Page 10 of The Biker and the Loner
Chapter 3
Scratch, Age 31
"Bet you're gladto be back, huh?" Onyx, one of my closest brothers, slings his arm around my shoulders and shakes me. "We missed you 'round here."
I grunt in response. No, it doesn't feel good to be back; it feelsunfair. I'm not supposed to be back. I'm supposed to be dead. The soldiers who went down with me in that copter should’ve been the ones to make it back alive. They had families they cared about—kids, wives, dreams, goals.
Who do I have? Why doIdeserve to live, and they don't?
The music gets louder and louder as Onyx and I stride through the Den of Heathens compound to the open, tree-lined, patchy-grassed land where all the parties are thrown. The compound. The place that used to be my home—a home of sin and lawlessness.
It’s just as I remember it. Motorbikes everywhere, oil-stained earth and pavement, acres of land, biker bar at the front, communion dome on the left, trailer homes, and a studio apartment building free for the brothers to either live or bang Club Cats in... Not much has changed.
I'd expected the feeling of “home” to hit me when I rode in, but it never did. All’s familiar. All’s the same. But it just doesn’t feel...right. I don’t belong here.
The club’s throwing me a "Welcome Home" hog-roast shindig. Revelry is the last thing I’m in the mood for right now, but this is my club. I’m still a part of the brotherhood. And although I’d grown detached from this life even since before I left—one of themainreasons I left—these men have had my back for as long as I’ve known them. Might not be as worthy as the troops I lost back in Afghanistan, but they’re stillmytroop.
A large banner hung between two tall trees reads“Welcome Home, Scratch!”Someone shoves a cold beer into my hand, then I'm swarmed. Abounded with backslaps and shoulder-punches. Lots of "thank you for your service" and "we missed you, man" and "great to have you back in one piece." Roughly an hour of obligatory chit-chat before I'm finally left alone.
As Onyx and I retreat to a picnic bench, Judge, the president of the MC and Onyx’s dad, strides out, searching the crowd until those world-weary eyes fall on me. He pushes through the throngs, crossing the land space to get to me. When he does, he hauls me up off the bench and pulls me into a real hug. Not a backslap or a fist pump. A genuine hug. The kind a father gives to a son. The kind that says,I give a shit about you.
Judge, with his tattooed bald head and graying red beard, has been a father figure since I was a twelve-year-old pissant selling pot on the corner to make cash to take care of my foster siblings. He's not the best guy in the world; he's involved in some serious shit, but he gives a fuck about me. He took me under his wing and has been constant and solid my whole life. Fed me, mentored me in mechanics, hired me when I was still too young, gave me a home with the brotherhood…
To outsiders, he's not a good man. A criminal, a felon. But to me, he’s Judge, the man who saved me.
"Christ, it's good to see you in one piece," he grunts as he draws back and looks me over.
"Why does everyone keep saying that?" Onyx asks. "No one’s noticed the bastard’s got nine and a half fingers now?"
Judge's dark eyes shift to my hands.
It's true. Half of my trigger finger’s amputated. Got mangled under crunched metal when the copter went down.
"Yep.” I hold my hand up to show him. "And I got metal where bone used to be in my right leg, so guess I'm one-and-half-legged, too."
Judge shrugs. "Better than being bound to a wheel-chair, or dead."
"True."
Onyx points to me with his beer bottle. "Sonuvabitch went and got himself a permanentscratch, too. What, you couldn't find any wildcat lady soldier over there to claw you up?"
Both father and son chuckle at my expense. And as they continue to gab and jab, I zone out.
For them, going to war and returning in one piece with scars to show is like doing a ten-year stint in prison. It’s stripes, it's high-level respect, it's heroism, it’s street cred. Something they can joke about only because they've never experienced it.
Time in prison can change a man either for better or for worse.
Becoming a soldier flat-out changes you. There's no scale of “better or worse.” You're justdifferent. The person you were before dies without you even realizing it. The things you see, experience, survive...you’ll never be the same again.
I'm tougher—inside and out—ever-vigilant, ordered, aware.The feeling of being trapped in a floating bubble watching the world outside is perpetual. Don't know how else to explain it, but I'm just notmeanymore.
"Welcome home, son." Judge jerks me into another hug, bringing me back to the now. "When you get the time, let's chat."
Translation:We need to discuss getting you back to club business. No pressure, no rush, but it's got to happen.
I jerk a nod and he gives me a strange, narrow-eyed look before he leaves.
"We've got some new Club Cats. Fresh, young,tight…for now," Onyx tells me, bumping his shoulder to mine. "But Cookie's bringing two of her best strippers over for you. Don't imagine you got your dick wet often over…"
