Hard Rider

“What's wrong with him?” Dutch demanded.

“Well, for starters, he's been bitching about working bar back,” Blade said, holding up a finger. For each infraction, another finger went up. When he was on two hands, Dutch stopped him.

“Cut him,” he growled. “Don't need his slacker ass. How many prospects we got these days, anyway?”

Now, Blade glanced at me, and I knew he wished he had a more elegant way of saying what he had to say.

“Three,” he admitted. A low number, even for a city as small as Cutter – a city which, by the by, hosted two clubs. Which was one too many. Or two too many, if you ask the local PD. For us, though, we knew we had to live with it. The Black Hawks weren't going anywhere fast. Neither were we, for that matter. We'd lived alongside them in relative peace for almost forty years now, and no one wanted to upset that balance.

“Three? Three? Did I hear you right, Blade? Did I hear you say we have three fucking prospects?”

“Well, not counting Marty, of course, since we've already agreed that he...”

“Fuck that,” Dutch said, slamming his fist on the desk. “We ain't cutting shit with numbers like that. Who's gonna run our dope and keep our bitches in line when most of us are in walkers or six feet under? Fuck me, boys, 'cause that won't be my problem, it'll be yours. So you find a way to get this Marty kid to play by our rules, 'cause you're the ones who'll be missing him ten years down the line. Three fuckin' prospects, Jesus H. Christ...”

I hadn't seen Dutch that animated in a long time. It was almost kind of nice, seeing some life back in the old man's eyes. And he had a point; the Dead Crusaders were currently running a little top-heavy. Meaning, most of our guys were getting too long in the tooth to play a young man's game.

We needed more fresh bodies to keep up the constant patrols, intimidate intruders, withstand long runs, drive truck cross-country, and generally do the shit that forty-year-olds didn't want to do anymore. At 28, I was one of the youngest members. And I sure as hell wasn't getting my hands dirty in that low-level shit. I had more important things to do, right there in Cutter. I couldn't be running off to Iowa with a truckload of stolen stereos, not when there might be something going down right in our territory.

I was the muscle. The enforcer. I'd been practically raised for it, taking my father's place when his own body no longer suited the role. I'd been fighting since I was 13, and had the muscles and scars to prove it. Usually, the muscles and scars were enough that I didn't have to prove it.

“Alright, boss,” Blade said, nodding. “I'll get some of the boys to show him the error of his ways.”

I almost felt bad for the prospect. They wouldn't go easy on him. It didn't pay to go easy on guys who weren't playing the game the way you needed them to play it. In my life, I'd learned that there were only two ways to get your point across: you either threatened to beat it into someone, or you did beat it into someone.

“Anything else? Got more shit news from the shit heap for me?” Yeah, Dutch was in no sort of mood that I wanted to mess with. Better to leave it on that note, rather than say anything to piss him off more.

He definitely didn't need to know about the skinheads who'd been spotted trying to deal on our turf, or the guy who'd shorted us on our last batch of hardcore porn. We had our fingers in a lot of pots, and that meant there was always something going wrong. But Blade and I, and the rest of the Crusaders, could handle it. Didn't need to bring every little mess and mishap to Dutch's attention. Especially these days. Maybe five years ago, when he still had that twinkle in his eyes and that venom under his nails.

Not anymore.

Blade and I left Dutch grumbling over some mysterious figures in the club's books. Another fuckin' problem: one of our fronts, a laundromat of all things, wasn't jiving when it came to numbers. Too much going in and not enough coming out. Or something.

I never got close enough to see the nitty gritty, though I thought I could probably be of some help. I'd always been good at math. Even with my shoddy attendance record, fuck-homework mentality, and general disregard for all things school, I'd managed to do pretty well on the state math tests. English, too, for that matter. I didn't graduate, but I could have come close. A lot closer than most of the kids from our side of town.

Shit, damn near the only girl from the Northside who could keep up with me was Bex. And she was long gone. Ten years gone, to be precise. I didn't miss her like I used to, but I wondered about her all the time. If she was doing alright for herself. I shouldn't have cared, but I couldn't help it. Girls have a way of doing that shit to a boy. Especially those girls. You know the ones. The first ones. The sweetest ones. The ones you touched before anyone else got to them. Yeah, that was Bex.

She had a good head on her shoulders – better than mine, for damn sure. She was probably living that nice, suburban life. Hubby. Kids. Lawn for the dog, with grass that stayed green all year round. Work in an office. Those thoughts made me smile, for her. Because I'd never have anything like that, and I didn't want anything like that, but I figured she probably deserved it. After putting up with her mama, after what happened to her pop, she deserved it.

Me? I deserved a cold beer down at the bar, and whatever fresh young pussy happened my way first. With Dutch gone for a couple of days, I'd have to keep myself in check when it came to partying, more than usual. But that didn't mean I had to be sober, or celibate. Blade and I had some things to discuss, and we might as well discuss them over a beer, after getting our dicks sucked in one of the back rooms.

Yeah, it was the fuckin' life. The one I was born into, sure, but I would have chosen it, too.

Brotherhood, booze, broads, and bills: what more could anyone want?

Bex

Corralling a crew of wasted, drugged-up, drama-loving strippers was hard on an easy day. With Dutch's looming specter haunting me every night, it was damn near impossible. I had to keep one eye on the stage, one eye on the floor, one eye on the girls, and one eye on the door. And no, I'm not a freak of nature, I've only got the two eyes to use.

I told Dirk that if a big man in a leather cut tried to get in, to give him some extra attention. And if he bore a patch that said Dead Crusaders, he wasn't coming in. Under no circumstances. It'd be Dirk's job, and maybe even his head, if Dutch got past him.

Of course, thinking that I could stop Dutch from doing something he wanted to do was my first mistake. Because sure enough, three days after Johnny told me he was gonna come, he was there, standing beside the door, Dirk looking at me all frantic. I'd heard the altercation in the lull between Crystal's songs, and walked to the door with a sinking heart.

“Bex, he's got a fuckin' gun, alright? I ain't paid enough to risk another hole in my ass. Twice was enough. You want me to get the precinct on the phone? I don't mind lettin' the boys in blue take care of this, just as long as I can call 'em from down the fuckin' block, 'cause I ain't stickin' around for the shoot-out...”

Dutch looked old. And he was unaccompanied. Both were surprising, the latter more than the former. After all, it'd been ten years. He should have looked old. He was getting old when I left. But he wasn't dumb when I left, and for the President to go anywhere without some muscle backing him up was a dumb move. I guess he didn't think Bex Carter was a threat.

He was kind of right about that, much as I hated to say it.

“I don't know what you're thinkin' about me, Bex,” Dutch said. “But I ain't here to hurt ya. I'd never hurt ya. One of our own? Vicious' own flesh an' blood? Hell naw.”

“Then give Dirk the gun,” I said. Fuck this. I wanted to believe Dutch. My father had died for him. He better have enough honor in him not to cause me any grief. “I'll talk to you, but not with a gun between us.”

He smiled. I felt a little sick. I'd worked hard to bury him with all the other memories of the club. He was always good to me. He was good to everyone, a good leader. But I wasn't one of them anymore. That wasn't my life, and I didn't want it to be. And him being

here...it wasn't good. I couldn't tell you how I knew it, but it just wasn't.

“O'course, sweetheart,” he said, and turned to Dirk with that smile plastered on. “Take good care of her, huh, bud?”

He held his handgun out to Dirk. No doubt, he had another in his boot, and a knife in his pants. But the gesture mattered enough to soothe my soul a bit. Dirk stared at the gun for a long moment, looking every bit the stupid mound of muscle, then took it. He looked at me, and I nodded towards one of the tables in the back.

“I'm gonna get us a drink, and I'm gonna get Slick to cover the door while I meet with my....old friend...here. Dirk, would you mind sitting in the next booth?”

“Now, I don't see what we need all that for, princess,” Dutch said, looking hurt. His crocodile tears were nothing to me.

“I'd prefer it that way, Dutch,” I said. “You're in my club now, no offense, and I'd thank you to do things my way.”

His jaw worked in a slow circle under his grey beard. His eyes were shot with red, and they flared in anger. But then he smiled again, cheeks thin. He opened his hands, palms up.

“Right you are, sweetheart,” he said, and started walking towards a vacant table in the back. “Guess I should be a little proud, huh? Taught you good, taught you how to cover your own hide. Wish you'd trust me, but I think you'll see, I'm here for your benefit as much as I'm here for mine.”