Page 3 of T-Bone
This four-day weekend was about to be a fucking shit show. I liked a good gathering of bikers because it always meant a good time. But it also meant a lot of drunken brawls, which I was always down for and luckily for me it was my job to bust head. Technically, it was to break up fights, but inevitably some drunk asshole who I just prevented from fighting withanotherdrunk asshole would want to pick a fight with me. It was always a big mistake.
Not to brag but I’m big as fuck, six and a half feet tall and packing nearly three hundred pounds of hard-earned muscle. Not only that but I was a trained fighter, and I loved throwing hands. I didn’t walk away from boxing because I hated it, but I had my reasons.
I held my fists up these days to protect my MC, my brothers and their families and myself. That was it, which meant I’d probably bust a few heads over the next four days.
“T-Bone,” Diesel barked my name and a few of my brothers laughed under their breath.
I looked up, first at Diesel and then around the room. It was clear that I had zoned out and was missing something. “Yeah, what’s up?”
“Am I boring you,” Diesel asked and folded his arms.
“Nope,” I lied and folded my arms to match him. I was newly patched along with my best friend Pike, and our third stooge, Falcon, which meant it was too fuckin’ early to lose interest.
“Really? Because this shit’s got me bored as fuck and ready for the weekend to be over.”
“I was just thinking about how many assholes I’d have to put down this weekend.”
Rebel snickered. “They always want to fight the biggest, baddest fucker around. Prison rules even on the outside,” he shook his head.
Diesel nodded his understanding though he flicked me another gaze that said he knew I was full of shit. “Everybody get back here early as fuck tomorrow. Eight-thirty. Any stragglers will spend the whole fucking weekend haulin’ trash.”
Grumbles sounded all around the table when church finally ended, and we quickly filtered out of the room. Pike and Falcon joined me, and we walked through the clubhouse until we were outside in the parking lot. The midday sun was instantly hot and bright.
“Why the fuck is everybody shittin’ on the rally? It sounds like a damn good time to me.” Falcon rubbed his hands together, smiling like an evil villain. “You know how many biker bitches are gonna show up?”
Pike rolled his eyes. “You got pussy on the brain, brother.”
Falcon shrugged, his smile was unapologetic. “What the fuck else is there? I think of the MC and my brothers when the time is right.” He smacked my arm to get me to agree with him. “You know what I’m talkin’ about T-Bone, bitches are always trying to climb your big ass.”
It wasn’t a lie, I had no problems landing a woman when I wanted one. The real problem was that most women who wanted a biker were looking to become an old lady. I wasn’t in the market for old lady, not yet, maybe not ever. “Yeah, but you’re a straight up pussy hound. No judgment.”
“Speakin’ of pussy,” he began with a wide smile. “I gotta meet up with Minka before her shift tonight.” His newest flavor was a stripper with big tits and two full sleeves of ink, plusseveral piercings. She was hot and didn’t take his shit, which was just Falcon’s type.
“Whoa,” Pike joked. “This is what, the third or fourth time you’ve hung out with the stripper, right?”
Falcon raised his eyebrows. “You got something against strippers?”
“Nope. Neither do you,” he joked.
I listened to them give each other shit while my mind wandered. Getting patched was another achievement I never thought I’d experience in this life because people like me didn’t get the chance to make something of themselves. After our parents abandoned us, my older sister took me in and raised me until she died and then it was just me all alone, at the mercy of the Minnesota foster care system.
Fighting in foster care was what led me to boxing, but these days I only fought to protect what I loved—my MC and my brothers—instead of lining the pockets of snakes who didn’t give a fuck about me. I wear my vest with pride, knowing it was two years of hell that finally got me a seat at the table and the patches on my back.
“All right boys, see you in the morning.” Falcon backed away and waved with a shit-eating grin on his face.
“If you’re late, you’re hauling shit. Don’t forget,” Pike called out as he pulled out a cigarette and lit it before he turned to me. “Okay man, what the fuck is on your mind?”
I shook my head because I hadn’t processed it yet. My mind was on that fucking letter that had arrived yesterday. I read it and re-read it a thousand times, hoping that the next read would change the contents of the letter. Spoiler alert: it didn’t change shit.
“I’ll wait you out,” he said, the way any annoying best friend would.
“I got a letter from the parole board. About Steve Martin.”
“The motherfucker who killed Alina?”
I nodded. Pike was the only one who knew the whole story of my older sister. Alina was a bright splash of life, an artist, a hippie, a kindhearted woman with terrible taste in men, culminating in her relationship with Steve Martin who beat her to death. “Yeah. He’s up for parole in a few weeks, wanted to know if I wanted to speak to the board.”
“You do,” he insisted. “Of course you do. Don’t you?” His brows dipped into a frown, confusion written all over his face. “T-Bone, man, what the fuck?”
