Page 7 of Gotta Dig Deep
“Dammit.” He thrust a hand through his hair. “Shoulda stopped drinkin’ hours ago.” Pointing at Blackie, he faked an angry look. “It’s all your fault.”
“Yeah, yeah. I got broad shoulders. Dump it on me, I can take it. Why should you have passed on the beers, brother? Got a hot date in the morning you need to be fresh for?” Blackie scooped up what was left of Horse’s beer and drained it, tipping his head to the ceiling to release a loud belch that earned laughter from the men to either side. Closing one eye, he squinted at Horse with the other. “Something this kind of fellowship is gonna keep you from?”
“No, man. Just my tent is already up at the campground, which means I need to ride my ass back outside of town.” He looked around. “Anyone see Junkyard? He was just at the bar.”
“Yeah, he was just at the bar a couple hours ago. When Laura’s shift was over, he left with her. Came over to check on you.” Grinning widely, Blackie made a hole with one hand and poked through it with a finger on the other. “Figure about now he’s sleeping the sleep of the righteous, or at least the well laid.”
“Oh yeah.” He sighed, the foggy memory sliding through his mind and out again. “I still need to sober up and get to the campground.”
“Nah.” Blackie slung an arm around Horse’s neck, the unevenness in their height pulling Horse down slightly. “Clubhouse is a block away. You can catch a few Z’s on a cot there. Dale,” he called over his shoulder and Horse saw a younger man look their way. He wore a vest labeled Prospect, but Horse had noticed Blackie treated him with grateful respect all night, even as he demanded the kid be the runner for their party. “Dale boy, you’re gonna help Horse here walk his bike back to the lot behind the house. We’ll keep ’er safe for the man tonight.”
“I can—”
“Dale boy’s happy to help.” Blackie’s tone left nothing to argue about. “Trust us, brother.”
“Brother.” Pursing his lips, Horse didn’t try to hide how that word resonated. “Like the sound of that, man.”
“No doubt. We’ll see how things shake out in the morning, but that gelling I mentioned earlier is pretty much undeniable. You might as well have been a Rider all your life, the way you fit in with us.” Steering Horse to the front door, Blackie called his men for their departure with a loud “Freed Riders—to me.”
They burst through the door, men flooding out in front of Horse and Blackie, but there were men at their back too. All laughter died away instantly, and Horse tensed, the heaviness of the atmosphere immediately apparent.
Eight men stood in a line across the parking lot. They wore a mishmash of clothing, nothing to indicate they were together other than their shared stance. Hands on waists or hips, shoulders shoved back, they posed without moving. All of them stared at Blackie. The arm around Horse’s neck tightened and Blackie whispered a soft, “Follow our lead, brother,” just before the support was removed.
“Roscoe. The fuck you doin’ back in little ole Longview?” Blackie strode between his men who’d exited the bar first, placing himself directly in front of their group. His attention was on a man standing at the center of the line facing them. “Thought you and me finally had ourselves an understanding.”
“I’m thinkin’ we need to rework that understanding.” Roscoe gestured to the men on either side of him. “Boys ’n me decided we needed to expand our territory.”
“There is so much wrong in that statement, I’m not sure where to start.” Blackie’s head swung side to side, but Horse noticed he didn’t move it enough to break the stare he held with Roscoe. “You decide to follow a patch, I done told you we could have a chat about the FRMC absorbing most of your shitty-ass RC.” He spat on the gravel, the action obviously calculated to rile the men, so Horse took note of which ones reacted. “Wouldn’t be takin’ your raggedy ass on, though. Ain’t nothing changed from a month ago, when I beat your face in on the edge of town, or from six months ago when I beat your skanky ass in the front yard of my house. FRMC don’t need ignorant shitslingers like you.”
“Not sure you get to make that call anymore, old man.” Roscoe took a step forwards, and another, and then the line of men began moving. They were like an arrow, with Roscoe on point. “Gonna have to go down here, find out who’s standin’ at the end of it all.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Blackie half turned back to his group. “You hear his brand of bullshit, boys? He’s thinking we’re gonna have to deal with them, and I guess any asshole can be right once in a while. As much as I’d rather go back to the clubhouse and let you all find a sweetbottom to make your dicks happy, we’re gonna have to fuck them up. Shitfire.”
Without a signal Horse could see or hear, Blackie had whirled and was running flat out within a single stride. He wasn’t alone, every man on their side of the parking lot were moving with him. Within a few breaths, Horse stood alone, uncertainty keeping his feet planted.
This was not his fight, so he waited and watched as blows were exchanged, heavy cries and grunts breaking the sound of flesh hitting flesh. Most of the matches were unevenly paired, but even with the advantage, he could see no one on Blackie’s side was actively looking to kill their opponent. This was clearly intended to be a painful lesson from the Freed Riders to the upstart idiots attempting a coup.
Until Roscoe pulled out a gun.
Up to that instant it had been a fair battle, fist-to-fist, no weapons.
Roscoe’s hand came out from the small of his back with a pistol in his palm, and before he could plan or even decide what he was doing, Horse was sprinting across the yards to where the man fought against Blackie. Horse hit Roscoe full force, knocking him sideways and earning a misthrown fist against his jaw from Blackie. Didn’t matter, because the asshole was underneath Horse, flat on his back, gun chucked to the ground only a couple of feet away.
Horse marked the moment Blackie saw it, his full body tensing. He stared at the man to watch as a mask of rage come over Blackie’s features, mottled red and twisted.
“Planned this out, did ya?” Pulling back one foot, Blackie let fly, the kick landing solidly along Roscoe’s flank. The man under Horse barked out a cry, short and shocked sounding. “Gonna go for a headshot, take out the leader, then you probably thought you’d step in.” His booted foot connected with the meaty portion of Roscoe’s thigh this time. “Fucking cuntmuffin. Can’t stand spoiled asses like yours.”
Horse realized the rest of the battle had ended abruptly, men encircling the two at the center of everything. Before Roscoe could seek out the gun, Horse rose and walked over to step on top of it, his weight holding it to the ground. No reason to lay a hand on it, especially not knowing what the weapon might have been used for before now.
“Let me up.” Roscoe attempted to roll to his hands and knees as Blackie landed another hard kick, this against the man’s hip, the heel of the boot catching and flinging the man sprawling to the side. “Fuck, man, stop it.”
“You. Were going. To shoot. Me.” Grunts punctuated the words, coinciding with each kick Blackie let fly. “I should fuckin’ kill you, but I won’t.” More kicks. “Because I’m. Fucking better. Than you could. Ever be.”
Panting heavily, Blackie stepped backwards, fists clenched at his sides. Roscoe writhed on the gravel, groaning out curse after curse. Surprised, Horse marked that the only blows to his face were from knuckles, marks made during the first part of the altercation. He appreciated that kind of control required, and how even in an extreme rage, Blackie seemed to keep his head about him.
Cool hand. Good man to have at your back.
“You’re done here.” Blunt features sharpened with a heavy scowl, Blackie scanned the men surrounding them. “And if the rest of you all retain any slim association with this dicktastic piece of humanity, you’re done all around here too. I’ll be certain you won’t get a patch all through Texas. No fuckin’ where. No fuckin’ way,” he shouted, leaning at the waist. “And if you think I don’t have that kinda pull, then you need to think again, dillweeds. Motherfucker. God, I fuckin’ hate shitheels like you. Cannot abide, man. Cannot abide.” He pulled his foot back, but as Blackie’s gaze snagged on Horse, he planted both feet and straightened, flinging his hair back and running a hand through the disheveled mane. “Now this man? That’s a fuckin’ keeper, standin’ right here in front of me.” His foot lifted again, and Horse fought against a wince, expecting the heavy thud of leather meeting flesh. “The difference between the two of you couldn’t be clearer if I could shine a fuckin’ spotlight on it. Son of a fucking bitch, you might just be better than handy to have around, Horse.” Instead of kicking Roscoe, Blackie stepped onto his chest, then off the other side towards Horse, ignoring the pained cry from the man lying on the ground. “Brother.” Hand outthrust, Horse didn’t make him wait, clasping and matching Blackie’s grip strength to strength. “Was thinkin’ of keepin’ you, and that shit’s a done deal now. Owe you my life.”
