Page 3 of Crow's Haven
“But other kids got mommies.” After a slight pause he states reasonably, “We see ‘em at the park. They try to keep us from climbing the rock wall.”
Scout rolls his eyes and mutters, “It’s because they’re sissies. We don’t need no stinking mommies telling us what to do.”
Chase frowns, not quite satisfied but knowing the answer won’t change.
“Your brother’s got the right idea, little man. You got me, and you got the club. Family ain’t always blood. It’s the ones who stick around. That’s what matters.”
The boys smile, reassured for now.
I wipe up a smear of syrup off the floor. The clock is ticking, and we need to get on with our day. After the cleaning up, the getting ready chaos starts.
Chase is hunting for his missing socks instead of getting a clean pair out of the drawer. Chase puts his clean shirt on backwards, but when I flip it around, he makes a goofy face in the mirror, pretending to be some fierce biker outlaw.
Shoes? We have to hunt them down. I shake my head, smiling as I toss them their jackets and helmets.
“Alright, little riders, let’s hit the road.”
They race out the door, laughter echoing down the hall. And that’s just how I like it.
We rush into the garage, and right there, gleaming under the overhead lighting, is the sidecar. It’s fresh from the shop and looking like a damn work of art. The paint’s new, vibrant, and the brothers didn’t cut any corners when they painted it. It has a sprawling forest scene wrapping around the curved metalwith wolves prowling along the edges, their eyes sharp and wild. Sleek motorcycles move across the background, kicking up dust in their wake. It’s the kind of paint job that turns heads at every stoplight, and my boys’ eyes are wide with awe.
Scout and Chase bounce excitedly around it, poking at the wolves and tracing the painted bikes with their fingers. “Dad, look! That wolf’s got flames on its tail!” Chase shouts, excitedly.
Scout leans in close, squinting. “That’s the meanest wolf I’ve ever seen.”
I kneel and put each of them inside the sidecar in turn and squat down to strap them in with the safety harnesses, making sure each clip snaps tight.
“Alright, little outlaws, helmets on,” I say, handing each a snug, worn-in helmet. Their helmets have seen more miles than most weekend riders.
“Safety first. Let’s get those helmets strapped down snug.”
They pull the helmets down, the quick slide and click making everything feel official. I catch Scout grinning at me through the visor. “Ready to ride, boss?”
“Always, Sprocket,” I say, getting onto my bike and putting on my own helmet. I grin, revving the engine softly, causing the sidecar to vibrate a bit.
***
The sight of the bike and sidecar turns heads long before we pull into the Savage Legion clubhouse parking lot. Scout and Chase are practically vibrating with excitement.
“Look, Dad! There’s Levi!” Chase shouts, waving wildly at a tall, lanky prospect unloading paint cans from a beat-up truck.
Scout’s already jumping out, sprinting towards a cluster of prospects who are setting up ladders and drop cloths by the patio. “Hey, Evan! Tank!” he calls out, the boys’ voices ringingout with excitement. Tank squats down to give him a high five and welcome him to the painting party.
Most of the prospects nod or grin, greeting the twins with the kind of easy familiarity reserved for family. Rigs is there, working side by side with Evan.
I walk up beside Tank. “Morning, brother,” I say as I touch the top of Scout’s head. Chase walks beside Levi, nearly tripping over his own feet in his rush to get started.
Tank claps me on the shoulder with a grin. “You’re late,” he jokes, “but these two look like a handful.”
I chuckle, wiping sweat from my brow. “Yeah, they run me ragged every damn day. Thanks for getting me into the renovation business, by the way. Wouldn’t be where I am without you.”
He shrugs, “It ain’t easy money but you get to set your own hours and sweat equity pays well.”
The boys are already bouncing around, saying hi to familiar faces and trying to find a paintbrush that fits into their little hands comfortably.
I watch them for a moment, liking the easy way they interact with the prospects and my club brothers. It makes me feel even more strongly that this club is where we belong. My boys love the brotherhood almost as much as I do.
When Rigs and Tank wander off to attend to other club business, I pick up where they left off. “Alright, listen up,” I say, gathering up the prospects in a rough semicircle on the patio, their faces a mix of eager and guarded. I’m the one responsible for doing most of their training. I don’t play games, especially when it comes to setting a good example for the prospects and my boys.
