Page 49 of The Senator

I went to the bathroom to gather my toiletries, taking my toothbrush from the holder where it rested next to Spencer’s. I’d only planned to be gone for a few days, but if Spencer changed his mind about us after spending time with his family, I wanted to have all my shit with me. I’d learned to hedge my bets a long time ago.

“Come on! It’s not like that, and you know it. Besides, you didn’t tell me you’d talked to Jay about us. He seemed to think I was with both of you.” I was trying to keep my temper in check. Nothing productive would come from a shouting match.

“He’s nineteen, Nash. You don’t think he’s gonna fuck with you and make you uncomfortable? He told us they’d be here this afternoon, so we thought we’d have time to get home before them, but here they come rolling in at ten this morning. I’m sorry we got caught in traffic on the damn Beltway, but please, please don’t leave.” Spencer’s voice had a pleading tone, but I didn’t want that from him.

I walked over and sat down next to him on the edge of the bed. “Baby, as much as it seems like Jay’s okay, this is still gonna be tough for him. The four of you need to celebrate this one together. I’ll be back on the twenty-sixth, and I’ll get to know Jay and Cole then. They’re not going to see Cole’s people until the thirtieth, right?” As much as I wanted to be with Spencer for Christmas, it felt like the right thing to do.

An hour and two blow jobs later—me to Spencer, who then returned the favor—I had the keys to Spencer’s SUV, and I was on the interstate headed southwest. I’d left my sparse gifts for Spence, Vani, Cole, and Jay to open on Christmas morning, and I sent a text to Denny.

I’m assuming the offer still stands for me to hang out with you bums. I’ll be there about eight, if traffic isn’t bad. Make sure I have a room that’s clean, will ya?

I stopped at the Supercenter to get some gag gifts for The Volunteers, along with a few cases of beer, remembering I didn’t want to show up at the clubhouse empty handed.

The wrath of what The Volunteers considered practical jokes—a bag of actual shit under a bed, tires removed from a vehicle and hidden somewhere in the woods, the hot water to the adjoining bathroom turned off—were stuff of legends. They were considered harmless pranks, according to biker law. But really, those guys had been good to me when I needed a family, and I would show them all my respect.

I was standing in the beer aisle of the warehouse store, loading a cart with some of the preferred varieties of brew I could remember buying when I was with the club as a prospect. Suddenly, a distinct whistle echoed throughout the vast building, capturing the attention of those in the aisle with me.

I knew that whistle like I knew the sound of my own voice, and I chuckled when a friendly face came strolling down the aisle toward me. It was Denny—Double D, for Deadly Denny as he was known to his brothers in the club. He was wearing his leathers and a big grin, which seemed to scare off those around me.

“Little Brother! You made good time.” Denny scooped me up in a bear hug, knocking the wind out of me.

“Whoa! You’re gonna cripple me, man! You gotta find something else to do besides lifting heavy shit.” Since I’d seen him a month earlier, he looked like he’d put on twenty pounds of muscle. The man was a mountain.

Denny laughed and whistled again, and I heard the returning whistle which meant they were headed our way. I looked up to see Hand, which was a surprise. It wasn’t often the president of the club came out to see a lowly former prospect like me.

“Nash, man, it’s good to see you!” Hand—Palmer Hanrahan—greeted, offering the same bone-crushing hug as Denny.

I pounded on his back in return, and when he released me, I was gratified to see the man looked happy I’d made the trip. “I was grabbing some beer to bring along. You guys need anything else?”

Hand wrapped a beefy arm around my shoulders and chuckled. “You don’t gotta bring nothing. You’re always welcome, and I promise, none of these bitches will fuck with your stuff. Come on! We do need beer, though.” The three of us proceeded to the check out. After Denny paid, ignoring my protests, we walked outside to see Heretic, Saint, and Preacher, all surrounding the SUV.

“How’d you know that was mine?”

Denny chuckled. “It’s registered to the Senator. I had Pacman run the plates for us. The Virginia tags sort of gave it away, but I wanted to double check before we went inside and gave someone else a hard time. I was gonna call you anyway. We’ve got some news for you.”

The feeling of dread slid down my spine, but if they had any information that could help Spencer figure out who outed him and cost him the election, I wanted to know. “Is it about the money trail?”

Denny nodded, so I stood straighter and prepared myself for whatever news he had to give me. I acknowledged the fact we needed to have a conversation and hopped into the SUV, waiting for all of them to mount up and lead the way to the clubhouse.

Once we arrived at The Volunteer, the club-owned bar that was built in front of the distillery warehouse, the bikes parted, giving me a spot in front of the massive building. There were three large warehouses behind it, one for the actual distillery, one for storing supplies, and a third I’d been smart enough to never ask about.

The members of Devil’s Volunteers had their fingers dipping into more pies than I wanted to know, and not many of them were legal, which was why I had to keep Spencer at arm’s length from the club.

The club made its legit money from moonshine sales, now that the laws had been changed to make it legal to distill the beverage if one followed all the business regulations. Denny’s grandfather, who was an old-school mountain man, taught him how to make moonshine when he was a kid. Back then the entire Wallace family lived up in the Appalachian Mountains on a family compound, making moonshine to take care of all the family’s needs. They used the guise of a logging business as a front, but they burned all the wood they cut, stoking the fires under the stills that were hidden among the large trees, or so Denny told Clint and me one night.

Back then, moonshine wasn’t legal, though it was still made. After the laws changed in 2009, Denny went to community college to take business classes, and later applied for and procured a distillery license. The club has had a booming craft moonshine business ever since.

There was a tasting room in the lobby of the main building, which was separate from the bar, and while the distillery could only retail its products for consumption off premises, prospective buyers could taste a little before they purchased pints, quarts, or gallons—up to a five-gallon limit.

The Volunteer also served the spirits, but that was another type of license that Hand had to obtain on his own, due to the fact he was the only senior members of the club who didn’t have a prison record—aside from Denny. Hell, live and let live!

After I moved on from Sparta, Clint and I stayed in touch, and during one phone call in particular, he told me about the club making a lucrative off-the-books deal with several bars in the nearby counties for a bulk price on moonshine that wasn’t exactly legal, since it was over the five-gallon limit. I’d determined it was probably one of the tamer ways the club made its money, so I didn’t ask more questions than I wanted answered. I knew it wasn’t my business to pry into the affairs of The Volunteers, but I was surprised at how many improvements had been made around the grounds.

Hand revved his Harley, and just like a dog whistle, two young guys came barreling out of the clubhouse. I saw their cuts and could see their prospect patches, which made me smile. “Pop the tailgate, Nash. Boys get the beer, the bags, and Nash’s duffel. Take the beer into the family room of the clubhouse and stock the fridge. Take everything else to the blue room. Nash is here to spend Christmas with the family,” Hand announced, making me feel like I was actually with family.

The two young guys nodded without question, and I chuckled. “God, I remember those days when Clint and I were your step-and-fetch boys. What are their chances of patching in?” I held out the keys to Preacher, who had always been in charge of the prospects. He was wearing a happy grin at my gesture which warmed my heart.

I knew the drill. After taking my stuff to my room, the prospects would check the Navigator over to ensure there were no tracking devices on it or hidden cameras, and then they’d park it out of sight of the local cops. Even though they trusted me, it was the way every vehicle was treated when it pulled onto club property. Moving and searching the vehicles used to be my job, and I longed for those simpler times.

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