Page 22 of Gypsy's Lady
Two hours later, Doug was sweating andcursingas he and another prospect tried to wrestle an enormous karaoke machine into the clubhouse. It had taken him and Slate a solid twenty minutes to wedge it into the bedof the truck and strap it down, but now was taking twice as long to get it through the various doorways and hallway needed to finally make it to the main room.
Another hour passed before things were organized how Slate wanted, andfinally,Doug got the go-ahead to collapse into one of the sofas ringing the room. Cold beer in hand, he watched as several men wandered up to where Slate stood nextto Deke, flipping through the notebook of songs. According to them, this was a mandatory party, which meant Doug couldn’t hole up in his room tonight, no matter how tired he was.
Bingo sank onto the cushion to Doug’s left, pointing with the bottle he held as he grinned at the parade of men making their way between the bar and the music machine. “We haven’t done one of these in a long time. Gladto see Slate and Deke are bringing it all back.” This was another change. Bingo was now a past president, and Slate—fucking Slate who couldn’t seem to shift a truck to save his life—held the office of chapter president. He’d brought in more new members, and a couple of newer prospects who ranked lower than Doug did on the organization tree. Slate had also approved the acquisition of new businesses,one of them a pretty little family-owned bar called Marie’s.
Bingo passed the bottle to Doug who looked at the level, seeing thewhiskeyhad been recently opened. He lifted it and took a swig, thena secondone before passing it back. “Y’all do this a lot?” That would be a surprise, given the parties he’d been allowed to attend back when Winger was part of the club. “I don’t remember a karaokenight ever.”
“Been a while. Winger used to do it for his riding club. They’d bet on songs, drawing titles from a bowl. Always loved watching the guys make fools out of themselves.” Bingo lifted the bottle and drank, then passed it back to Doug. “We’re gonna have a party tonight. One for the books, I reckon.”
Taking a long sip from the mouth of the bottle, Doug settled it between his thighs whilehe drained his beer, setting the empty on the floor beside the couch. Bingo leaned over and bumped Doug’s shoulder as he climbed to his feet. “I’m just gonna go check on how things are going in the kitchen. Ruby’s got the girls cooking.”
“Ruby?” Doug looked up, already feeling effects from thewhiskey,a solidcoal of heat that had settled in his belly. “Want your booze, old man?” He lifted thebottleand rolled his eyes when Bingo waved it off with a broad grin. “Who’s Ruby?”
“Melanie, it’s her new name. She doesn’t seem to hate it, so it’ll probably stick. Keep the bottle, I’ll grab another on my way back from the kitchen. Rest easy, pros. Life is good.” The graybeard lifted one hand as he walked away, and Doug watched as Slate and Hoss eyeballed him, their gazes traveling back andforth between Doug and Bingo until they settled back on Doug with a grin on each face.
“No idea what their thing is.” His muttering was lost under the sound pulsing from the speakers of the music machineandhe lifted the bottle to take another drink.I should eat, he thought with clarity, then slumped farther into the cushions, exhaustion and thewhiskeyworking together to relax his muscles.Later.
***
Doug stared at the bowl suspended in front of him, squinting one eye to try and bring it into focus. Littered across the curved bottom were small, folded pieces of paper. “One of those fuckers is hiding my downfall.”
That’s what he tried to say, maybe eventhoughthe had. Later, when he watched the video posted to the chapter’s private group, he would know it came out more like, “Ondosefukerhid me.”
He bent his fingers, scrabbling across the slick surface, chasing the largest piece of paper. Either it would have the longest song title in history written onitor would be written large enough he might actually stand a chance of reading it.Maybe.
Probably not.
Eventually,the paper gave up the ghost,andhe captured it, trapping it between thumb and finger to draw itout and place it on top of the table next to the karaoke machine. He bent at the waist so quickly stopping wasn’t possible, and an instant later, his forehead bounced off the table, recoiling him back upright as fast as he’d folded in half. “Ow.”
Laughter burst loudly from everywhere,andDoug looked around to see a ring of grinning men staring at him. “I love you. My brothers.” He grabbed thepaper and tried to read it, closing one eye and squinting the other.
“Jesus, someone gonnatellhim what he’s singing?” Doug twisted to look at Slate, careful to keep one hand on the edge of the table as an anchor. “Tell him, Bingo. This is your gig, brother. Who’s he singing?”
Bingo stepped forwards and plucked the paper from Doug’s fist, unfolding and smoothing it flat. “Cher.”
A cheer soundednear the back of the room, then someone asked, “Which song?”
Bingo grinned, holding the paper like a flag, waving it back and forth. “He’s gonna sing about being a tramp.”
More cheers from over by the bar as Deke bent down beside the console, digging through a box filled with props that came with the karaoke setup. He straightenedandthere was a round of loud laughter as he brought a long,dark wig into view. He flipped the wig around, shaking it out until it hung straight in his hands, then ran a strand through his fingers. “Gentlemen, we gotta set the stage.” Doug reeled for a moment, nearly losing his balance before clamping the edge of the table with his other hand, barely able to steady himself. Deke reached over,andDoug felt him put the wig on his head, his hands comingback into view as he took a moment to arrange the long hanks of hair around Doug’s face. “There ya go, brother. You’re ready.” A microphone appearedandDoug grabbed for it, taking three swipes before someone steadied his elbow, wedging the device into his hand.
“I am ready.” He closed his eyes, listening to the familiar strains of Cher’s once-popular song rolling through the room. It had beenone of his mother’s favorite songs, and he’dsungalong with her so often, he didn’t need to read the lyric prompts, lifting the microphone and falling quickly into the song. The catcalls and shouts of laughter didn’t fade, and he opened one eye to see the room filled wall-to-wall, all faces he knew and respected. Near the center front was Mason. “Prez,” he interrupted himself, “I didn’t knowyou were here.”
“Yet here I am, motherfucker. Now sing, dammit. I love this song.” Mason dipped his chin and leaned one shoulder against Slate, making it clear he was waiting.
“My momma did,too,” Doug told him with a nod, then used a hand to flip a heavy strand of hair over his shoulder. Laughter swelled louder at his actionsandhe grinned. Doug propped one hand on a hip and swayed in place,significantly more sober now than he had been even five minutes ago. “Here we go.” With that, he launched back into the song, catching up at the chorus, not at all surprised when several voices raucously joined in.
At the finale, he threw back his head, reaching up to clutch at the wig and hold it in place as he ended the song, microphone suspended over his mouth. Straightening, he looked outat the faces grinning up at him. Here. This was where he should have been all along.My brothers.
Mason stepped up to stand beside Doug, wrapping an armaroundhis shoulders. “What do you say? He a fuckin’ Rebel?” Jumbled shouts filled the air, followed by a forest of closed fists. Slowly, one by one, the movements led by Slate, upturned thumbs began appearing in place of the fists. About halfwaythrough theprocess,Doug realized what was happeningandhe stiffened, suddenly afraid of what the outcome could be. Mason’s hand gave his shoulder a squeeze as he waited patiently until every vote was revealed. “So voted. As his sponsor”—anothersqueeze—“I claim the right to hand him his colors. But before we do, I’m gonna wanna hear it, brothers. Rebels forever”—louder than anything else tonight,the words rang outasa hundred voices lifted in unison—“forever Rebels.”
Mason pulled Doug into a clinch, pounding the center of his back. “Naked ain’t a good look for you, brother. Let’s fix that, shall we?” A moment later the club’s prospect vest had been stripped from Doug’s shoulders, replaced by a new one whichfitas if it were tailored especiallyfor him. Looking down, Doug saw the expecteddiamond patch low on the front panel, but just over the vest pocket was a piece of tape. He stared at it, trying to make out the word written in black marker, but was still befuddled enough by thewhiskeythat the upside-down letters didn’t make sense.
“What’s my name?”
“It’s right there, man. Can’t you see it?”
Doug shook his head at Mason, then twisted his neck the other direction.
“Fuckme, he’s wasted.”
He nodded, the room swinging and dipping with the movement. “It’s all Bingo’s fault. He’s thewhiskeyman.” He scraped at the tape with his thumbnail, trying to work it loose, stilling when Mason’s hand settled on top of his. Looking up, he realized Mason and Slate were on either side of him,andsomehow, they’d been magically transported to the hallway outside his room. “Hey.How’d we get here?”
Rolling his eyes, Slate took the tape from the vest and smoothed it on the wood of the door like a label. Doug finally got a good look at the word written on the white strip,andhe stared.
“We’ll get your name stitched upandyou can get someone to sew it on. I think you’ve earned the moniker a hundred times over tonight.” Mason gave him a shake and Doug looked around, staringinto the face of one of the most honorable men he’d ever known. “Welcome, brother. Welcome.”
Gypsy.
