Page 25 of Sweet Pea

“I’m not dumb, Sweet Pea. A lot of motorcycle clubs do charitable work in order to look good in their communities.”

“What I’m talking about goes deeper than that,” he said softly. “How about you climb back into bed. I want to show you something.”

I did as Sweet Pea instructed as he went out to the living room, returning with his black leather motorcycle vest.

“This is my kutte. It’s the most important thing in the world to me,” he said.

“It’s very sexy,” I said.

“This isn’t a fashion accessory. It’s a statement of who I am and who I belong to. It’s my suit of armor and my coat of arms.”

“I think I understand, but why are you showing it to me?”

“I have two new patches on my kutte. Do you know which ones they are?” he asked, holding the kutte up next to him.

“It’s a little hard to tell given the lack of light, but the Road Captain one looks a little brighter than the others.”

“A new promotion,” he replied.

“Congratulations,” I said.

“The other is this one,” he said pointing to a circular patch containing a backwards R and an H.

“What’s that one signify?”

“Not a big fan of hard rock music?”

“Big band mostly,” I replied, to which Sweet Pea chuckled.

“Jesus, Callie. Do you have any tastes that don’t match those of an eighty-year old man?”

“Not really,” I admitted.

“This is the logo for the band RatHound, but that’s not really what’s important. What is important is the patch that it’s covering up.”

“What’s that?”

“A one-percenter patch,” he said. “Do you know what that is?”

I nodded.

“So, you know what it means?”

I nodded again. “Why is it covered up?”

“I can’t go into any details about club business, but I’ll tell you this, the Burning Saints are no longer a one-percenter club. When Cutter died, the past died with him.”

“I think our justice system would disagree with you,” I said, another yawn escaping.

“Perhaps, but the point is our club is no longer a “criminal organization” as you put it. The Saints have started and invested in businesses all around town and are no longer running the protection game in Portland.”

“Who is?”

“I told you, I can’t discuss club matters, but I will see you tomorrow. How does eleven o’ clock sound?”

“As long as I can sleep in until 8:00, I’m golden,” I slurred.

“Good. I’ll see you after church, then. I’m gonna take off and let you sleep,” he said, tucking me in with a gentle kiss on the forehead.

I was utterly drained from the events of the past twenty-four hours. I was sure that I’d never experienced such a roller coaster of a day and prayed I’d not see another like if for a long time.

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