Page 635 of One More Kiss

Johnny “Hawk” Mann

Toeingdown the kickstand of my Harley, I rip the helmet from my head. My gaze travels across the gravel lot, to the group of men congregating around a rickety wooden picnic table. They don’t pay me any mind, though, they’re too enthralled with whatever cockamanie story Leftie is telling them.

A smile ticks the corners of my mouth.

Good old Leftie—the only original member of the Knightdale, North Carolina charter of the Satan’s Knights.

I used to wonder if anyone actually paid attention to the old geezer when he told longwinded tales about the club or if they just let him talk for the sake of hearing his voice. But then I experienced story time with Leftie for myself and I realized the man was wise. Arthritis got his hands, so he doesn’t ride much anymore, but he’s still an asset to the club. He’s like a fucking encyclopedia of knowledge. From coast to fucking coast, Leftie’s got the intel on every charter of the Satan’s Knights. He can recite the road name of every ranking member, tell you what they ride, who they fuck and what beef they got. He’s a fucking legend.

Sliding the chin strap of my helmet over the handlebars of my ride, I dismount. The soles of my boots crunch down on the gravel and I make my way across the lot, toward my brothers. The closer I get, the louder they become and that smirk that was teasing my lips widens.

“…Then I bent her over my bike and gave her a tune up,” Leftie reminisces, a look of nostalgia washing over his worn face. “Those were the days…the days when a man walked into a bar, sporting his leathers and all he had to do was crook his finger and he had a line of filly’s ready and willing to take a ride on the back of his bike.” He lifts his beer to his lips and goes to take a sip but pauses when Wiz, our tech guy, says, “Speak for yourself, old man, I still walk into a bar, crook my finger and have a different girl on the back of my bike every night.”

“You also got the clap,” Shady retorts.

“The fuck I did,” Wiz hisses.

Leftie shakes his head and takes a swig from his bottle. His eyes find me and slightly widen as he pulls the bottle away.

“Well, well, look who came riding in on the wind. Thought you weren’t expected back until tomorrow.”

That garners the attention of my brothers and they all turn to me. Greeting them with a jerk of my chin, I bring my gaze back to Leftie.

“Deal fell through,” I explain, reaching for my pack of smokes. I flip the top on the Marlboro’s and pull a cigarette out with my teeth.

Two years ago, right after I got my colors, I started my own business. Well, that’s not entirely true—the club owns a piece of it. I was living on a veteran’s salary, and since I was newly patched in, I had only just started getting my share of the club’s revenue. I didn’t have a savings I could dip into and no bank in their right mind would give me a loan. That’s where Maverick, the president of the club, came in. Our charter had their fingers in too many pies and Sally’s BBQ, wasn’t cutting it anymore. They needed a legit business to run interference with the new gun contract we had with a charter up north, therefore Maverick offered me the money I needed to start Booker & Mann and in exchange the club gets fifty percent of the profits.

It seemed fair to me and if I’m being honest, I wasn’t in it for the money. As a former Navy SEAL, I witnessed a dog’s ability to serve soldiers in the field firsthand. Booker & Mann trains canines for police departments, the military and personal protection. What started out as a small business soon grew into a major operation and with a flow of international contracts coming in, Maverick secured a piece of land near Poplar Creek for us to expand on. Now we have all the space we need to properly train dogs for specific tasks such as explosive removal or searching for missing corpses.

Take this past weekend for instance, I was negotiating a contract for a company overseas, they wanted an odor put on a dog in terms of narcotics, explosives and human remains. But shit like that takes time and the buyer was under the impression I can just snap my fingers and have the dog magically appear trained and ready for its next mission.

Ink claps a hand on my back and offers me a beer. I toss my cigarette, crushing it with the sole of my boot.

“Sucks that the deal didn’t go through, but it’s good to see your ugly mug,” he says as I take the beer from him. “Maverick’s got us doing a poker run tomorrow night.”

I twist off the cap on the bottle and take a pull. A poker run—my brothers and the open road—the perfect remedy and just what I need to recharge my batteries after a hellish week.

“Five or seven checkpoints?” I ask.

“Maverick organized this one so what do you think?” Ink replies, taking a swig of his beer. As if on cue, the door to the clubhouse opens and our president steps outside with our VP— Ghost, trailing behind him. My eyes cut to Maverick’s and I immediately lower my beer from my lips. I know that fucking look, it’s the look he gives when the wind changes and hell is on the horizon.

Just as I’m about to ask him what’s going on the loud roar of pipes sounds behind me. Maverick steps forward, his boots crunching against the gravel and Ghost reaches inside his kutte for his piece. Leftie isn’t no slouch, though, and before any of us younger members can make a move, he pulls a shotgun out from under the picnic table.

Like I said…he’s a fucking legend.

Setting the beer bottle on top of the table, I pull my gun from the waistband of my jeans and turn it on the approaching Harley but stop in my tracks when I get a good look at the bike.

The tires skid to a halt in front of Maverick and the rider digs his heels into the gravel as the Harley comes to a complete stop.

Fucking Capone.

I start to lower my gun just as he kills his engine, but instead of tucking it behind me, I shove it into the front waistband of my jeans. The youngest Knight has been a temperamental son of a bitch ever since Maverick saddled him with the job of protecting his seventeen-year-old daughter.

I can’t say I blame the kid.

I wouldn’t want to babysit Tara either—seems like a job for a prospect, not a full-patched member. But Maverick thinks Capone is a great fit to shadow his daughter because he has a fleet of sisters. The rest of us are all taking bets on how long before Capone catches feelings for the Satan’s Knights princess, and Maverick regrets the decision.

Another bike pulls in behind Capone, this one belonging to Maverick’s brother, Shady.

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