Page 71 of Fire Meets Fire

And it’s not. Weasel and Claw waste no time loading up the frame, engine, together with the other bits and pieces onto the crash truck and transporting them to the shop, some admittedly, returning to their original home. Of course, they can’t resist making snide remarks when I rummage to find parts.

I’ve now got the proper tools and access to source everything that I need. Harold’s son’s bike quickly starts taking shape. When it’s discovered I made no idle boast when I said I could fix anything with an engine, the Soulz put me to work, and gradually I start taking some of the maintenance and servicing workload off, allowing them to concentrate on the customisations which they most enjoy, and which bring in the most dollars.

That first night after Netherton’s demise, when I’d entered Chaz’s bedroom, I wondered how this would work, how I could find a place here living alongside outlaw bikers. But fitting in hasn’t been a chore. It seems to have happened naturally, with no real decisions being made. No surprise really given MCs are a draw to many discarded veterans, now I can certainly see why.

I’m Chaz’s old lady, but I’m treated like one of the guys and give back just as hard. It doesn’t take long for the members to become true friends, and in a short time, I know I wouldn’t want to give up my new life.

I learn new things about the man I’m starting to hold in high regard, such as his love of old cars. While I’d give anything to be able to drive myself, I live for the moments when I’m flying down the road on the back of Chaz’s bike, and get equal pleasure when we’re in his 1960s Ford Mustang convertible.

Unfortunately, not everything’s a fairy tale. When I finally finish Harold’s son’s bike it wasn’t the miracle cure that he’d been hoping for. Only a day after he was able to tell his son it was ready to ride, he’d succumbed to his injuries, and without coming out of his coma, had died.

I’d known from the start it had been a crazy delusion, a fantasy with no basis in reality. But I’d bought into the dream, partly to have a reason for staying with Harold, but also there was a part of me that hoped there was something more in this world, a spirit that would reward Harold’s efforts by bringing his son back to life.

Although Harold was obviously hit hard, the months spent restoring the bike had given him hope, a purpose, something to focus on and something to keep him alive. And after his initial foray into the clubhouse, impressed with his audacity and bravery, the brothers had invited him back, and respect had been earned on both sides.

When his son died, Harold found he wasn’t alone anymore. On the news, Chaz had dragged him away from his farm and plied him with enough whisky until he’d passed out. He spent the days before the funeral at the clubhouse, with Beard handling the details when it got too much. And on the day, the bikers supplied a guard of honour for his son’s coffin, respecting a kindred soul who’d lost his life on two wheels.

Of course, Harold, being the independent person he was, returned to the farm when he’d sobered up after the, admittedly, boisterous and drunken wake. But in the meantime, StoryTeller’s daughter, Maria, had adopted him as an honorary grandpa, and the kid’s sunny outlook had brought back his smile.

As he confided, one evening, on his now regular visit to the clubhouse, he might have lost one son, but he’d ended up with a club full of boys to keep in line. Or, at least, to try.

It’s strange how the universe works. Harold is no longer lonely, and I, a Night Stalker, am living the dream of an outlaw life.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAZ

Irap the gavel, bringing, or attempting to bring, the rag taggle group of bikers to order. They’re still full of excitement about the enrichment of our coffers, and full of ideas about buying new bikes. It’s been a hard job convincing everyone that we can’t just run out and spend our newfound riches, without drawing unwelcome attention of how we’ve suddenly been able to afford the better things in life.

Beard’s been helping us make good investments, and spending the money that comes via that route and legitimately to us. We’d made the right choices. The Dominators, undisciplined group that they are, immediately started splashing their windfall around, drawing the attention of the FBI who are always watching one-percenter clubs in the chance they slip up. Last I heard Ogre was firmly under investigation and, unable to explain the origin of the cash, was heading for a RICO indictment. Couldn’t happen to a better man in my book.

The thought makes the corners of my mouth automatically curve, but I bring myself back to the here and now as I see Claw trying to get my attention. I bang the table again to shut the assholes up so he can make himself heard.

Once there’s glorious silence, he wastes no time. “I’ve been looking at new premises. It’s in a better spot, gets a lot of footfall, should be able to expand the tattoo business. Maybe get another couple of ink slingers as well.”

“Everyone in agreement?” This is the kind of idea I’ve been looking for. Using the money to future proof the club.

We discuss that, then other business. Then when I think I’m going to be able to bring down the gavel for a final time, Weasel raises his hand.

“There’s that Soulz rally in California coming up.” He waves down the jeers. He doesn’t need to remind us, we’re all looking forward to that. He waits for the noise to subside, then asks, “Will old ladies be coming along?”

StoryTeller chuckles. “Yeah. But Sheri will be riding in the crash truck. Not having her on my bike when she’s pregnant.”

Weasel shakes his head as if he’s stating the obvious, and questions, “Helo?”

Not for the first time I note that while my woman’s Queenie in private, the brothers still use her handle as a mark of respect. And respect is certainly what they have for her. She’s probably the best mechanic we’ve ever had, being able to turn her hand to anything. For a moment I muse how she transformed Harold’s son’s bike. It’s just a fucking shame it hadn’t had the outcome we’d all ended up desiring. Her expertise, however, had made her a welcome, and permanent, fixture at the shop.

Realising I’ve zoned out, I pull my mind back to the here and now, and catch up on the conversation.

“…property rag, otherwise, she’ll be fair game. Prez has got to get his name on her.”

Pothead snorts. “My money’s on Helo if someone from another charter dares touch her.”

“That’s my point.” Legit bangs the table with his hand. “We’ll be mopping up blood—theirs, not ours—if she goes without any kind of ownership on her.”

Jesus.I stifle my laugh, realising the compliment they are paying to my woman. But it does make me think. I’d love to have my property patch on her, but Queenie’s not someone you own. I’ll never be good enough to deserve her, and I give thanks every day for whatever fates brought her my way.

“Okay,” I enter the conversation. “Are you fuckers suggesting that, if Helo comes to San Diego, she needs a patch?”

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