Hard Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 1) (16 page)

Ram would be pretty angry and confused too if someone had just beat him to dizziness like he had done to Beretta.

“Motherfucker,” he said, mostly to himself. And then, louder, “Motherfucker. Motherfucker! I'm gonna get you, shithead! You fucking wait!”

Beretta spared a glance back at him just for a moment and then carried on his way.

It felt good to have said something at the time, but now Ram felt foolish. It was easy to talk a big game behind bars, and everyone knew it. It didn't matter that Ram knew he could back it up; words not filled with the volume of action lost all momentum, all mass.

“Now, you see?” said Howitzer, approaching him. “That kind of shit is what I'm talking about. You don't know how to control your goddamn temper.”

His father stood over him, all harsh moods and crossed arms. His forearm had a long tattoo of a gravestone with Ram's mother's name on it; next to it was another tombstone with Madeline's name. He and his father had never had much of a relationship, but what was there seemed to fall apart quickly after Madeline died.

They were more brothers in the Crew than they were father and son, and everyone knew it.

“I didn't see you stopping the fight.”

“My men go to war, I gotta fight,” said Howitzer. “But you were on the front. Not because I didn't want to be there, neither. I was on my way up—but you let Ace go. You let the fight happen.”

“He's the Sergeant-At-Arms,” said Ram. “What do you want me to do, show him up in front of everyone?”

“If it means we don't get thrown in jail? If it means that, in the middle of a war, we're not throwing away money to bail ourselves out? Wars cost money, Ram. And they cost men. What if one of our guys was carrying something hot? What if one of our guys gets tossed away for years? What happens to the war then?” He kicked the bench underneath Ram. “Jesus Christ. Like we don't have
enough
brothers put in the pen already! The cops are crawling all over our asses, looking for any reason to put us away for good. Half the evidence they've found looks planted, not that anybody can prove a goddamn thing, but it doesn't stop them. And you're going around hoping for a brawl in broad daylight.”

“If a brother's carrying something hot, it's his own responsibility. I didn't put anything in their pockets.”

“But you
did
start this war, Ram. And your actions have consequences.”

Ram wished he could go somewhere else without walking past his father. But he was in the corner of a jail cell, and it was hard to get much more cornered than that.

“Fuck you,” he said. “Fuck that. Not everything gets to be my fault just because I've got the balls to do what you want. Actions
do
have consequences and I'm willing to settle them, but you keep on and on like any consequence is a bad thing bar none.”

Ram was stood up now, taller than his father. The rest of the men around them began to clear out, giving them room. The two had fought before and in nicer places than this. One advantage to a jail cell was that there wasn't much around to break when two big men like Ram and Howitzer went at it.

“Here's something with some fucking consequences,” said Howitzer. “That broad you're pretending is your old lady—yeah, I fucking said it—she's the daughter of the fucking sheriff. What the fuck are you thinking with that? Did you try to make the worst choice possible?”

Ram stood up mostly as posturing. But now he was getting pissed off. “You leave June the hell out of this, old man. You don't want to go down that road.”

“I'll go down any damn road I want. I've already been down them all twice.”

“Including the kind that makes you a fucking turncoat coward, huh?”

Ram was running out of ammunition and he could feel it, but he had to empty his clip. If he didn't, he'd be holding onto this shit forever.

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“You
wanted Mikhail to make a fucking deal with the Flags. With the
Flags
. With Beretta? Fuck you.”

“Come on,” said Howitzer, throwing up his hands. “We were just sending out feelers, kid. A bad peace is better than the best war out there. You can't judge—”

“I can and I will. Fuck you. After what Beretta did, you're teaming up with him? On his side now? Fuck you.”

Howitzer's face shifted with understanding.

“I see.” He stepped away from Ram several paces. “You still haven't let that go. Of course you haven't.” He put a hand to his face, shaking his head. “I get it now. Goddamn that I didn't see it before. Of course you haven't. Goddamn.”

“Why the hell would I let it go? He killed my sister. He killed your
daughter
. What the hell is wrong with you that you'd make a deal with him?”

“Ram, you gotta listen to me, and you gotta do it right now.” Howitzer put a hand on his shoulder. His eyes were softer than Ram had seen in a long time. “Madeline—god rest her soul—got on the bad luck end of one too many doses of smack. It could have happened to anyone. I offered her my help and she didn't want it. I offered my help to Beretta and
he
didn't want it, not while she was still using.”

“What the hell are you saying?”

“I'm saying you think that he dragged her down with him. And maybe he introduced her to the stuff, sure. But her choices after that were her own. It's not a fucking...it's not some vortex, do you understand? Not when two addicts are living together. It's a see-saw, and they couldn't find the balance.”

“It's his fault,” said Ram. “His fault. She never would have gone in if he hadn't first—”

“But he
did
. And she
did
.
They
did. She couldn't live long enough to get help, and that's it. That's just...that's just how it is, for Christ's sake, can't you see that? Nothing gets done in the present by living in the past, Ram.”

Ram walked away from Howitzer now, approaching the bars. He didn't want to look at him anymore. But he could hear Howitzer following him, still.

Howitzer said, “He's cleaned up, did you know that? Still an asshole, of course. But clean. I heard about that, and that's why we started looking to trade with them. You are my son, Ram, no doubt about it. But, in Beretta, I thought I had another. When we kicked him out, I thought I would be saving you...but now I've got none of you.” There were tears in his eyes and he turned away, wiping them down and sniffing harshly. “None of you.”

Ram didn't know what to say. He turned from the bars and looked at his father, shrugging slightly. What did you say to that?

“Get the fuck away from me,” said Howitzer, walking away. He had composed himself entirely; stone-faced entirely, commander-in-chief once again. “Two days and we vote you out. I don't care who you're pretending your old lady is. You're lucky the vote's not today. Make whatever arrangements you have to.”

––––––––

J
une knew well enough where the police station was, where the jail was. She waited for Ram in her car when he came out, greeting him with a long kiss.

It felt right and natural to do it, and she had to admit part of her was kind of excited by it. There was something dirty to her, something taboo about kissing a man freshly released from jail. Being the first woman he'd touched or seen even for just a few hours.

“Are you okay?” she asked after they broke away.

“Yeah,” he said. “Fine. Thanks for coming.”

She shrugged. “I figured it would look bad if I didn't.”

He laughed. “I don't know. You don't see a lot of old ladies come out to pick up their guys now, do you?”

She hadn't, as a matter of fact.

“They know it's part of the territory,” explained Ram. “Jail time's no problem with the Crew. That's why we keep Cattleprod out of all the brawls. He finances our bail.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

“Yeah, maybe not for too much longer, though.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighed. “I mean my da—Howitzer, he's got a bug up his ass. Says he's seeing straight through us, that sort of thing.”

She nodded. “I had an argument too.”

He made a noise. “I wouldn’t call what he and I had an argument. Standard line. I’m irresponsible. He doesn’t believe anything about you and me. Won't believe it unless we're married, probably. He’ll get to the bottom of it...” His shoulders were heavy. “Didn't give a shit that I tried to stop the brawl. Said a real leader would have stopped it, no trying, no ifs or buts.”

“I didn't see
him
stopping it,” said June, automatically defensive.

“Me neither. Probably thinks he was testing me.”

“Fun,” drawled June.

They stood across from each other for a moment, both of their arms crossed. She had to admit she was curious about the brawl.

“What was that fight all about?” she said. “What set it off?”

“The Wrecking Crew and the Black Flags, those were the other guys, we don't get along.”

“I sort of got that, given you all were punching each other in the face. I meant more specifically. Who was the one guy who kept talking? The one with the box?”

Ram let out a long sigh. “You mean the Black Flag in front, the big one? That's Beretta. He and I, we used to be like brothers. Both in the Crew. He...there's a whole long history here, June.”

“I'd like to know.”

“The short version is he and I don't get along anymore. He got into smack a few years back and dragged my sister Madeline into it. She overdosed; we kicked him out of the Crew. He joined up with the Black Flags and has been fucking with us ever since. So, there was a brawl with him a few days ago at this other bar, and those fuckers stole Ace's bike in the meantime. All those pieces? That was Ace's bike.”

“He just tore up his bike?” June asked. “Ace must have been pissed.”

Ram nodded. “He was. He
is
. I still gotta find a way to pay him back.”

“So that's why—all of that you said, I mean—that's why you've got this war going on between you and the Black Flags? Because of what happened with you and Beretta?”

“Yes and no,” said Ram. “We've had a lot of trouble in the past anyway. Skirmishes, here and there. It was bound to come to a head sooner or later. At least, I thought it was.” But he didn't look so sure now.

“A lot of the brawl...I'm not saying it's my fault, but maybe it wouldn't have happened how it did if it weren't for me. Ace needs a bike to ride. It ain't right.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking in the distance. With his face framed against the flat horizon and the setting sun, he looked more handsome than she had ever seen him. “Goddamn, I'm not even talking about this
last
brawl, but maybe it's true for this one too.”

“You sound a little like your Dad.”

“Like Howitzer?” He laughed. “Nah. Biker needs a bike, that's all.”

That wasn't what June was referring to—she meant the admission of Ram's culpability, however loosely worded it was.

“Howitzer was right about one thing, though,” said Ram. “The vote’s the day after next, and I'm probably out. I don't think too many of the Crew will mind the brawl, you know. They were on our territory. They'll vote for fighting. But Ace losing his bike—it reflects on me. I was the one to take him to
The Hammerin' Nail.
I'd hoped I could get the bike back. Hoped I could fix it for him.”

He entered her car and she started it up, thinking.

The Hammerin’ Nail.
June knew that name. Why did she...oh.

“You were there? When that cop was shot?”

He held up his hands. “Hey, I had nothing to do with that.
Nothing
.”

She drew up into herself, suddenly keenly aware of the sort of man she was with. An outlaw. A criminal. A man who probably
had
killed before.

“How do you know?”

“We had guns. I won't lie. Ace always has his. But we didn’t shoot any cops.”

“Then how do you
know—
”

“Because we
don’t shoot cops
. Not unless we have to. You shoot one cop and you’re put away for life. Probably executed. Probably tearing the whole club apart. It’s bad business. I’m not going to pretend to you that it’s a moral decision. It’s not. The only good cop to me is a dead one. I told you about my mother.”

June didn't have the emotional wherewithal to get into that particular fight with Ram right then. He wasn't ever likely to back down off from that point.

“But,” said Ram, “that doesn’t mean I’m the one to put them in the ground. It’s a practical decision. Less dead cops by our hand means we get left the fuck alone.”

“That’s an...interesting argument,” she said. “I wouldn’t try it out in front of a jury.”

“I’m not on trial.” He took her by the shoulders. “Am I? Do you believe me?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“It’s important to me that you believe me, June. Really, it is. I don’t know why, but it is. I want you to trust me.”

“I...” She swallowed. God, he was handsome. Why did he have to be so goddamn handsome all the time? “That’s asking a lot, Ram.”

He sighed and nodded, sliding a hand through his hair. She turned out of the parking lot and began driving down the main drag of Marlowe.

“Yeah, I know. I know it is. Look,” he pointed up the road. “I live just right over there. Come hang with me.”

“I don’t want to listen all night to arguments about trust, Ram. I’m tired. I—”

“It's not like that.” He grabbed her leg now, insistent. She warmed to his touch instantly. “Come hang out with me. I’ve had a rough fucking day. I just saw my friend's bike in pieces and I’m probably kicked out of my club for good. You’re good company. Be with me.”

––––––––

T
he house Ram lived in was small, but it was his—not on loan from the bank, not the government’s—
his
. He kept it tidy, if only because he was out of it so often that he didn’t have a chance to get anything that dirty. There was a small living room with a flat screen television propped up over a long table full of wrenches and spare parts. Sometimes he polished and tinkered, prepping upgrades for his bike, as he watched the game.