar. He’d learned the first day in Chicago that prospects came and went via the back of whatever building they were at, and today it worked to his benefit when the bartender handed him a bottle of water to take with him.High summer in Chicago was hot as hades, and with clear instructions from a patch holder to stay outside until relieved of the prospect-duty of securing any Rebel vehicles, he likely wouldn’t be back inside for hours.
“You’re doing good, Tatum,” Merry said as she held the door for him. She’d worked for Mason for a long time, and along with her husband, had even owned the bar at one time. If anyoneknew the ins-and-outs of the place, it was her. “Chin up, son.”
He’d known there’d be a probationary period, and Mason had warned it would likely be a challenge. Doug hadn’t expected anythinglessand thought he’d been prepared for it.Not by a long shot, he thought, snorting as he took up the prospects’ customary position leaning against a pole near the corner of the parking lot to the southof the building. From thislocation,he had a clear range of vision which encompassed the entire lot and the back alley of the bar, and panes of glass across the street granted a reflected view of the front door. Mostly the idea seemed to be for whoever was on duty to be serving histime,because nothing ever happened at the club-owned bar. Other clubs came and went by invitation or design, butalways respectfully. No one in the neighborhood would be stupid enough to trash a member’s bike, and cops in the district stayed clear of the property.
So far being a prospect was even more boring than the classrooms at the academy had been.Not that I’m looking for excitement. He shook his head as he bent and placed the water at his feet. But he hadn’t expected how distant non-members like prospectswere kept from everything. Back in Fort Wayne, it felt like Winger had pulled him into far more club business than he’d even caughtscentof here in Chicago.Tugboathad tried to explain a couple of weeks ago, after asking how it was going and getting a carefully couched complaint in response.
“Winger likely overstepped, son. It’s good you knew you didn’t belong in the clubhouse without an invitation,but you being a cop? That invitation shouldn’t have ever been issued. Pulling you into club runs? That’s shit, too. So instead of looking at those experiences as your norm, just accept you got a decent glimpse into theinner workingsmosthangaroundsand prospects never get. Let the desire for a position in the insider circle burn in your gut and keep you on the straight and narrow, because there’llbe times, and lots of ‘em, where you’ll be thinking this ain’t worth it.” Tug grinned. “At least you know what you’re working for.”
These days when he rode his bike with the club, it was at the back of the pack, and then only on casual runs. Mostly he ran errands and did mind-numbing shit like this. He hadn’t even seen Mason since the first day intown,when they’d dropped him at the clubhouseand told a thin brunette to assign him a room. She’d introduced herself as Tawny and directed him upstairs where he’d been offered a surprisingly large, furnished room.Tugboathad knocked a few minutes later and upon entering had thrown him a well-worn, too-large vest with the prospect rocker across the top of the back panel. “Re-lace the sidessoit fits,” was all Tug had said before closingthe door. He’d immediately reopened it and leaned in to offer advice, “If you don’t want whores in your bed, lock the door.”
The truth of his statement had been apparent the samenight,when Doug had woken to a feminine form creeping into his bed. Once he’d carefully explained to Tawny he wasn’t interested in sampling her wares, she’d curled into his side and fallen asleep.The sameplace she’dslept for the past two months, sometimes coming in later than others, and more than once reeking of sex, it seemed she’d determined his bed was a safe place to land.
They didn’t talk outside offhand conversations in the kitchen or the main room, and if the members assumed he was fucking her, he didn’t care. She wasn’t a nuisance and took up so little room he wasn’t bothered by her sharing thebed. The couple of times he had brought a woman back to the clubhouse, Tawny had made herself scarce. Once he was alone again, she’d sidled in to reclaim her spot without a word spoken.I’m sure she’s got a story, he thought, scoffing again.Don’t we all.
There’d been no fallout fromVogelgoing missing.No falloutabout anything. Doug had waited a month before putting in his resignation, followingMason’s recommendation. It was smart to create a separation from what happened in his apartment and making such a major change in his life. The break had also given him time to sort out the apartment with new flooring and paint, also weeks after the event.
When he announced to the squad room he was leaving, it had stung how few people seemed to give a shit. But, on the flip side, after talkingto his friends in the MC at Winger’s funeral, it had also been gratifying how accepting and excited they were to hear he’d be jumping ship and coming over to their side. More than one had warned him he’d be fighting an uphill battle to convince members who didn’t know him that a one-time cop could be a real member of an outlaw club.I just didn’t think it’d be this tough.
He watched in the reflectionas the front door swung open. Doug counted five men walking out of Jackson’s, all wearing black vests, but from thisdistance,he couldn’t make out faces or patches. While inside, he’d marked the presence of four clubsnotRWMC, which meant these men could be anyone. Still, a worrisome thread of certainty spooled in his belly because something was familiar about how the man in the lead moved,his stride more a strut. As the group drew closer, the sigh that escaped him was heavy and resigned.
It was Pike, the same man who’d run him out of the bar to watch the lot, and president of the St. Louis chapter.
Doug’s spine straightened, pushing his shoulders back in anticipation of what was coming. Pike didn’t look left or right, heading directly across the parking lot to where Doug hadpositioned himself. He got close, well inside any window of polite personal space, so close Doug could feel the heat radiatingfromhim. The other men fanned out around them, and he gave up trying to keep everyone in view.Instead,he focused on Pike, letting his gaze drift across the man’s face, watching with some surprise when a droplet of sweat rolled from Pike’s hairline and down his temple.The man’s nostrils flared as he sucked in a breath, and that was all the warning given before it began.
Doug staggered sideways from a blow against his ribs, dancing out of range only to be shoved from behind and into the fist of another man. In moments, he found himself on his hands and knees, blood drooling out of one corner of his mouth as he struggled to regain his breath. It seemed Pikehad a problem with a direct stare, and his officers were on Doug in an instant with only one word from the man, “Respect.”
As Doug was a prospect, Pike knew he couldn’t hit back, physically or verbally, no matter the provocation. Knew all Doug was allowed to say was a form of “yes,” or “no,” with the required honorific only being left off at the prospect’s ill-advised read of any given situation.It was better to accept every response needed to be followedby“patch holder” just like every answer to his instructors at the academy had needed to be preceded or followed by “sir.”
Pike didn’t give a shit.
“Hold him, dammit.” Words huffed against the side of Doug’s face when he surged back to his feet, trying to ignore the bitter blood pooling in his mouth as he towered over Pike. Hands grippedhis wrists,andhe remindedhimself not to struggle, not to give away how uneasy he was about every one of these encounters. Part of it was a test ofconfidence,because the RWMC members had to know he trusted them with his life, would put his body in their hands willingly, believing they’d have his back. Harder to do than say, especially when his traitorous brain flashed back to the brutal strugglewithVogel, a man hehadtrusted, and who had come to his apartment intent on killing him.
“God damn it.” A pained grunt told him he hadn’t kept his elbows to himself, and he took the hit to the side of his head and braced, knowing more consequences would follow. “Hold his fucking ass.” Before long, he was back on his hands and knees, back bowed as he arched away from the pain in his stomach,throbbing from repeated blows.Fuck.
The world shifted, pavement swapping spots with the wires crossing pole-to-pole overhead, then shifted again giving him a sideways, close-up view of black tar used to fill cracks in the lot. He blinked, his brain trying to make sense of what he saw. For a briefmoment,he imagined there were boots, a dozen of them at least, running towards him and dodgingaround motorcycles parked here and there.Then he was on his back as a hand twisted in the shirt at his neck and he tried to bring his arms up—too slow, he screamed at himself to move faster—attempting to block the blow he saw coming, Pike’s fist large as a ham at the end of a blurry arm, rings glinting in the blinding light from overhead.
Doug came back to himself slowly, the ache in his chestthe first thing to make itself known. The pinch and stab of pain with every breath telling him he had at least one broken rib. Ears ringing, he was having a hard time sorting out noises nearby. The pounding in his head made every pump of his heart a pain-filled thing to endure. Tentatively shifting his jaw side to side, Doug was relieved when it didn’t seem broken, every tooth traced by the tipof his tongue still intact. He swiped at his lips, tongue gathering and spreading warm liquid and Doug grimaced at the taste, wincing when the movement shot more pain through his face.
A sudden shout made him open his eyesandhe squinted up into the security lights, at least two voices he recognized coming into quick focus. Red, a long-time RWMC member he’d come to respect, and Tugboat. He wouldhave been hard-pressed to hide the relief he felt when his gaze landed on Tug’s back and realized the man was standing between him and whoever was on the receiving end of the loud tirade the old man had going on. Red stood at Doug’s side, handslooseand easy at his sides, his gaze sweeping the little group standing at the back of the man who had to be Pike.
Biting back a curse, Doug groanedand rolled to his knees, head feeling like a thousand pounds of packed sand balanced at the top of his neck. Ass resting on his heels, he waited until he was sure he wouldn’t fall over before trying and failing to get his feet under him. He blinkedandhis lashes stuck together, pulling apart with effort. Fingers to his brow, it was the work of only a moment to find and explore the deep gash overone eye. He struggled to get a knee under him and pushed to his feet, weaving for a moment before going back down to the pavement with a groan.
While he’d been trying to get himself upright, Tugboat had continued to argue with Pike, his words washing over Doug in scattered pieces. “Took it too far this time, Pike. Man’s working to earn his place and we respect what we know, what we see, and whatwe learn about him from his actions. Not his words, but I doubt we’ll see anything there when Myron rewinds the tapes. You’ve been gunning for him since you heard the news, and here you are, not even in your own territory and you’re pulling some kind of shit. Do you want to get your ass handed to you? Because this seems to be how that’s gonna be happening, once Mason gets here.”
As if his mentionof the man had conjured him, Doug heard Mason’s voice come from the dark, his tone rough and angry. “Pike, you’ll come to me, motherfucker.” Doug cautiously looked around the group, seeing Mason standing alone at the edge of the light shining down from a nearby pole. “I ain’t hauling my ass over there to stand in blood spilled by a traitor.” Doug’s gut clenched, rolling in a nauseating way, andhis throat tightened hard as he swallowed around a ball of disappointment stuck there.I’m no traitor, he wanted to shout, but couldn’t get even a word out in his defense.
“Glad you at least see sense, Mason,” Pike said as he turned, making even that small movement look like a swagger. “Not sure why you pulled this POS into the prospect path, but it’s not too late to make it like this shit neverhappened.”
“I see once again you misunderstand me.” Mason’s head tipped to one side, arms coming up to fold across his broad chest. “Makes me wonder how this bullshit always seems to happenwithyou. I ain’t talkin’ about Tatum, you stupid,stupidmotherfucker.”
