Page 19 of Deserter

He’d had the foresight to put in a topless bar next to the military base. It hadn’t made sense to me until I saw the weapons the girls were smuggling back into the clubhouse—hand grenades, .45 caliber pistols; one club whore even managed to snag a semi-automatic STEN gun.

I put my special touch on that one; modifying it into a full-auto machine gun that I proudly referred to as a ‘Grey Special.’ Those soldiers were so eager to get their dicks wet that they never realized the number of weapons that walked off the base afterward.

What we couldn’t steal, we bought and modified before finding a buyer. And we never had to look very far.

A bike roared in, kicking up a cloud of dirt, and I recognized the blank kutte of our latest prospect, Sullivan. After selling scrap to Chop late last year, he’d started hanging around the club more, looking to score. Chop had seen something in him though and decided to step up as his sponsor.

It seemed the only thing he liked more than speed and stolen auto parts was fighting.

“Look who it is,” Slim noted dryly.

He and Sullivan hadn’t been on good terms since about five seconds after he showed up. “The guy thinks he’s funny. Everything’s a goddamn joke to him.”

I hadn’t expected much when he became a prospect; guys like him always seemed to fold when they realized the club was about more than partying. They’d get their hands dirty once and then disappear not long after; unable to hack it.

Sullivan had surprised us all though.

He took orders from other club members and kept showing back up for more. One of the originals had even bound him up before dragging him behind his bike after he mouthed off to the guy’s Ol’ Lady. Afterward, he’d spit blood from his mouth and apologized with a grin like it was nothing.

The dust settled, and I watched as he yanked his passenger off the back of the bike and stomped toward us.

“Grey, Slim,” he nodded with a smile, before moving to take up his post near the clubhouse doors.

I glanced down at my watch. “You’re late, Prospect. That’s gonna cost ya.”

His grin faded. “Yeah, my Ol’ Lady couldn’t get her shit together. What’s the difference between a vacuum and the old ball and chain?” When we shrugged, he added, “After five years the vacuum still sucks.”

Yeah, that seemed about right.

“Prospect, is it you or your Ol’ Lady trying to earn a three-piece here? Don’t show up late again,” I warned.

He spit a stream of tobacco onto the dirt and nodded. “I think she understands now how important this is to me. It won’t happen again, Grey.”

“See that it doesn’t.”

When he walked off, Slim whistled. “Jesus Christ, that guy’s a disrespectful little prick. I’m calling it right now; there’s no way he earns his—”

His voice trailed off, and I followed his stare to Sullivan’s Ol’ Lady. She removed her helmet, and I froze. It was the woman I’d fucked in a motel a few months back.

Betsy.

She must’ve felt like she was being watched because her head jerked up and I watched her eyes widen in recognition. So, she remembered me too.

I’d never gotten a chance to offer her a position at the club because when I woke up the next morning, she was gone, along with a fifty from my wallet.

As she unzipped the oversized leather jacket and my gaze drifted down past the recent bruise on her cheek, I realized something else.

She was very much knocked up.

* * *

“I’m surprised you’re not out there, riling everybody up with a speech about brotherhood or some shit like that.” Slim sat down on the couch across from me.

I shrugged. “Had something come up.”

Someone, to be more specific. There was no way in hell I was going within fifty feet of that prospect’s wife. I’d been drinking and running the numbers in my head and I didn’t like my odds, but I knew that I’d worn a rubber.

I couldn’t lose sleep on it. I had to keep my head straight and focus on what was most important—preparing the men outside for war.

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