“Nah, got a cousin down south who does. I don’t really know much about bikes, but I was walking by and the sun caught the chrome. So shiny it nearly blinded me. I don’t need to ride to know a nice piece of machinery when I see it.”
The guy, who had to be about five years younger than Screw preened like a proud fucking peacock.
“So, you uh, part of a motorcycle club?” Screw said, pointing toward the guy’s cut.
“Yeah.” He opened the tailgate then hopped into the bed to make sure the bike was still strapped down securely.
“Huh. Hell’s Handlers, right? I live in Knoxville but have a house I come out to here so I can escape the city. I’ve heard you guys mentioned a few times.”
The prospect snorted. “Don’t fucking think so. I ain’t one of those pussies.”
It wasn’t in Screw’s nature to let being called a pussy slide. Normally, he’d pop this douche bag’s head off with one good punch, but the asshole was more useful to him conscious and talking than out cold on the ground. He lifted his hands. “Sorry, didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just curious since I know nothing about that world. Isn’t it weird to have two clubs in one town?”
The guy grunted then sat with his legs dangling off the edge of his truck. After pulling a circular tin out of his pocket then shoving a wad of dip in his lower lip, he spoke. “Depends,” he said. “Some clubs coexist well, but not us.” With a shrug, he spit a stream of brown liquid on the ground. “Guy in charge of the Handlers is Copper. Arrogant fucking asshole. Thinks he owns this town and everyone in it. They ain’t straight, but they ain’t exactly badass either.”
“Huh.” Screw leaned his hip against the guy’s truck and when he didn’t get his head blown off he said, “Some of the stories I’ve heard about them are downright crazy. Seem pretty badass to me. You guys have some kinda turf war or something going on?”
With a shake of his head he jumped down. “Not really. Well, maybe. We wouldn’t give a shit about them, but my prez said there’s no way they’ll let us stick around even though our clubhouse is a town over.”
The Handlers sure as fuck didn’t want these gun runners operating on their turf. His MC may not run drugs, guns, or women, but they sure as fuck could still end up in prison for many of their business ventures. Loan sharking, muscle for hire, the occasional gambling ring. A few of their members fought in an underground MMA ring as well. Then there was murder plain and simple. Fuck with the club, come after an ol’ lady and you’d find yourself six feet under. They may view it as justice, but the cops sure wouldn’t. So, no, a gun trafficking club that would undoubtedly bring the feds sniffing around at some point wouldn’t work. Not to mention Copper just didn’t want all those weapons running through the club’s territory. That business inevitably turned messy and by messy, he meant fucking bloody.
“That sounds fucked up.”
“Yep,” he said as he slammed the tailgate closed. “Told you, they’re a buncha pussy bitches.”
“You guys gonna do something about it?”
The prospect eyed him for the longest few seconds of Screw’s life. Shit, stupid question for him to ask. There wasn’t any way to make a question like that sound innocent. Had he just outed himself? Was he too eager? Crank confronting Jazz had lit a fire under his ass. Screw wanted the CDMC gone. And fast.
Screw held his breath, working to ignore the sweat soaking into the collared shirt beneath his wool jacket. How the hell men wore this shit everyday he’d never know. Forty-two degrees and he was sweating like a fucking married dude caught eating out a club whore. Or so he imagined one would feel. He sure as fuck would never find that shit out.
“Let’s just say my prez doesn’t let anything fuck with his profits.”
“I hear that.”
“Hey.” The prospect approached him, and Screw froze, poised and ready to defend an attack. “You in town through the weekend?”
He nodded. “Yeah, got off work early and drove out here. Spending the rest of the week in my cabin.” It’d be foolish to throw away whatever opportunity this prospect was gonna present.
The prospect spit on the ground, his brown teeth bared. “You should come party with us this weekend. Gonna be fucking epic. Guarantee you’ve never seen shit like this is your buttoned-up suit-wearing world. Whatdya say?”
Screw’s heart started to pound. No fucking way Copper would okay this shit. Too much risk of it being a trap. “Sounds like just what I need to shake things up.”
The guy’s head fell back on his shoulder and he laughed. “Oh, it’ll do that. Here, gimmie your phone.” He motioned toward Screw’s hand.