Page 28 of In Too Deep

Following Shooter, I make sure I take in everything around me to ensure I don’t miss a thing. We pass a gate that has a large aluminum shed, and I stop in front of it. Pointing, I ask, “What’s in here?”

Shooter stops, turns, and looks at where I’m pointing.

“Oh, there’s nothing in there.” Then he turns and continues to walk to the garage. Before I follow him, I run my eyes over the place one last time and notice cameras positioned all around it. If it is nothing, why have they got it so heavily protected?

Whatever is in there must be important to have that much security around it. I need to somehow get in there.

We enter the garage, and Shooter steps to the front of a covered car. He pulls it off and gathers the material in his hand, revealing a black Mustang that looks like it’s undergoing some work. Letting out a whistle to show my appreciation for this beast, I make my way around it and get a closer look.

“Do you like her?”

“Are you kidding?” This is the 1964 Shelby Mustang… what’s not to like?” I ask, looking over at Shooter.

He smirks and throws the cover on the floor. “I knew you would appreciate it. My brothers seem to think that if you have a Harley, then there’s no use for a car, but they don’t understand what a beauty she is.”

“You got that right. What did you get done?”

He answers by showing me each and every part that he’s worked on and telling me the dollar value of each.

“You know,” I say, taking a swig of my beer.

“I’m happy to help you work on it if you like.”

“Yeah? That would be fuckin’ great, Seth. Maybe you can help get the parts I’m struggling to find.”

“Sure thing, brother.”

He reaches into his pocket and grabs a smoke. “Want one?”

“Sure,” I say, walking toward him and grabbing a smoke from his hand. He searches his jeans and taps around his shirt.

“Where the fuck is my lighter?” He continues searching his pockets.

“You got a lighter on you?” He places his hand out to me, and remembering exactly what lighter I have, I tuck my hand in my jeans pocket and reach for it.

My sweaty hand palms it, and I rotate it in my fingers before I pull it out.

“Here you go.”

He takes it off me while I place my cigarette at the edge of my lips, waiting for him to use my lighter. He flips it open and attempts to light it, but the flame won’t ignite.

After a couple of tries of it not lighting, he taps it on his knee, saying, “You must be out of gas.”

Sweat prickles at the back of my neck as I continue to watch him attempt to light it up. Panicking, I say, “Hand it over here.”

He drops it in my hand, and I flip it open and light it. To my relief, it lights up, and I almost drop the smoke from my lips with my nerves.

Lighting up the smoke, I inhale it, and then, with the cigarette still between my lips, I take a couple of steps to Shooter and bring the light to his. He inhales and blows out smoke.

Finally, with both cigarettes lit, I flip the cover shut and place it back in my pocket. It takes everything in me to stop myself from falling to the floor with relief.

“So, how long have you been in the club?”

He inhales his smoke, then grabs his beer from the bench and has a drink. “Four years.”

I do the same, replying, “Four years? What made you join?”

He shrugs, placing his beer back on the bench before flicking his ashes on the floor and taking another drag. He’s tall with black hair that sweeps across his forehead. He also has a beard and is probably one of the only members who takes a little pride in himself.

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