Page 1 of Pigeon

Chapter 1

Pigeon

Grand Junction to Denver is normally a six-hour drive using the beautiful Highway 70. Riding a Harley can shave an hour or so off that time and riding at the speed I do, even more. I’m not far outside of Denver before some tension finally starts to ebb from my body. Another visit home that I’ve survived, so I give myself a mental pat on the back as I finally start to enjoy the ride. Weaving my way around the cars, trucks, and campers sharing the road with me, I twist the throttle. Feeling my bike respond with a growl almost puts a smile on my face. Speed and the wind whipping through my hair can only make up for a little of the hell the last few days have been for me.

I have a lot of things in my life to be thankful for but spending time with my parents is not one of them. I’m not a good son, and I’ve learned to be okay with that. I’ve accepted that about myself many years ago, and yet, even at the age of 36, my parents have not. The world changes daily, but my parents never will. Between their old-fashioned beliefs and their strict religious views, I’m not only a disappointment but an embarrassment to them. The fact that they share those views with me—often and loudly—is why I seldom return home to hear it all again. A few minutes in their presence is all it takes before I feel my soul draining from my body. A day or two, and I leave feeling like an empty shell, unworthy of life.

I knew I was different from my family members at an early age. When parents are devout members of an off-shoot religion of theUnited Pentecostal Church,there are certain expectations for their children. I failed at every single one of them. I formed my own opinions and refused to follow their beliefs blindly. I constantly questioned the teachings of their church. I spoke up and did so often. I scoffed at the church members that spoke in tongues and flatly refused to be anointed with oil. There was no ritualistic foot washing for this kid. I don’t know why I was that way, but I just couldn’t make myself believe in their faith as they did. The church members seemed fake and overzealous to me, and being a true believer was not in my future. It’s not that I didn’t believe in God, or at least a higher power, but I didn’t believe as they demanded.

As I got older, things only grew worse. My parents were strict in every sense of the word, and I rebelled at every turn. My father spent countless hours preaching to me and then beating me. When the first didn’t work, he resorted to the second. The beatings I endured behind the barn didn’t make me conform; they simply convinced me that my dad had a mean streak. He found enjoyment in bringing the belt down hard against his son’s body. I knew then that being a man of God, as he called himself, was bullshit. He used his religion as a weapon and a means of controlling his family. My mother and brother both jumped when he spoke and never doubted his word. They were completely brainwashed, in my opinion, and that caused a rift between me and them too. I was the misfit, the black sheep, the misguided soul.

Life was difficult, and I didn’t do anything to make it easier. As a teenager, my friends were considered unsuitable by my parents. Unsuitable meant they weren’t members of our church. Regardless, I remained friends with them. I joined the high school wrestling team against my parents’ orders. I excelled at it and enjoyed the praise I received from the coaches. I was no stranger to smoking, drinking, raising hell, and sneaking out of the house, but nothing too far outside of normal teenage behavior. If they said no, I did it. I was not a good son, but they were not good parents either. Not to me, anyway.

I shake off the old memories as I turn my bike into the security company’s parking lot. Coming to a stop, I shut it off and slowly dismount. The security company is the newest addition to The Devil’s Angels businesses. Rex, a tech-savvy club brother, manages it. I work for him now and really enjoy the job. The business is closed today, but after the last few days, I need the quiet it’ll provide. I need space from humans and a chance to get my mind straight. This job has become my refuge when needed. Sharing a house with Horse Nuts, another club brother, means that my office here has become my alone space.

I enter the silent building, walk through the reception area, down a hallway, and turn left into my office. Along the left wall is a large bank of TV screens. All are off, but I know it takes but a click or two of my mouse to bring them to life. I walk to my nondescript metal desk and flop down in my chair. Leaning to my left, I open the tiny refrigerator sitting on the floor and grab a beer. Opening the bottle, I down half of it. Leaning back, I place my boots on the desk and relax into my chair.

After I finish my beer, I give in to the need to turn on the monitors and find what I’m looking for. Opening my laptop, I type my way through the login procedure and then click on the appropriate icon. Instantly, the monitors come to life with several different camera angles and room views. I turn on the various camera mics, adjust the angle of my chair, and let my eyes search for my target. A full smile finally hits my face when I find her.

Ivy Monroeis currently in the pig barn at FurEver Homes. Walking down the aisle, she stops at each stall to chat with its occupant. My smile grows, and the leftover tension in my body eases as she talks nonsense to every single pig. This is exactly what I needed to shed my thoughts of the past. Grabbing another beer, I settle in for some free entertainment—Ivy-style.

FurEver Homes is an animal rescue that Ava, my club president’s wife, donates to regularly. That means, in effect, that my club, The Devil’s Angels, does too. It’s where Ava adopted her pig, Gee, and where Craig found Bart. They do great work, and we’re happy to help where we can. It’s not uncommon to see various club members building fences or repairing barns there. When Margie, the manager, called about some missing puppies, it was decided FurEver Homes needed a security system. Of course, Rex being the person he is went overboard. We installed a top-notch system that we control from our offices, and the surveillance footage is stored here. Reasoning that the theft could be an inside job, the cameras are hidden, and only Margie knows that they exist. Because of that fact, Ivy has no idea how often she puts a smile on my face.

At this point, I should probably explain that I’m not some old-ass creeper watching some young woman with perverted thoughts running through my head. It’s nothing of the sort. Ivy is young, maybe late teens or early twenties, but that’s not why I enjoy watching the FurEver Homes cameras. It’s her interactions with the animals that keep me awed and amused. She treats every one of them as her best friend as if they’re as human as she is. She gives them nicknames, special treats, an extra hug, or pat when someone’s in need. Her love and connection to the animals are returned tenfold by her furry, feathered, and hooved charges. Without looking, I can usually tell which barn she’s in by the sounds of excitement the animals make when she enters.

There’s a small part of my brain that says it’s wrong of me to watch while she’s unaware, but I squash that down. We were hired to keep an eye on the rescue, and that’s what I’m doing. To ease that part of my brain, I make a point to review parts of every employee’s shifts. It’s not as fun, but it’s the job.

Hearing the rumble of a Harley, I know Rex is here. Since he seldom surfaces from his office, I was surprised he wasn’t here already. Grabbing another beer, I wait. As soon as I see his face, I sidearm throw the beer at him. I smirk as I watch Rex fumble a laptop, cell phone, and papers in his hand to catch the beer before it collides with his chest.

“You fucker! Why do you always have to be such an asshole?” Rex sputters.

“Miss me?” I ask while blowing a kiss in Rex’s direction.

“Fuck no. I enjoyed the quiet and not having things thrown at me,” Rex replies as he takes a seat across from my desk. “You just get back?”

“Yeah,” I answer without looking at my club brother. I know exactly why he’s sitting in my office and not his own. Rex is here to gauge where my head’s at after time spent with my blood family.

“I’m good,” I tell him before he asks.

“What do you need, Pigeon?” Rex asks quietly.

“I’m good,” I repeat.

“I’ll let Trigger know he can stand down then,” Rex says after a few beats. Standing, he walks out.

Sighing, I take one last look at the monitors. Shutting everything down, I head back outside to my bike. A shower, a hot meal, and a shit-ton of alcohol are what I need now.

Rolling out of bed the next morning, I’m regretting a few of my choices from the night before. The beer, the tequila, and the vodka were good friends then but not so much today. Tripping over an empty bottle, I make my way to the bathroom. I avoid the mirror and step directly into the shower. Standing under the hot water, I start to feel almost human again. I enjoy that feeling for less than a minute before my brain registers the sound of a flushing toilet. If my reflexes weren’t dulled by a hangover, I might have been able to move my ass a little faster. Instead, as my hot shower instantly turns ice cold, I attempt to bolt out of the shower. I slip, whack my forehead against the tile wall, and crash sideways through the shower door. Landing face down on the bathroom floor, I lie there knowing my boys are going to stay lodged high in my body for at least a day. Sadly, I’m going to have to push through the pain, so I can find Horse Nuts and fuck him up.

“This isn’t a good look for you, Pigeon.”

Raising my head takes effort, and the grin on Gunner’s face is like rubbing salt in a wound. I’m hating my life right now, but it looks like Horse gets to live another day.

“There a reason why you’re standing in my bathroom admiring my ass, Prez?”

“Wipe the blood off your face, quit flattering yourself, and come drink some coffee, Sunshine,” Gunner orders before tossing a towel at me and walking out the door. I listen to his laugh while his extra-large feet thump loudly down the stairs.

Pulling my sorry-self off the floor, I clean the gash on my forehead and bandage it. After pulling on some clothes, I make my way to the kitchen. I ignore the grins from Gunner and Horse but accept the coffee Gunner hands to me. Planting my ass against the counter, I start the process of replacing the leftover alcohol in my system with coffee.

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