Page 52 of Dizzy

I got to think about the mod I’m working on to cool things down before we get to the Baker’s house. Right as I’m pulling up, I get a call from Mikey the prospect. Heavy’s called church in an hour.

This don’t bode well.

Mikey don’t say what it’s about. I tell him to let Heavy know if it lasts longer than an hour, I’m gonna have to bail early to pick up Parker.

I have enough time to meet the Bakers—I make a point of it—and get to the clubhouse before an hour is up. Carson races off to the playground Wall built in the yard out of old tires. Fay-Lee’s more uncertain. She clings my side.

I like it. But she obviously can’t come to church.

Thankfully, she sees some of the sweetbutts she’s been hanging out with at the bar. Without a “See you later,” she skips over to Story. Story’s young and hot, but she ain’t really a sweetbutt. Nickel sees to that, even though he won’t touch her. She’s chewin’ the fat with Danielle and Jo-Beth from The White Van. Danielle can cause trouble, but Jo-Beth has uncommonly good sense.

Crista Holt is behind the bar, pouring drinks. She gives me a dip of the chin. Fay-Lee will be fine.

The way gossip flies around this place, everyone should know she’s off limits, but we get a fair amount of hang arounds. And there are some brothers who’ll take their chance if a woman ain’t wearin’ a cut that readsProperty Of. Jed, for one. That asshole was fixin’ to pop Fay-Lee in the face back when we caught her, and he’s the kind who don’t know the difference between hating a woman and wanting to fuck her.

I’m the last to enter church, but there’re plenty of empty seats.Spank the Devilis next weekend up in Stonecut County, and a lot of brothers left early to camp and go huntin’ before the rally. We barely have a quorum.

Heavy brought this quorum shit back with him from college. His pop ran things different. If there were a goodly number of brothers, we proceeded. If not, we drank until a few more men showed up.

Club charter requires ten patched-in members to bring a motion, and Heavy goes by the letter of the law. He’s sitting at the head of the table, Grinder to his right, Pig Iron to his left. Gus and Boots are sitting at the foot with Eighty. Lots of old-timers here. Camping in the mountains in November is a younger brother’s game.

Jed is here, though. He ain’t into roughing it. Creech, our resident tattoo artist, is next to him, talking to Cue. Big George rounds out the number.

“Good,” Heavy says when he sees me. “This pertains to you. Where’s your house mouse?”

“In the commons. At the bar.”

“Good. We need to keep a close eye on her.”

Unease settles in my stomach. “Why?”

“Creech here had a few drinks at Twiggy’s last night.” Twiggy’s is a honkytonk near the county line. Watered down drafts and hillbillies, mostly.

“Yeah?”

“The bartender’s a friend. I did his ink.” Creech leans back in his chair, indolent, earlobes dangling. Dude has the biggest gauges I’ve ever seen. You could hit a golf ball through ‘em. Bullet has tried. “He says Chaos was there. The day before that big party in September. He was meetin’ someone.”

Creech pauses. Waits for someone to ask him “Who?” He’s got a flair for the dramatic.

I don’t say shit. Neither does anyone else until Boots hollers, “Well, did you forget who the fuck he met?”

“Rab Daugherty.”

The president of the Rebel Raiders. Shit.

“Was Fay-Lee there?” Adrenaline surges through my veins.

“My boy Dan didn’t notice a woman.”

“That doesn’t mean she wasn’t there.” Jed shoots me a sly look. “Place gets crowded.”

Bullshit. Ain’t never been more than a dozen people in there, any time I’ve been. Even when there’s a game on.

“Did Dan the bartender hear what they talked about?” I ask.

Creech shakes his head. “He said they were real cozy in a booth. Heads together.”

“Fuckin’ blown job,” Grinder declares.

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