Page 8 of Domino
We pull to a stop and cut the engines on our bikes, the silence after a couple hours with nothing but that throaty rumble filling my ears, is practically deafening. Putting the kickstand down, I climb off and pull of my gloves and helmet, setting them both on the seat, then stretch myself out. Cosmo looks over at me, a cheesy grin on his face.
“What?” I ask.
“You just have this glow about you.”
I laugh. “Shut the fuck up.”
He leans close and inhales deeply. “And that new biker smell, too.”
Still laughing, I punch him in the arm. “You’re such a douche.”
The cargo van pulls down the road and parks in the lot alongside us. Derek climbs out and stretches himself as I shake a cigarette out of the pack and light it up. Blowing out a thick plume, I look down the road, then glance at my watch, waiting for the Warriors to show.
“You’re as impatient as Monk,” Cosmo notes as he lights up his own smoke.
“Guess I don’t have the patience that comes with old age,” I say.
“Go fuck yourself,” he replies with a laugh.
“Speaking of Monk, where’s he at? He’s normally your second on these runs.”
“If you want, I can leave you home next time.”
I take a drag of my smoke. “Not what I meant. I was just asking.”
He smirks at me. “I’m fucking with you. It’s just good for us to get new guys out on these runs. Keep the rotation going. We’ve all got skin in the game.”
I nod. “That’s fair.”
“Monk’s also out of town. Took Kasey away for the weekend.”
“Good for him.”
The growl of motorcycles fill the air and I see the Warriors riding down the road toward us. The one in the lead is Tarantula, the club’s Road Captain. He’s a stocky man, about five-ten, with a tail of thick dark hair that falls to the middle of his back. He reminds me a lot of Danny Trejo.
His second is a guy named Bala. He’s tall and lean, with well-defined muscles through his shoulders and arms. Bala comes across as pretty casual, but he’s got a quiet intensity about him. Dude is like a loaded gun just waiting to go off. His head is shaved clean and he’s sporting some new tats that wrap around the sides of his head, adding to his aura.
He’s got an intimidating, slightly off kilter, dangerous vibe about him, and if you’re a Road Captain, it’s probably what you’d want in your second.
“What’s up, ese?” Tarantula says, his English thickly accented.
He and Cosmo embrace briefly, thumping each other on the back, as Bala and I stand there staring at each other. I’m doing my best to project the same sort of menacing presence that seems natural to him, but given the smirk curling the corners of his mouth upward, I’m not sure I’m being too successful at it. Tarantula looks over and extends his hand and we shake firmly.
“Got a baby biker with you today, ese?” he says with a grin.
“Gotta take the training wheels off sometime,” Cosmo quips.
“Si mon. About time you popped that cherry, holmes,” he says, then turns back to Cosmo. “We doin’ business today or what?”
“You show me yours, I show you mine,” Cosmo tells him.
Tarantula nods to Bala, who squats down and opens the bag. It’s filled with fat stacks of bundled cash. Cosmo nods to me, so I give Derek the sign to open up the side door on the can. He rolls it back, revealing the bundled and wrapped weed we’re carrying.
“Do I need to weigh that, ese?”
Cosmo shoots him a smirk and points at the bag. “Do I need to count that?”
“Touché, holmes. Touché.”
