Page 62 of Kyle

“Got somewhere I’ve got to be,” I say without really answering.

“I’ll ride along.”

“Not this time.” I swing my leg over the seat and lift my bike off the kickstand.

“Why not? What’s so secretive?”

“You don’t need to be involved in this, TJ.”

He tilts his head. “You’re not going to Rafe’s place, are you?”

I huff a laugh. “Why? What do you think I’m gonna do?”

“I don’t know, but you’ve got that ‘I’m going to beat the shit out of someone’ look in your eye.”

“And it’s gotta be Rafe?”

“No, but you’ve seemed a little…” He trails off.

“A little what?”

He shrugs. “Like you’ve lost patience with him.”

“Maybe I have, but that’s not what this is about. I’ve got to go.”

“When will you be back?”

“By eleven.”

“Come have a beer with me at the clubhouse when you get back.”

I nod and fire my bike up, drop it in gear, and hit the throttle, roaring out of the drive and down the street. Checking my side mirror, I see TJ making a call.

He better not try to follow me. This is my deal, not the club’s.

The ride is monotonous, and I spend most of it on autopilot, trying not to dwell on what I’m about to do. Roughing people up isn’t my favorite part of the club, but I’m not doing it for the club. I’m doing it for Sutton, and I’m going to enjoy this one. I don’t think Cole will mind that I do it wearing my cut. He’s always been a staunch protector of women—never one to stand by and let anyone disrespect them, even the dancers down at Sonny’s Gentleman’s Club.

Finally, I hit Burbank and find Victory Blvd. It’s a four-lane road lined with orange trees and small, one level businesses. I pass a bowling alley, a couple of cash advance franchises, and a bail bonds place.

The orange trees are in blossom, and it smells like someone dumped a bottle of perfume on the town.

I come to the intersection of Providencia and spot the place I’m looking for on the left-hand corner. It’s a small cement block building with two double-bays in an area lined with a bunch of other collision centers, body shops, and auto repair places.

I stop at the light and check the time. Ten minutes until they close for the night.

When the light turns green, I make a left down the side street and find an alley behind the building. Perfect. I roll in and park. Reaching inside my cut, I grab my phone and check his photo again, so I don’t make a mistake. I climb from my bike, stretch, and walk to the corner. There’s a bus stop and I lean against a lamppost to light up a cigarette, like I’m waiting for a bus.

Blowing smoke toward the sky, it doesn’t take me long to spot Jerry. He’s got slicked back dark hair and rolled up short sleeves, like he thinks he’s James Dean or something. He looks like the tough guy who folds the moment a man worth his salt challenges him—the guy who only throws his weight around with women and those weaker than him. I’ve seen his kind a million times in this MC life.

Any time the club walks into a bar, there’s always some guy thinks he’s gonna challenge us. But guys like Jerry usually lose their backbone in the first thirty seconds and head out the back door with their tails between their legs.

Since it’s near closing, only one other guy is still there. I smoke another cigarette and stay out of sight around some bushes.

When his last employee goes to his car, I yank my gloves from my back pocket, slip them on, and make my move. Crossing the small parking lot, I stroll nonchalantly into one of the garage bays before Jerry gets the overhead doors pulled down.

“We’re closed, sir. Come back in the morning,” he says, pulling the chain on the first overhead door. It rumbles into place, the sound echoing through the garage. Somewhere a sound system is playing Johnny Cash’sRing of Fire.

“I only need a minute.” I glance around, looking for security cameras, but I don’t see any.

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