Taking The Heat (3 page)

TOAD

The tales told by men in a Motorcycle Club are less accurate but far more entertaining than the events inspiring them. Over time, the stories grow, become more interesting, and always develop an ending that’s either funny as hell or unbelievably grotesque. I’ve always believed they started out as the truth, and become polished to perfection over a period of time. Some men are typically more truthful than others; and considering my capacity to digest lies and bullshit, I was close friends with very few of the men in the club. I loved them all as my brothers, but I chose not to befriend each and every one of them. The club decided through the process of being a Prospect who was allowed in, and I determined through my own means and methods who I felt I could
truly
trust. In the end, I had a short list of people I called my friends, and Otis was on the top of the list.

Otis leaned onto the edge of the table and pushed his cup of coffee to the side, “So, you wrapped her head in plastic, fucked her until she was damned near unconscious, shoved your cock down her throat, dumped a load of cum in her gut, and then told her to kick rocks?”

“Yep,” I nodded as I tipped the bottom of my coffee cup up, draining the little remaining liquid from the bottom.

“You’re such a fucking romantic. Think maybe that was a little harsh?” he asked as he leaned away from the table and into the back of his chair.

“Fuck no, it wasn’t harsh. She was a childish bitch. She started talking about being
exclusive
as soon as I cut the shit off her head. And I’d already gave her my speech about
all we’re doing is having sex,
and she agreed. I fucking swear, finding a good bitch is impossible,” I hesitated and leaned into the edge of the table.

“But I did give her dumb ass a ride to Corn Dog’s house. Left my place, rode to the Dog’s, and dropped her off in the driveway. Fucking bitch waved as she walked up the drive like I was doing her a solid,” I chuckled.

Otis picked up his cup of coffee, shook it, and rolled his eyes, “That’s some funny shit right there, I can’t believe you did that. Well, I really can’t believe
she
did it. Heard from the Dog yet?”

I shook my head, “Nope. Not a fucking word.”

“Probably still fucking that poor girl. Been five years without pussy, he’s got some catching up to do,” Otis laughed.

I grinned at the thought of Corn Dog taking five years of frustration out on Sloan. Maybe his personal sexual taste combined with the absence of pussy in his life for the five years he spent in prison would mesh well with Sloan’s desire to be filled with biker cock. As I stood from my seat and tossed the empty cup in the trash can, I shook my head and laughed.

“You ready?” I chuckled, still laughing at the thought of Corndog and Sloan.

“Suppose so. Damn this sun feels good,” Otis said as he stood.

Sitting outside at the local coffee shop was a guilty pleasure of ours. People walking into the store always admired our bikes, and the more brave souls would often ask questions about the club, our bikes, or our cuts. Spending time watching the customers go in and out provided confirmation of just how fucked up Wichita’s east side Starbucks coffee drinking society really was.

I tilted my head toward the bank on the other side of the street. “We’re just going right over there. I need to get this shit deposited as soon as they open. You can sit on your bike while I go in if you want.”

I had taken the majority of my pay, tax free combat pay, and what little money I hustled from side work and invested roughly half of it into a barbeque joint and two rental houses in Winfield. I purchased the rental houses after bank foreclosure, and got one for $7,500 and the other for $9,000. By my calculations, each should provide between $400 and $500 a month of income. The barbeque business was already established, and it came complete with everything I needed from wait staff to meat smokers. $50,000 wouldn’t buy much of anything in a large city, but in a town the size of Winfield, it had potentially purchased my retirement. Income from the restaurant and rentals, combined with what little work I did on custom bike building allowed me to enjoy my days without necessarily having a job.

As we pulled out of the parking lot of the coffee shop and into the street, the light at the corner changed from green to red. As we slowly rolled to a stop at the intersection I tossed my head in the direction of the light above and twisted the throttle. Age and level of maturity always seem to be tossed aside when two men are riding side by side on motorcycles. Otis alternated glances between me and the light as he nodded his head and revved his motor. The sound of the obnoxiously loud exhaust being thrust into the cars behind us would support their thoughts of bikers being obnoxious tattooed pieces of shit. As the light turned green, I released my grip on the clutch and twisted the throttle tight. Two clear advantages I had over Otis were the high performance engine I had built, and the weight of my bike. At nearly nine hundred pounds, I didn’t have to worry about the front tire coming up off of the ground under hard acceleration. As the rear tire screeched and the bike lurched forward, I watched in amazement as Otis shot past me as if I were parked.

What the fuck?

After shifting through two more gears at full throttle, I pulled in the clutch, released the throttle, and slowed down to a responsible eighty miles an hour. There was clearly nothing I could do to catch Otis. Like a little boy who had just been beaten handily on his own playground, I slowed the bike down and pulled into the parking lot of the bank; aggravated and ashamed.

“What the fuck, brother?” I complained as my bike rolled to a stop beside Otis.

“New cams,” Otis grinned.

“Cams?” I shrugged.

Otis nodded his head.

“When?” I asked.

“Put ‘em in last weekend. Surprised you couldn’t
hear
the difference. She’s got a real
rumpity rump
to her now,” he said as he stepped over the seat and stood staring at his bike admiringly.

I flipped the switch on the hand controls and killed the engine. Still pissed off at the quickness of Otis’ bike, I leaned over and unlatched the left saddlebag. After stepping off the bike and to the side, I opened the lid and removed my deposit pouch. Generally, I kept a week of earnings at home in a safe, and rode to the bank once a week for deposits into my business account. Gripping the pouch of money in my hand, I turned toward Otis and lightly shook my head.

“Wallow in it for now, you big prick. I’ll tear mine down this afternoon, and we’ll go at it again. Fucking asshole,” I hissed.

“Runs like a beast now. Shit brother, I waited all fucking morning for you to try something. Go ahead, get your cams in, and we’ll race for that little bag of money you’re carrying,” Otis chuckled as he tilted his head my direction.

“Afraid not. I need to get this in the bank. That fucking Junior is eating me into the red. I’m going to have a talk with that mother fucker,” I laughed.

“The big black kid?” Otis shrugged.

I nodded my head, “Yeah. My meat cost has gone up almost ten fucking percent. He’s either eating ten percent of the meat, or making the meals ten percent larger. Either way, we’re going to have a talk.”

“Well fuck. Kid probably weighs what, four fifty? I bet he can eat a shit load of barbeque,” Otis chuckled.

After I purchased the restaurant, a few of the employees immediately quit. I put up a
Help Wanted
sign on the window and almost instantly a local kid approached me about employment. He had just dropped out of school and was trying to help support his family. He explained his mother was having a difficult time supporting him and his five younger brothers and sisters with no father at home. Although at the time he was only sixteen, I hired him on the spot. He was polite, had a great sense of humor, and seemed very responsible for his age. Initially, a perk of employment was free meals for the employees. Later, due to plummeting profits, the perk changed to
one sandwich
per employee. Now roughly eighteen years old, Junior weighed in excess of four hundred pounds, and it appeared he was eating me into a daily deficit.

“Yeah, he probably weighs four hundred something anyway. So you going in or staying out here in the sun?” I asked.

“I’ll sit here if you’ll make it quick,” Otis responded as he turned toward his bike.

A newer model BMW pulled alongside Otis’ bike as I turned to walk across the parking lot and toward the bank. The gorgeous blonde riding passenger caught my immediate attention, and I craned my neck her direction until I reached the sidewalk leading to the entrance. As I slowly shuffled my feet toward the steps, I watched her out of the corner of my eye until she got out of the car. I continued to make a conscious effort to meander to the door slowly, hoping to hold it open for her and the shit hat she was riding with so I could get a better look at her.

I stepped onto the top landing of the steps, reached for the door, and hesitated as I grasped the handle. As they began to walk up the stairs, I pulled the door open and held it for them to enter, looking over my shoulder as I did. She was wearing nice jeans, conservative heels, and a sleeveless silk top that looked like it had a thousand wrinkles in it. He was wearing slacks, a dress shirt, and a jacket three sizes too large. She shifted her gaze to meet mine, smiled, and immediately looked down as if embarrassed. He, on the other hand, focused his nervous eyes on the deposit pouch I held, eventually broke his stare, and forced his mouth to form a half-assed smirk as he looked upward.

I have always seemed to possess an uncanny knack for reading people. She appeared to me to be apprehensive or as if she felt out of place. He seemed nervous and quite anxious. My efforts to make eye contact with him as they walked past me and into the bank were unsuccessful. As soon as he entered the otherwise empty bank, his eyes began to nervously shift back and forth throughout the lobby. He either had a plan and was too damned nervous to implement it, or was assembling one quickly in his mind. Either way, I stood by the door and watched his every move with interest. As he walked into the center of the lobby, she remained at my side; standing beside the door.

A man’s physical size may have something to do with his capacity to intimidate other men, but in all honesty, size has very little to do with actual ability. Although I was a good six inches taller than he was, and clearly physically larger and stronger, something about him made
me
nervous. I was in no way intimidated by him or scared, but his nervous behavior was beginning to make me feel more and more uneasy. As my eyes shifted between him and her, his plan became crystal clear.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding…

“Nobody fucking move; and if anyone pushes a panic button, I’ll kill every motherfucker in here!” he screamed as he began waving a pistol at the bank tellers.

Immediately, my military instinct took over. I damned sure wasn’t new to fighting, combat, gunfire, or stupid fuckers armed with guns, but I wasn’t so self-centered that I didn’t realize he was twenty feet from me and armed with a pistol while I had nothing more than a knife and a pouch full of money. If I could only get him close enough to touch him, I knew I could disarm him before he knew what happened. Having received my black belt in the Marine Corps Martial Arts Program, or MCMAP, I could have remained in the states and been a Marine martial arts instructor. Instead, I opted to go to war. As I studied him and his manner of holding the weapon, he turned my direction and began nervously screaming.

“Toss your deposit bag. Throw it over here, you big fucker…” he stammered as he waved the gun my direction.

If this motherfucker thinks he’s going to rob me, he’s either going to have to get a dozen more men or a hell of a lot more firepower.

“Throw it on the fucking floor,” he demanded as he shifted his gaze back and forth between the bank tellers and me.

Sorry, shit hat. Come and get it.

Nervously, he shifted his eyes to the row of tellers, “Every one of you motherfuckers better get the money out of your drawers
right now
. Put it all in deposit bags, and don’t sound an alarm. If a cop comes in here, I’m going to shoot every one of you bitches before he shoots me.”

As he quickly turned away from where I stood and faced the tellers, I tilted my head to the side and whispered, “Stay right here by the door. Don’t move, understand?”

His female accomplice nervously nodded her head.

While he faced the other direction, I took two steps toward him. As he turned around, he blinked his eyes a few times and once again demanded I drop the money.

“I told you to toss that bag on the floor, big boy,” he snarled as he pointed the gun toward me.

Did you just call me a boy?

I figured my best bet was to coerce him to come to me and attempt to
take
the money. All he needed was a little encouragement. I rolled my shoulders forward, stared down at my boots, and tried to appear as small as a six foot tall 190 pound Marine could possibly look. Luckily, I was wearing a tee shirt that did a pretty good job of covering my Marine tattoo.