Page 73 of Fire Meets Fire

Irise from the chair as Queenie walks into the waiting room, trying to read the expression on her face. It’s impossible to tell whether she’s happy or not, but I’m sure I detect a spring in her step that wasn’t there earlier. If this wasn’t so important to her, I’d threaten to spank her ass for keeping me hanging.

As she approaches, I take a step toward her. Unable to hold back, I utter one word with an upward inflexion. “Well?”

She can’t hold it in any longer, a beaming smile widens her face, and her gorgeous eyes sparkle. “I’ve got the all-clear which means I’ll have my driver’s permit back.” She swallows as if overcome with emotion. “I can drive.”

“And ride?” I’ve been eyeing up a motorcycle for her, knowing my old lady would relish her own bike.

After her initial announcement, it seems hard for her to find words, and I need to wait for her to blink back happy tears from her eyes. For now, I’ll be content with her tentative nod as a response.

Queenie’s had one year and one day clear of having one of her episodes, the stipulated time before being declared fit once again. She’s been visiting this veteran’s hospital on and off over the past twelve months, but since we took out Netherton, and she moved into my life, she’s not once passed out.

She’s become stronger and settled, taking her place by my side as my old lady, diplomatically helping me keep order in the club. None of my brothers would dare to cross her, not for concern about angering me, but for the damage she could do to them all by herself.

They’ve all developed an admiration for her, an affection that goes further than her just being my woman, and, a few months back, my wife. She’s got a place in our club which is solely down to her. But even achieving this goal means there’s still one more thing missing in her life.

It had been months ago that the brothers had first brought a suggestion to the table. As time passed and Queenie’s episodes hadn’t reoccurred, Skunk had brought a suggestion up at church. At first I’d dismissed it, thinking we were tempting fate, but as more months went by without issue, I’d begun to think about it seriously.

Queenie seemed content living with us. But when StoryTeller’s new baby took his breath, it was easy to see, while she was offering congratulations, there was a sadness in her eyes. I couldn’t give her the child she so much desired, but maybe, we could return something else to her.

We weren’t hurting for money. Bikers don’t need much—a decent bike and a place to reside. Our clubhouse has been renovated, our shop expanded—in part to cope for the extra business brought in by having Queenie onside. And most of us, though we staggered the purchase, have new rides. Despite our expenditure, and due to Beard’s wise investments, the club’scoffers remain healthy. It seems right to reward Queenie for putting the club on its affluent path.

When we arrive back from the VA, my brothers are waiting to present my woman with her own bike, a brand new sleek, black Indian Chieftain. Though we’d tried to get her over to the dark side, we knew she preferred them over Harleys. Her reaction had been just what I’d been hoping for, and within moments, we’d headed out on a ride.

Despite her undeniable pleasure in her new bike, it’s the next day I’m really excited about, along with the rest of my brothers.

After breakfast, Weasel, seemingly casually, suggests a ride out. Instead of just a few takers, the whole club agrees to go, Claw remarking on the wonderful weather for a ride—which is pushing it a bit with possible thunderstorms forecast—but Queenie is as enthusiastic as anyone, not going to turn down another chance to ride. Accepting her place, she positions herself at the back, alongside Shitface the fourth—the third now riding just in front with the handle Spook, earned by him being our successful spy.

It's not far, just twenty miles, and we turn into a small airfield. As we park up, I turn my head to see Queenie handling her big bike expertly, neatly tacking it in at the end of the line. Even from this distance I can’t help but see the suspicion in her eyes, nor the way she starts hesitantly walking toward me.

The sleek, black, good-looking despite its twenty years of age, McDonnell Douglas 520N which cost the club just shy of a million dollars is ready and waiting outside the nearest hanger. The colour will be the only thing in common with the military aircraft she used to fly, and I have a moment of doubt that this will be enough to satisfy her.

Before she reaches me, a man exits the hangar. He comes up alongside, and together we wait for her to join us. Then, with a huge grin, he passes me keys, which I place into her hand.

She glances down at the keys, then at the helicopter. Instead of looking happy, she frowns. “What’s this?”

“Your new ride,” I tell her. Then clarify. “Well, it’s yours to fly, but it’s to be at the club’s disposal.”

“Chaz,” she says softly. “I may have been medically cleared, but I can’t just get in and fly.”

The man by my side coughs to get our attention. “Queenie ‘Helo’ May? Night Stalker?” he asks. “Captain?”

She almost snaps at attention at the tone of his voice, then slumps a little. “Retired.”

The man is nonplussed. He holds out his hand. “Carlton Haynes, also Captain, retired. I run this flight school along with everything else. We can do your BFR right now.”

He’s referring to the biennial flight review that pilots must undertake every two years to keep their license current. I’ve had many a chat with Carlton, the owner of this airfield, over the last couple of months. I owe him for sourcing the helicopter and for his understanding of how important it is to get her up in the air.

It’s not often that Queenie is lost for words, but it seems she is now. But Carlton simply takes charge. “Follow me and we’ll get that ground school session over, and then you can impress me with how you can fly.”

“Queenie?” I nudge her as she remains unresponsive. Wondering whether I’ve made a misjudgement, and whether bringing her here has sent her back into her past, and not in a good way, I have second thoughts. “If you don’t want this?—”

Her face changes in an instant. “I want this.”

Carlton grins widely. “Follow me.” He gestures the way, and with one glance back at me, wonder in her eyes, she goes off to take her exam.

We’ve exactly an hour to kill which I’d explained to the club, but none of them wanted to miss her reaction when she arrived. And hey, we’re bikers, akin to machinery of all types. After thebrothers with the habit have filled their nicotine-deprived lungs from a safe distance, we roam around the hangers. Despite our boy-like enthusiasm, the mechanics don’t appear to resent us interrupting their work with a myriad of questions. They have a lot of their own, and a true respect in their eyes as they want to hear all about our very own Night Stalker.

We’re having a barely drinkable cup of coffee from a machine, when Queenie—no,Helo—her demeanour all professional now, strides out of the barn closely followed by Carlson. Her raised chin lift is her only response as she catches my eye, a confirmation that, as was to be expected, any written text was a breeze.

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