Page 16 of Doozer

“Back when Cutter started the Saints, there weren’t many clean clubs to speak of. Nowadays, it’s getting harder and harder to find an outlaw club that isn’t dropping in numbers by the year. Before Cutter turned the reigns over to Minus, they figured out a way to move the club into the new millennium before we all ended up dead or in prison.”

“So, you’re all a bunch of Boy Scouts now?”

“You tell me? You ride with a clean club. Is every BFK member squeaky clean?”

“We’re a charity organization. Every member must be sober and pass a background check.”

“Wow, that’s hard core. I can’t say we’d all pass a background check with flying colors, but the Burning Saints are as safe as milk,” I replied.

“Even milk turns bad,” Trouble deadpanned.

“That’s true, but so far, the straight and narrow path has been working out okay for us.”

“So, you’re more like a 2% club now?”

“I guess, so,” I said with a laugh. “You’re funny.”

Trouble’s cheeks pinkened as she cocked her head. “Why the change?”

“Times have changed,” I replied. “Why not change with them? I like how Minus puts it. Just because the Burning Saints were born in the streets, it doesn’t mean we have to die there.”

“So, even though you became a member back in the day, you never had to…”

“Ice anyone? No,” I replied. “Not that it’s ever been a patch requirement anyway.”

“Really? I thought all one percent clubs made you get your hands wet.”

“I’ve always been a ‘left hand guy’ within the club,” I replied.

“What’s that?”

“It means I’m the person you come to when you need something fixed.”

Trouble looked me up and down but said nothing.

“Okay, enough about me,” I said. “How did you and Cowboy meet?”

“I was on my way to a bike rally in Idaho—”

“Thunder Valley?”

“That’s right. I was on my way to Thunder Valley and I spotted a guy in a BFK kutte broken down on the side of the road. His fuel pump quit on him just outside the state line and I stopped to see if there was anything I could do to help. The rest is history, I guess.”

“You’re a gearhead yourself, eh? Is that how Cowboy roped you into riding with BFK?”

“It wasn’t that hard, really. After I fixed his bike, Cowboy offered to buy me lunch at a nearby diner he loved. He didn’t seem like a creep and I knew of Bikers for Kids’ reputation, so I said yes. Over lunch, he told me all about the club and about how they were always looking for new members. While he was talking, something clicked in my head. I was sick of being on the road alone. Tired of having no one to watch my back.” She lowered her chin. “Tired of being harassed by creeps.”

“How long were you a Nomad?”

“About four years,” she replied.

I let out a long whistle. “Damn, that’s a long time to ride solo.”

“Yeah, well. Life rarely hands you options, does it?”

I could hear sadness in her voice. A vulnerability underneath her carefully guarded exterior.

“I guess not,” I replied.

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