Page 2 of Death's Deal

Chapter 2

Walking from the room, dressed and thankful Moraine left before I stepped out, my stomach aches. I am starved and thirsty.

As my boots clack on the plywood sheets that cover the bullet-riddled floors, I head to the half-built kitchen. We’re still fixing up the main clubhouse since the fiasco with the cartel. Blood-stained carpets that once littered the common area are gone. The shot-to-hell walls that were in every corridor or room, which we’ve torn down and are replacing, are now covered with plywood or sheetrock. Most of the pictures that were once proudly displayed are out for repairs. Those pictures are dark reminders of days when we were a happy motorcycle club, just doing stupid shit that didn’t catch the eye of the DEA or the FBI.

Over the course of two years, we’ve had a lot to repair. We’ve already rebuilt our public garage, after it was shot up in an attack by the past president of the Broken Bows, and we’d torn down the clubhouse, or most of it, to rebuild it after the cartel war. We’ve had to pay for Des’s hospital bills, and my sister Jazmine’s, along with a few other members who needed the assistance. If it wasn’t for our gentleman’s club, Humble, we’d have been disbanded and scattered to the winds months ago. As it is, we’re skating by. Barely.

Hopper, the oldest of our riding members, with his oil-stained, callused hands, sits grumpily at the table buttering a slice of toast. My VP, Des, is on his left, and Trigger, my Sergeant at Arms, on his right. Trigger crunches away on his blackened toast, as his emotional support Rottweiler, Radish, neatly eats a bowl of her favorite kibble with strawberry jam.

That dog has a twisted appetite.

As I wander in, stealing a few pieces of bacon off of the share plate that sits in the middle of the table, and mouthing the perfectly crunchy peice, I ask, “What’s the deal today, Des?”

Clearing his mouth of food, he takes a sip of his coffee before answering with a crooked smile. “I have a doctor’s appointment at the hospital again.” He raises his bandaged arm. “Hopper is taking me over. I’ll hear the results from that latest MRI.”

Head trauma, separated shoulder, a punctured lung, and a dislocated triceps that left him with a nasty fucking chunk out of his forearm, that was nearly two years back now. Since then, we’d repaired our relationship with the Bows, we’d fought side by side with them, and we’d taken down not one but two cartels trying to ruin us. Though the damage that was done to his body may keep him off a bike for good.

Busta’s Broken Bows, his brother Cap’s SoCal Soulless, and us, the Hades Army, had lost nearly thirty members between us in the course of a year from the cartels. Hades had lost eleven members, which doesn’t include the most painful loss we all endured. Humble’s resident bartender, my sister’s best friend, and Busta’s old lady, Oubliette. She died, along with one of their twins, their unborn son, Gale. I try not to dwell on that shit, as I can’t think of the pain he must feel from losing a child he never had a moment to love.

Placing his dirty cup in the makeshift sink, a yellow tub that rests on a rickety plywood counter, Hopper pipes up, “On that note, we should get going, Des. Say hi to J for me, Death.”

“Yeah. I’ll tell her you miss her taunting.” That’s not the truth at all. He hates how she can get a rise from him with something super simple. Even as a kid, she could piss him off with a wink. My sister has a way with the people she adores. Don’t get me started on what she does to those she dislikes.

He growls his discontent, “Hopefully she hasn’t fired another nurse.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

During the final skirmish, J was badly injured. Badly is an understatement. She died twice. Once in the clubhouse and once on the way to the hospital, therefore, a condition of her release from the health prison, as she called it, was for us to provide her with around-the-clock care. J is difficult at the best of times, ill, she’s downright dangerous. The nurses have taken a beating from her and, admittedly, I have tried to steer clear of her attitude too. My sister can slice you with her tongue far worse than someone with a knife could. Thankfully, she’s doing better now, and life is getting back to normal.

Laughing, Des hops up. “I love your sister like family, but you know the woman is madder than a cat covered in tar and feathers. She’ll put some fire under you if you aren’t ready for her this morning.”

He’s right. We’ve known each other since grade school, and he’s been on the sharp edge of her brutality more than he wishes to count. If you place Jazmine in a point where she can’t fight back, there is nothing meaner.

Smirking, I start for the door. “I’ll make sure to gird my loins.”

As the heavy steel door closes behind me, the sound of their laughter has me feeling good about today, and afraid they’re right. As always, we know what my sister can be like, and I doubt today will be any better than the last one.

Striding a few hundred yards to the public garage that is on the edge of our property, each bay holds a bike or a car in it in the midst of being repaired. It’s nice to see it busy, but it’s still a long way from turning a profit after the cash injections it’s had lately to rebuild it.

When I pass by a couple of the prospects and members as they work away or take a smoke break, with a nod or a hey, I continue on. The trailer my sister has been occupying is only a few steps away, but I need a moment to settle myself before I contend with her. A nice calm ride around Anaheim should do it.

As I’m about to straddle my bike, I hear my name.

“Death. Hey, Brother. Wait!” Rounding the corner, my little brother, Apoc, calls out. He’s aptly named. Apoc, as in apocalypse. Trouble follows him at every curve. Sometimes I think he susses it out before it finds him, but that’s just who he is.

His name in our native language means God of Rain, and I swear the kid has more nicknames than a hooker in a whorehouse. With his real name being hard for most people to pronounce, Tlaloc, he goes by Poc, Apoc, Loc, and Tallo. What worries me today is, he only comes looking for me when shit is about to hit the fan. I don’t think I have enough room for more insanity in my day. “What, Loc?”

“Is it so bad I wanted to visit my sister today too?”

Smirking, I reply, “Yeah, right.” I know there’s more to it. Every day since J has been home, I’m here, helping. Him? He stops by once a week at most, and only when he needs something.

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