Scarred Asphalt (8 page)

Iron horse meditation was a drug that no doctor could
prescribe, but it helped alleviate Romeo’s pain and murderous thoughts for the
time being. The wind that brushed along his face and swept away his breath,
mixed with the brain’s need to escape from reality, was exactly what the doctor
ordered. The swish—swish—swish of the white line and sound of the dual rumble
of the 103’s cleared the lethal images that had started playing like a movie in
his mind.

No words were needed between the brothers as they rode side
by side, completely in tune with the other. Years of riding together had
perfected their non-verbal communication skills. A nod of the head, a glance in
a certain direction, or a slight movement of a hand was all one needed to
instruct the other about which direction to go or what one wanted the other to
do.

The Harleys pulled up to the gate that gained entrance to
the cabin’s land. Zacky-boy was waiting, pulling the wrought iron fence open,
allowing them to roll by, then closing it behind him.

Romeo paused on the bike long enough to watch his prospect
walk up to them in his rear view mirror. “You got your P-bag in the cabin?”

“Yes, sir.” Zack nodded, glancing between Wolf and Romeo
with his brow quirked.

“Any pain reliever in it?”

“Aspirin, ibuprofen, acetaminophen, and naproxen.”

“Good man. Where’s Jan?”

Zack offered up a shrug of his shoulders. “He’s not
answering his phone.”

“Hmm, keep trying.” Romeo racked the throttle, knocked his
left foot lever into first, and rolled away from the prospect.

The duo pulled up next to the prospect’s hog. Romeo killed
the engine and laid his skid-plate on top of his tank before he got off the
bike, then stepped over to the oversized duffle bag. He unzipped the top and
started to root through the bag to get a couple of tablets to kill the major
headache. All prospects were required to haul around a bag called the P-bag, or
Prospect bag, that carried everything and anything any club member, ol’ lady,
or pass-around might need.

Romeo actually burst out laughing as he lifted up a small
package to show Wolf. “He took this serious. He’s actually got a fucking
kitchen sink in here.”

He had told Zack that a P-bag was supposed to have
everything but the kitchen sink in it, to include tampons, razors, deodorant,
pills, suture kits, allergy meds, bug spray, condoms—you name it, the bag was
to have it. Zack had actually found something called “The Kitchen Sink”, which
was a plastic sink one could take camping and fill with hot water to clean
dishes with.

In-fucking-genius.

Still laughing, Romeo grabbed out a few naproxen and walked
beside Wolf to the front door of the cabin, making a mental note that two hang-arounds
were watching the door.

“After the clubhouse, do you think something’s happened to
Jan?”

Romeo shook his head slowly as the door was opened for them
and quietly shut once they got inside. “I’m not sure. I’ll have Zacky-boy keep
trying his cell.”

They followed the sounds of voices in the back, toward the
den where everyone was waiting for the two to arrive. The den was decked out in
all wood. Wooden floors, wooden bar, wooden stools, dark cherry wood
entertainment center that held a sixty inch flat screen and a Yamaha stereo
system. The couches were dark-brown leather to match the décor, and comfortable
to boot.

The guys all had beers in their hands, Saber already up and
grabbing one for Romeo and Wolf, knowing they needed it just as bad as they did.

Thanking Saber for the hand-off, Romeo flopped down on a
stool at the bar kitty-corner to the couches, giving pause to look over
everyone as they argued about what ought to be done.

“I say we go over to their fucking ghetto ass chicken pen
and show them who fucking rules the roost in this town,” Talon growled out as
he took a long drag off of the bottle.

“Fuck that. We need to just declare war and get the shit
over and done with,” Hawkeye piped up, usually the quiet one of the group.

Saber shook his head, dropped his emptied bottle into the
trash, and cracked open another. “Hell nah. I say we put out an SOS on those
fucking cocksuckers and show them who the bitches are in this relationship.”

An SOS was a bit more than Romeo was expecting to come out
of Saber, but considering what had happened to Maggie and Thorne at the TG’s
hands, he understood the desire for a
shoot on sight
order.

Axe scratched at his faux-hawk then his goatee, thinking out
loud. “I think it’s too soon for an SOS, but I do agree on war. Those damn
Spic’s sent a message that we’re the bitches, a bunch of fucking pussies. If we
don’t retaliate, they just owned our asses.”

“Heard.” Mace nodded and cleared his throat. “Shit just got
fucking real. They broke a treaty. Granted, Demon broke it when he defected and
attacked Maggie and Thorne. But this?” Mace shook his head. “This was beyond
uncalled for. They’re stepping off in it and just don’t realize it.”

Romeo listened to each idea with an open mind, each one
fueling his anger more as pictures of the chapel room flashed away like a slide
show in his head. He took a swig of the beer, winced, and set it aside. It
tasted flat and like…well…piss. He knew his stomach, already in complete
turmoil, would heave if he tried anything else.

He wanted to march his ass up into TG territory, hold a gun
to Muerte’s head, and pull the fucking trigger. It was pure instinct to do so,
but it would also be a dumb move and he probably wouldn’t make it out alive.
Not that he cared at the moment. All he wanted was revenge and the devil
sitting on his shoulder was being a dick, urging him to take matters and handle
it.

It felt like there was a huge weight on his shoulders, and
he did not want to lead the club down the wrong road. Romeo pushed his stool
out and laid his head on his arms, letting his eyes fall closed. Why did Stone
have to be in WitSec? Why did he put his life on the line to save his family?
Stone would know what to do, and yet here he was with his tail dangling between
his legs, unsure of where to lead the club and his brothers.

A loud jangle on the bar top rang in his ears, forcing him
to lift his head and see what the culprit was.

“Really?” Romeo glanced to the coin that lay before him,
then looked up to Wolf, single brow quirked.

“Did I fucking stutter?”

“You didn’t say jack shit.”

Wolf had just challenged Romeo with a SixGun challenge coin.
Wolf held a National Club coin, along with Romeo, who reached into his jeans
pocket and brought his out, tossing it to the table. Each brother got up and
pulled their own out, laying them on the bar top with the others, though the
rest had chapter coins.

The challenge coin was an old military tradition that Stone
and Road-Dawg passed onto the SixGuns. During World War I, American volunteers
from all parts of the country filled the newly formed flying squadrons in
Europe. Some were wealthy scions attending colleges such as Yale and Harvard
who quit mid-term to join the war. In one squadron, a wealthy lieutenant
ordered medallions struck in solid bronze and presented them to his unit. One
young pilot placed the medallion in a small leather pouch that he wore about
his neck. Right after he got his coin, the pilot was shot down behind enemy
lines and captured by the Germans. They took everything but his leather pouch.
He was able to escape one night during a raid, but had no personal
identification.

He stole civilian clothing to maneuver through the area,
finally making it to a French station that had been taken over by the enemy.
The French found him, thought he was one of the Germans, and demanded that he
be executed. The American pilot had no way to prove his allegiance, other than
the coin in his pouch. He showed them the medallion, on which the French
immediately recognized the insignia.

Back at his squadron, it became tradition to ensure that all
members carried their medallion or coin at all times. This was accomplished
through challenge in the following manner: a challenger would ask to see the
medallion. If the challenged could not produce a medallion, they were required
to buy a drink of choice for the member who challenged them. If the challenged
member produced a medallion, then the challenging member was required to pay
for the drink. This tradition continued on throughout the war and for many
years after the war while surviving members of the squadron were still alive.

“Have you all forgotten what these coins mean?” Wolf glanced
to each of them. “Unity. Brotherhood. Loyalty. The promise to stand by one
another no fucking matter the cost. These fucking pussies?” Wolf hiked his
thumb over his shoulder, his eyes growing hard, the lids narrowed with malice.
“They are just fucking speed-bumps in the life of the SixGun Outlaws. They’re
worse than the dumbass MC reality TV shows. What we need is to show a united front.
To be the club that Stone and Road-Dawg wanted it to be. What we saw back there
was a bunch of teenage boys trying to steal our mascot. Nothing more. We
rebuild and we move the fuck on and have our party like we’ve planned. Fuck
them and the tricycles they rode in on.”

“Wolf is right,” Romeo nodded as he picked up his founder
coin and rolled it between his fingers as he stared at it in thought. “Dad
would have ignored their asses, the first time. Maybe not the second. He would
have sent a message then. We’re all angry, we’re hurt, and we all feel as if
Lorena Bobbit just had her fun with us, but we can’t show them they hurt us.”

Romeo stood up, tossed his coin in the air, caught it, then
slid it back into his pocket. “Talon, call Red, Sin, Bishop, and Injun. Then
call Gambit. I want them here by Wednesday to help get the clubhouse cleaned up
before Saturday for the block party.”

“On it.” Talon nodded as he got up off the couch, burner
already in hand to start calling the officers of the other chapters. Red and
Sinjin, otherwise known as Sin, ran the Reno chapter, Bishop ran New Orleans,
Injun ran Mississippi, and Gambit ran the Nomads.

“And someone find out where the fuck Jan is.”

Chapter Eleven

His leg was itching.

The plastic band of the ankle bracelet was eating away at
his skin to the point that he had all but scratched a hole in his damn leg. The
only relief he got was when he wore his boot socks under the ball and chain,
but when he wore his boots, the plastic box pressed harshly into his skin and
rubbed against the bone. It was almost excruciating. Apollo couldn’t win for
losing.

He couldn’t wear his cut because of the conditions of his
arrest.
Can’t ride my bike without my cut
. It was a vicious circle that
he wished he could get out of. That wasn’t going to happen for a while.

So, the truck it was. He loved the beach almost as much as
he loved his bike, so he drove a 1972 Chevy Blazer that was lifted and ready
for the sand drags and dune hopping. It was a gas guzzler at eleven miles per
gallon on a good day, but he had no choice about what he could drive at the
moment. Sure, Romeo might waive the cut ordeal, but knowing his ass, Murphy’s
Law would bite him in the butt and he’d get arrested anyway on the bike since
it seemed like coppers had it out for him right now.

Once at the strip-club-slash-bar that the SixGuns owned,
aptly named Throttle Boss, Apollo threw himself into the job. He was currently
the manager of the bar when he was not shooting photos of one thing or another.
All of the girls liked to flirt with Apollo, but they all knew that he was off
limits. He didn’t shit where he ate. Plus, strippers weren’t his cup of tea.
Yes, he hired the crème de la crème, but there was something about a stripper
that made him look the other way.

“Wooooo, look at the stud tonight, Cinnamon.” One of the
girls, Star, cat-called out to Apollo as he came out of the stock room carrying
a case of beer.

Apollo rolled his eyes, but blew a kiss to the twins all the
same. “No stud here, Star. Thinkin’ you need your eyes checked darlin’.”

“Those jeans get any tighter, stud-muffin, and we’ll be able
to tell if that is a sock you stuffed your pants with or the real thing.”
Cinnamon bounced her brows as she leaned on the bar to catch a better look.

Apollo laughed, shaking his rump to the girls. “You two need
to get laid.”

“Yeah, but your dance card is always full.” Star chimed in
while sticking out her bottom lip in a fake pout.

“And you two can’t afford me.” Apollo bounced his brows at
the two as he ripped open the box to place the bottles of beer in the cooler.

“But I can.”

Apollo froze mid-movement at the familiar voice, then
continued to put the beer away. He avoided looking up at his ex-girlfriend lest
she get the wrong idea.

“Oh, new girl’s got spunk.”

That got his attention.

His head jerked up, the cobalt’s narrowed at Gabby before
they flicked over to the twins. “New girl?”

Apollo hadn’t hired Gabby, so who the fuck did?

“Yes, new girl.” Gabby sashayed closer to the bar, pushing
down on the top to place her barely clad ass on the edge of a stool. She leaned
precariously forward, her biceps pushing her tits together as she gazed
longingly at Apollo. “Max hired me.”

Max, also known as Styx, was the assistant manager, and
obviously hired Gabby when Apollo was MIA in jail and his court dates.

He made a mental note to nut check Styx later.

“Consider yourself unhired.”

“Tsk tsk, Dalton. You know you want me here. I can bring in
a crowd better than these bitches.”

“Excuse me?” Star pushed away from the bar, fury written all
over her face when she turned to face Gabby.

“I didn’t stutter.” Gabby stepped off of the stool to face
off with the twins, since Cinnamon backed her sister up and was standing right
behind her.

And this was also why he left Gabrielle. Her shit never
stank. She was always better than everyone else, and stuck her nose up in the
air at others. Plus, having a bitch from the TG working in a SixGun business?
Yeah, so not a good idea. Especially after the events of the other night.

“You better get your bitch in check, Apollo, before we do.”
Star looked at Apollo then slowly turned her attention back to Gabby.

“
My
bitch? What the fuck?” Apollo stood straighter,
knowing he looked as confused as all get out.

“That’s why Max hired her, because she’s gone around telling
people she belongs to you.” Cinnamon piped in, tossing her chestnut locks
tossed over her bare shoulder in agitation.

Gabby smirked, her chocolate eyes lit with silent laughter.
“Someone sounds jealous.” She stepped forward and leaned toward the girls,
taunting them as she spoke. “Everyone wants a piece of his dick, ladies. No
shame in it.”

Star had lifted her hand to bitch slap Gabby, but Apollo
caught her wrist just in time. “Go the fuck home, Gabby, and don’t come back.”

A throat cleared behind him, masculine and full of bass. “I
don’t think so, Apollo. She stays. Your set, Gabrielle, get on stage.”

Apollo released his hold on Star before he slowly turned to
glare at the large male behind him. Styx was massive. Just as big as Saber on
many levels. Jet black hair that hung loosely around his head, the soft waves,
almost curly hair, reached just below his shoulders, eyes so dark brown they
were almost black framed by thick lashes. High cheekbones showed his Chumash
heritage as did the naturally tanned and hairless body.

“What the fuck, bro?” Apollo threw his hand out, motioning
to the hip swinging Gabby as she made her way to the stage. “I’m the manager
here. I say she goes.”

“Since your little excursion with the law,
bruh
, that
little lady has about doubled out intake. She packs out the house every fucking
weekend. So, no. She stays.”

“Go make rounds, Star, Cinnamon.” Once the girls walked off,
Apollo faced Styx once more. “She’s part of the TG, man. If they fucking catch
wind that Muerte’s daughter is working here, let alone stripping, shit is gonna
get bad. I don’t want that on my head.”

“I doubt it will cause problems. You’re just worried that
daddy will find out you’re fucking his daughter again.”

“I’m not—” Apollo stopped and shook his head, turning away
from Styx to finish stocking the bar. He knew Gabby, and knew that she would
start fights over him. He wasn’t sure why she was so interested in him again
when she wouldn’t give him the time of day at one point, too busy fucking other
TG members.

He also knew that if the TG found out she was there, they
would retaliate in a way worse than what he heard just happened to the
clubhouse.

Apollo scratched at his scruff and glanced toward the stage,
a bit surprised at the number of men that flocked the stage where Gabby was
dancing and working the pole like a hooker on Fifth Street. He crossed his arms
over his chest with an over-exaggerated eye roll and leaned his hip against the
counter top.

Apollo was seething and he knew it was written all over his
face. He reached for his back pocket, pulled out the burner, and dialed Romeo’s
number.

“Speak.”

Got to love the way he answers the phone. He knew Romeo
hated the things, but it’s not like he could hop on his bike and go see him
face to face. “Have you heard about the newest addition to Throttle?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“My ex.” Apollo wasn’t going to give too much info over the
phone, not knowing who could be listening in.

“You’re the dumbass who hired her, why are you calling me?”

“Styx hired her. Not me.”

“Okay? And?”

Apollo sighed as he raised his hand up to pinch the bridge
of his nose, his eyes closed in frustration. “Styx says she brings in bank, but
if her
family
finds out she works here?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. I’ve told everyone
to chill and sit tight. No need to get balls deep right now.”

Are you fucking kidding me
? Apollo laughed to cover
his annoyance at Romeo’s aloofness at the situation at hand. “Alright. You’re
the boss.”

He glanced back to Gabby and the stage, meeting her gaze
when he hung up the phone. There was no denying the lust that reflected in the
pale brown hues, but he did not reciprocate it, even with the suggestive
dancing she was doing. The bitch could ride a pole like a Nun saying prayers in
church, but he was thoroughly disgusted with her antics.

Through most of the night, she kept trying to catch his eye,
making sure that she had men fawning over her, trying to make Apollo jealous.

Didn’t work.

The girls on the other hand? They were getting angrier by the
song. It was apparent that he wouldn’t have to fire Gabby; the girls would make
her life a living hell instead. He could live with that. Piss off a stripper by
taking her johns and money? Yeah, that was a cat fight waiting to happen.

It didn’t matter though. She was still working her way under
his skin, pissing him off every minute she wasn’t dancing. The girls cocktailed
when not dancing, though a special few bartended if his two girls, Raine and
Sunshine, were off. When it was Gabby’s turn to cocktail, she made sure she
irritated the two girls by making googley eyes at Apollo, which angered the
girls even more. One thing he could say, the girls may flirt and tease him, but
they were protective over him and they weren’t having it.

He tried to talk the girls down, but what was that saying?
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned? Times that by twenty and you had the
women of Throttle Boss.

By the end of Apollo’s shift, around nine, he was mentally
and physically exhausted. All he wanted to do was go home, take a hot shower,
and climb into his bed.