Page 36 of Biker's Property

War.

That's what Southpaw promised.It's what we all agreed on. War is nice in theory. In reality, you're on edge all the fucking time. You miss drinking.

There are only two people in the world keeping me away from liquor this time -- Mackenzie and Juliette. Mackenzie because of how much I love her and I want her to know how much I’ve done for my baby girl. Juliette because I'm downright terrified of what might happen to me if she thinks I'm drinking.

Ryder's drunken ass left half a flask of whiskey over at our place one time and the volcanic argument between me and Juliette nearly brought down half the buildings on our street. I never knew the word 'redneck' could be advanced into such a specific set of slurs until that little incident.

Condom pulls his bike right up next to mine as we watch the front door of the shitty double wide where we've been tracking Bucky's mother-in-law for the past five days.

He pulls a flask from his breast pocket and takes a swig that makes me downright envious. We only use our club names out here since we're on the road... Ruger Blackwood becomes Bucky - a tame ass nickname for a motherfucker that’s goddamn crazy.

Sensing my envy as I stare at him drinking, Condom passes me a welcome cigarette. I set a good example for Mackenzie but considering each cigarette out here might be my last, I'm not too particular about staying on the wagon.

"It's a good sign we haven't seen her," Bucky says. "If she were here with her mama, we would have seen her."

Condom grunts. "Keep telling yourself that. She was a whore when you met her, a whore when you married her... Didn't she fuck Priest?"

Ruger glares at him from his murky green eyes. He has always had the general appearance of a serial killer in my opinion. Not the type of man you get close to. Typical Blackwood temper and stubbornness. Fixed in his ways -- especially about race. It's no surprise he got himself entangled with a chick like Darlene.

My opinion on Ruger’s wife isn't worth much, but I'm not interrupting Condom to correct him, I'll say that much.

"My old lady is not a whore," Ruger says. I almost feel bad for him. I've heard him defend the Kansas City Chiefs with more enthusiasm and he was raised a Las Vegas Raiders fan. "Call her a whore one more time, Condom."

"I'm not saying she is a whore," my cousin says, stumbling into more trouble than necessary by not backing out of the whole goddamn discussion. "But if she were to be disloyal... that would be the act of a whore."

"She is not a goddamn whore."

Ruger drops his cigarette butt on the ground and stomps on it directly. Anyone else would have picked up on the subtle cue and let it go.

"I know," Condom says. "I know. But didn't half the football team pay her to blo--

Ruger's glare shuts him up. Finally. Then I get to shut them both up before the quiet tension picks up into a psychotic argument.

"Fuck. There's movement. New movement."

Five daysof watching and I was starting to believe Tamiya fed our asses bad info. Gideon nearly kicked all our asses for doubting his old lady. I guess he was right because the flash of blond hair that leaves the double wide is a particular bleached shade that looks familiar now that I see it on the head of the five-foot tall woman glancing around anxiously before she darts to the old souped up Challenger parked out front the trailer and revs it up.

Condom puts his hand on his holster. Instead of rushing to action, I stay quiet and watch the whole scene unfold. The questions I have are more important than the emotions I feel. Ruger Blackwood is all emotion, especially for Darlene Song Blackwood, the woman he married when they were both eighteen-years-old.

Hardly feels fair to call either of them grown but the Blackwoods are religious, Ruger had his military service all panned out and honestly, both their parents wanted to get rid of them. Especially Darlene’s.

“I ought to cut that bitch’s throat,” Ruger growls, his hands clenching and unclenching the handlebars of his motorcycle as fury emanates from his body. I don’t have to look right at him to feel the anger coursing through him. The Blackwoods don’t handle betrayal well. The recent losses in the family have all those boys rubbed way too raw.

Life fucked Gideon Blackwood up worse than prison could ever do to my brother. Ruger doesn’t have Gideon’s discipline. He never became an Army Ranger. Shit, I think he lost his benefits doing some crazy shit out in Hawaii. I don’t know the details…

Condom pulls him back before I have to say anything. “Don’t lose your shit, Bucky. We don’t know she’s a rat. All we know is she lied to your stupid ass.”

If Condom weren’t six foot eight and twice the size of any Blackwood, he would find himself at the wrong end of Ruger’s fist. His sheer size stops just about anything that doesn’t have wheels or hooves from messing with him.

Ruger glares, but he doesn’t dare escalate things. Yet. Our personal problems have a way of coming out towards the end of a ride or during our club meetings.

The Dodge makes a distinct sound when Darlene starts the engine. Five days of watching have been boring as fuck, but they haven’t been worthless. Reaper was here on our third night watching so he could install a tracker on that Dodge, so we don’t have to risk detection to follow the woman behind the wheel.

We just needed a confirmation of her identity.

They both waitfor my command before we follow the car. Condom has the GPS, a better sense of direction, and he spent more time around these parts riding after high school, so he leads. I follow Ruger, partly because I have to make sure he doesn’t veer off and do anything stupid but also because I have to send a quick message to Southpaw and Reaper, let them know our progress.

We might not know for sure Darlene is our rat, but what are the odds she’s been lying to Reaper for her health? The Dodge stops outside a Love’s travel stop twenty miles along Route 40 – the site of the old Route 66 highway. I like the open road, but parts of Oklahoma are hot, too shitty for words, and give you this unnerving feeling that you don’t belong there and you had better get out quick before something gets you.

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