Page 129 of Riding the Edge

Chapter Thirty-nine

Dismounting from my bike, I throw my leg over the seat and stare across the street, at the bar Riggs has converted to become the new home of the Satan’s Knights. It isn’t much from the outside but it’s standing which is a lot more than I can say for the rest of us. A couple of hours ago, I sat next to Reina and watched my brothers get arraigned. The bail was set high and before they were released, Reina and I had to scramble to get the funds together. We depleted the club’s assets and even with Jack’s house as collateral we made it by the skin of our teeth.

With everyone out on bail, it was time to do as Jack ordered.

It was time to take a vote on the future of the Satan’s Knights.

Jack knew it was time too and barely acknowledged any of us as he escorted his wife to their car and left without so much as a goodbye. I didn’t know what that meant or how things would play out after the vote. All I knew was the forensic report concluded that the gun belonged to Blackie and with him still on the lam, we had to be careful. The last thing we needed was to lead the Feds to him. Anyone tailing us would assume we were all headed to Pipe’s garage, especially since no one knew about the bar yet and so, we all went our separate ways. Before ordering them to the garage, Pipe asked Deuce, Cobra, Stryker, and Needles to choose a proxy for their vote and the rest of us headed to Staten Island, where Nico and Anthony had agreed to smuggle in Blackie.

Now with everyone in their rightful place, the stage was set.

Rolling my neck, I cross the busy street and bypass the line of Harley’s, making my way up the walkway leading towards the front door. Pulling it open, I’m engulfed by the scent of fresh paint as I scan the bar. Remembering Riggs had remodeled one of the back rooms to use as a chapel, I walk through the joint and follow the sounds of their voices. As I reach the doorway, everyone grows silent.

My eyes sweep around the restaurant tables that have been pushed together, noting the chair at the end remains empty and the mallet rests in front of it. My gaze lingers for a moment before turning to the left of the vacant seat and land on Blackie. I watch as he lifts his hand to the brim of his baseball cap. Removing it, he shakes out his long hair and brushes it away from his face. His eyes are bloodshot and the scruff he keeps trimmed looks overgrown. He stares at me for a beat before nodding towards the other empty chair sitting at the opposite end of the table.

The eerie silence is uncomfortable and in a desperate attempt to rid us of it, I drag the legs of the chair across the floor. Sitting down, I lean forward, planting my forearms on top of the table and bow my head.

“With our president absent from this meeting, it seems only fair our VP calls order,” I begin, lifting my chin and meeting Blackie’s gaze.

After another beat of silence, he tears his eyes from mine and focuses on the meat mallet. It seems like the nomads presented that kitchen utensil to him a lifetime ago but, I can still remember holding my breath as I watched Blackie’s hand close around the handle for the first time. It was another poignant moment in the history of this club and one of many times, Blackie acted on Jack’s behalf. Thinking about it now, I can’t help but wonder if Jack orchestrated those moments on purpose in his feeble attempt to groom Blackie for his inevitable role.

“What are you waiting for, Black?” Riggs questions.

Leaning forward, Blackie reaches for the mallet. Instead of lifting it, he slides it down the center of the table, straight towards me. As the head collides with my forearm, I raise my chin and meet his intense gaze.

“I fucked up,” he confesses, hoarsely. “Most of you know by now that Lacey is pregnant,” he continues. “What you might not know is that the doctors don’t want her taking her meds during the pregnancy. Lacey hasn’t been unmedicated since she was diagnosed a manic depressive and while, I’d like to tell you all that I’m handling it, I’m not. I’ve been drinking and the day we met with the cartel I was drunk. If I was straight, it wouldn’t have mattered if I was shot, I would never have dropped that gun. I’m not making excuses for it,” he says as he pushes his back off the chair.

With practiced control, he shrugs his cut from his shoulders and lays the worn leather on the table in front of him. Lifting his hips, he reaches behind him and pulls a pocket knife from his pants.

“I got a kid on the way and a woman on the verge of following in her father’s footsteps. On top of that, I got a case. The Feds aren’t going to magically forget the gun has my fingerprints and instead of running, I’ve decided to turn myself into the authorities.”

“What about Lacey?” Pipe questions.

“I’m no help to Lacey this way,” he says regretfully. “Even if they didn’t have the gun and I wasn’t wanted for murder, I would only drag her down. I guess once an addict, always an addict.”

“And the baby?” Riggs asks. “You turn yourself in, you won’t see your kid, man.”

“He can’t run, Riggs,” I mutter, looking at Blackie. “But, you can fight the charges. Call your sobriety coach or your sponsor, whoever you gotta call. Get yourself clean and we’ll get you a fucking team of lawyers if we have to, Black. I promise you, you don’t want to miss your child being born into this world. It’ll be your biggest regret.”

“Yeah, man,” Linc says. “Whatever we need to do, we got you. We got your back.”

He doesn’t reply and instead we all watch as he runs the blade of his knife over his VP patch. Too many of us sitting around this table have done the same exact thing, and it’s no surprise when he takes the blade to the stitches and removes the patch. Dropping the knife onto his cut, he lifts the patch between his fingers and stares across the table at me.

“Even if I fight the charges, I have to turn myself in,” he relents. “I can’t keep hiding out. If I make bail, I’ll be able to work on getting clean and spend as much time with Lacey before my trial starts. I can’t serve my woman and child and serve my brothers too,” he pauses, tossing his patch onto the center of the table. “And I won’t vote against Jack either,” he adds, finding my eyes. “I’m out.”

“Vote against Jack?” Bas questions. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s time you tell them why we’re here, Wolf,” Blackie calls.

Everyone gives me their attention except for Pipe. Instead, he runs his hands over his face and bows his head.

“Wolf, what the fuck is going on?” Riggs asks agitatedly.

Clearing my throat, I shove the mallet away from me and straighten my shoulders.

“Years ago, after Jack was first diagnosed and Cain passed the gavel to him, he made Pipe and I swear to intervene if his mind ever made him a liability to the club. I don’t have to tell any of you, Jack’s been struggling since this mess with Yankovich imploded. You all got eyes. You watched him kill that paramedic and you all know what happened with the partner. This shit with the cartel was the icing on the cake and when I found out about his plan, I went to him and tried to talk him out of it. He was having a breakdown and Reina wouldn’t let see him like that. Instead, she begged me to relieve him of his duties to the club. She knows he’s losing his grip on his sanity and before she’s forced to institutionalize the man she loves, she wants to spend as much time with him and their son as she can.”

“Institutionalize?” Linc questions. “Is that really what it will come down to?”

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