FOUND: A Motorcycle Club Romance Novel (7 page)

Being close to LAX airport, the traffic was beyond horrible. Surprisingly this didn't bring out the worst in Jerome as it usually did. In fact, the arrival made him pleasant company. Unknown to me, he lived here for a time when he was a kid. It was nice to see his eyes light up when he talked positively of the area.

“Look!
Look
!. The boulevard. That's my school. I had my first fuck there... Over there's the shop I got my first pack of smokes. Shit. This takes me back...”

“Yeah. I felt the same way yesterday---”

“Nah. It's more real than that...
Holy shit
... Is that? Fuck! That crackhead hobo Mads is still walking the streets. Look!
Look!
It's him!”

Mads stood, all skin and bones, wearing a long overcoat and sucking on a cigarette while peering down a side street. You know a place has run to ruin when someone points out a drug addict as the local attraction.

After making a left on Martin Luther King boulevard we arrived at the hotel. Located centrally in town it smelled of crime and threat. Windows on the ground floor were smashed and boarded up and a group of Latinos sat outside drinking beer and talking Spanish. The second we stood from the car Jerome was making eyes at them.

“Fucking spics,” he whispered under his breath. “They're everywhere now. Spreading like motherfucking cancer... I remember when this place was all black. Better times.”

I had heard it before. One of his favorite topics was the Mexicans. He hated them with as much fury as any member of the Klu Klux Klan. He saw them everywhere -
especially
in his soup. Their mere presence was enough to rile him up. He believed only African Americans should rule the streets. Yet, his anger was usually reserved for those who didn't deserve it. Like it was on that day.

“Hello sir. Can I help you?” A short Latino desk clerk with a mustache greeted us when we entered.

“Huh? What you saying? I can't understand a fucking word you're saying,” Jerome aggressively declared while going from zero to sixty in a shot. “You know we American right? We can't speak Spanish.”

Clearly his pent up frustration was being released. Of course, he didn't direct it to the three rough looking guys outside.

“Do you have a reservation, sir?” Asked the unfazed receptionist.

Jerome shot me a knowing look, acting like I was in on the fun too. “What the fuck is he saying, girl? Look I got a room. You understand English? A fucking room. Under Young. Jerome Young. English?
Comprendo
?”

Through the tirade the clerk kept his head down and didn't react. Quickly understanding what was required he slipped under the desk, grabbed a key card and handed it over. “Thank you for choosing to stay with us, sir.”

When we made our way through his office, me feeling deathly embarrassed about what had gone down, Jerome couldn't help but toss in some final words. He said to me, knowingly loud, “Fucking illegals. You can't get service anywhere these days...”

“Did you have to talk to him like that?” I asked the second we stepped through the door to our room. “He's got it bad enough working here for nothing an hour.”

“Fuck that. I can talk to whoever however I want.”

“What if someone called you a nigger?”

“No one would dare call me a nigger, girl. Reminds me... I need to be calling Ez. Now that's a nigger!”

Ez was the street name of Ezekiel, Jerome's contact who set up this whole deal. They went back far, though with what he just said them being close might have been off the cards. He was a member of an MC down here who had ties with the Midnight sinners. In contrast to them this club was all black.

Upstairs the room was worse than the one from last night, but after driving all day I was content enough with any room where I could stretch my legs. I sat down on the bed, lit a cigarette and listened in to Jerome who was calling Ez.

“Yeah...
Huh
... I'm down at Motel 7... You are?
By the club
?... I'll be there soon.”

He put down his cell and sat in the chair next to the bed.

“How long have we got?” I asked, putting out my smoke in the ashtray.

“Not long enough for you to get ready. Couple of hours yet. You better get in that shower quick. He'll be inviting us to the club after...”

We were late for the meet and it wasn't down to me taking long to get ready.

Craning his neck from the window, he excitedly called back in, “Now if I remember right, it's around this corner. There we go! Beautiful...”

For the last hour a short journey turned into the car ride from hell. Jerome couldn't remember where Ez's club The Vault was. To top it off he refused to use his cell map or the GPS. He told me, '
I know this town like the back of my hand
.
I don't need that motherfucking white boy GPS!
'

Unfortunately, he did. The club, like most everything in Crenshaw, wasn't far from the rows of bungalows and apartment buildings. It was ten, though the place wasn't exactly thriving. Outside a rough looking bouncer stood below the neon lit entrance sign talking to a couple of girls smoking. The strangest thing about it was they all wore long overcoats. It may have been dark, though it certainly wasn't cold.

When we pulled into the parking lot around the back of the place two African-American bikers were waiting for us. One, an extremely skinny and tall man with facial hair, titled his chin up in acknowledgment. The bear-like and older one next to him, perched on a monster of a bike, wasn't looking happy. It might have had something to do with us being so late. Slowly they backed up and guided us through the lot towards a fenced off area to the back. We drove in and the smaller one quickly locked up the fence behind us.

Jerome hit the handbrake. “Now say nothing unless you're spoken to.”

“I know. You don't need to always say it.”

He opened the glove box and took his gun. “Don't you give me that backtalk. Get that ass up and out. I want you seen, not heard.”

I stepped out of the car with my red heels clattering on the pavement. Before we left Jerome ordered that I wear my skin-tight red dress – the sluttiest I own. I'm like an accessory to him. He gets a kick out of showing me off.

“Brother!” Roared the lean one the second he saw his old friend. “Long time no see, Mr Young. Keeping good?”

“You know it, son. You know it.” Jerome bumped fists with him. “Ez... What they hell have they been feeding you? You looking fucking skin and bones, boy.”

“It's my new diet.”

“What's that?”

“Weed and pussy! I'm
all
about the weed and pussy!” Ez drawled before facing me. “This your woman?”

“My woman,” Jerome said while wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me tight. With his arm gripping me, this was the closest Jerome and me had been to affection for a long time.

In front of me Ez's eyes feasted on my body, working down across my chest to the low hem of the dress stretched tight around my thighs. Sleazy doesn't begin to describe his gaze. He almost raped me with his eyes. Leering at me, with his gold teeth shining in the night sky, his revolting ogling made my skin crawl.

“Mmm... Umm...
Hum!
That's one fine ass white bitch. What's your name, sweetness?”

“I'm... Cassie.”

“That's sugar on my tongue. God almighty, you finer than all the tea in China!”

Jerome laughed. Whereas I wanted to run. Ez was a creep of the highest order. Everything about him set me on edge. From his dirty fingernails, to his overly greasy skin. Unlike the man next to him, he wasn't wearing anything suggesting he was a member of a motorcycle club. He wore a poorly fitted black suit.

Suddenly the deep voice of the second man boomed, “Come on boys, this ain't the time for women. We're here for business.”

“Truer words have never been spoken!” Ez chimed out in the most artificial of ways. “This, Jerome, is Hulk. The president of our fine club up here in Crenshaw.”

Hulk certainly was the operative word for this man. He was a monster. While he couldn't have been more than five-nine, he was at least the same width with muscles that nearly burst through the leather jacket he wore. Squat, powerful and with a focused intensity about him he hinted at being ready for anything. He was covered in tattoos from the knuckles of his hand to the thickness of his neck.

“It's a pleasure.” Hulk leaned forward and extended his hand to Jerome and then to me. “...It's a pleasure, Cassie.”

Wow, I thought surprised. That's out of the blue. Usually when I'm meeting friends, contacts, business partners – whatever you want to call them – of Jerome's they're usually look at me like a piece of meat. Hulk's respectful tone defied completely how imposing he was physically.

“Follow me to the van,” he went on, “We've got everything here ready and waiting.”

We moved towards the club where a large black transit van was stationed. Both Hulk and Ez walked slowly and with purpose. I couldn't help bu notice that emblazoned on Hulk's back was a red devil with the words
Ugly Bastards Motorcycle Club
stitched in.

Hulk pulled the doors open, “Our friends up north will be happy with this. You doing us a big favor, Mr Young.”

Locked out back behind The Vault we had absolute privacy, and looking at the bags stuffed with ominous shapes, did we need it. Five sport bags were filled to the brim. Each containing a single long and tubular object which bulged through the thin material.

“Wanna take a look, my man?” Ez stretched his arms out over the goods.

“Nah, it's alright. I ain't being paid to look, only drive. What's in there is none of my business.” Jerome edged closer with eyes that fixed on the contents. He might have convinced the pair, but I knew the reality. He wanted into those bags, and badly. The dollar signs flashed above him.

“Let me and my man here help you get these bags into your car then.” Hulk grabbed three himself and left the remaining two for the others to collect.

“Shit... They're goddamn heavy!” Complained Ez. “I might have to start hitting the gym.”

They quickly had the bags shut securely in the trunk.

Hulk patted Jerome on his shoulder. “What's the plan now, Mr Young? You staying around down here tonight or getting back on the road?”

“Staying overnight. Got some fun up here planned with with my boy, Ez there. I'm not gonna miss it. They tell me I've got a deadline for tomorrow evening up in Midnight.”

“Yeah, prez. I'm gonna show him the club. We ain't seen each other in time,” Ez belted back to us while jogging to open the gate.

Hulk took a seat on his massive Harley and thoughtfully spoke. “To tell you the truth, I'd prefer it if you headed up the interstate now. There's a lot of merchandise in there, kid. But... If Vendrell said that's your deadline then that's his business.”

“He did,” Jerome gruffly replied. “What he said. Heard it with my own ears.”

“Make sure you send him my regards.” He turned to Ez and stated, “Treat the pair of them to a good night.”

“You know it boss. I'm the best host in town,” sang Ez. “Heading back to the clubhouse?”

“I am... Night Mr Young, night Cassie.”

“Nice to meet you,” I replied back.

“Likewise.”

Hulk kick started the engine and wheeled himself around before riding off into the night. It was strange to think Hulk and a guy like Ez were members of the same club. The president looked at you with a sincerity that reflected on every line of his face. By contrast, Ez – as outwardly affable as he tried to be – was constantly moving like he was always on edge. His hands twitched ever so slightly by his sides when he spoke. My money would be on it revealing his insincerity.

With the roar of Hulk's bike drifting away into the distance, Ez spoke freely and immediately proved my point with a show of duplicity. He exclaimed, “That candyass fuck? Coming here –
to my place
- acting like god nigger himself. Fuck that!”

Evidently Ez wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. While his president may have been out of earshot, what he said was loud enough for half the town to eavesdrop.

“You hear that shit? You hear that shit? Goddamn nigger called me
kid
earlier! Fuck... If this weren't the fucking pick up, I'd have lost my cool,” Jerome stood there gesticulating like he was ready to lay someone out while backing his friend up to the hilt.

“J-J... I tell you something. That fuckers day is coming. Mark my goddamn words. There's going to be a change in this club soon...” Ez pulled up the back the black of his jacket revealing a gun slid down the back of his pants.

Jerome immediately fist-bumped his friend. “I like it, I like it!”

“Come on, enough thinking about him. Lemme get you inside. We got a lot of liquor to drink...”

Both began walking for the backdoor of the club and left me behind outside like a forgotten memory. Even though it was a summer's night, the air was cool and chilling my exposed legs. Hurriedly I rushed to keep up with them.

~ Chapter Eight ~

“...And then I said
'fuck you nigger'
before slamming the bottle straight over his bean head!”

The circle of faces sitting around the table burst into raucous laughter upon Ez finishing his story. The five friends of EZ, their women and Jerome were in fits. His story of tormenting a down and out drug addict who who asked for more time to pay up on a debt he owed had them rioting. Though I found it horrifying and got through by forcing a smile.

“You going to the john, girl?” Jerome asked when I stood up.

“Yeah. Just going to powder my nose,” I replied giving him a white lie. In reality I needed a break.

“Be quick. I need you at the car when you get out.”

“Why's that?”

“Just do it.”

I left the gathering and followed the stairs from the VIP area to the toilets below. It was late in the night and Ez shut the club early to have this private party. Or at least that's how he said it. Since we arrived only a smattering of customers had actually walked through the door. In fact the girls working here – and there were a lot of girls – outnumbered the customers three to one. While the word nightclub may have been above the door, inside it was a strip club through and through. Upstairs was the VIP room, though below was all poles and plastic seating trying its hardest to be leather.