Page 4 of Speed

Chapter One

Speed

Fuck, I'm tired; ithad been one long ass trip. From the desert to the U.S. had been long enough, but then the last two weeks clearing base was a pain in my ass. Between turning in paperwork, my physical and psych evaluation, I didn't know if they were going to let me go no matter how many times I told them I was going to be okay. I could deal with death; it wasn't as if I hadn't been around it before. It is all in how you manage it in my book that makes the man or breaks him.

All they kept focusing on was my unit pinned down and taking casualties until I made a dash for the burned out truck on the side of the road, killing the bastards hiding behind it. I took fire that day too, I just happened to get pissed because I was one fucking week from rotating back to the States and gaining freedom of a different kind. I wasn't going to re-up; three tours were enough for anyone. I had been one of the lucky ones, and though I may have killed when necessary, I hadn’t been shot or even injured in the ten years I had served—until that last week—last part of my tour. So yeah, I ran toward the burned out truck and killed the five insurgents taking cover there. The dumb move cost me two bullets: one in my left shoulder and the other in my right thigh. We'd been in the scout vehicle that day for the convoy so by the time the rest of the battalion caught up to us, I was bleeding and covered in blood, my own and the rebels. The other four soldiers with me, my squad, only one was dead: the newbie we had just picked up that morning, PVT Jones. Besides his death, the other three soldiers that made up my team were just as shot up as I was. The five insurgents, though, laid in a pool of their own blood, good ridden to bad rubbish.

When the doctors were patching me up back at the base camp, they called me one lucky SOB, because the bullet that hit my shoulder, hit just shy of an artery and only chipped a bone on its way out the other side. The one in my thigh, they had to dig out, but a couple of inches to the right on that one, and I wouldn't have one of the women's favored parts of my anatomy. NowthatI would agree was luck.

I found myself finally cleared. The Colonel signed off on my discharge papers, shook my hand, and told me they hated to lose me. I grabbed what little stuff I had and headed to the parking lot beside the battalion's building. When I reached my bike, I stuffed my belongs in the saddlebags, the rest of it currently on its way back home courtesy of the military, swung my leg over and straddled the bike. It roared to life, and I took off for the gates and the open road that lay beyond them.

Damn, I couldn't wait. Next permanent stop—home.

My ass and legs weresure to cramp when I finally stopped. I'd been on the road for days and couldn't wait to get back to the club. It had been one long ride across the country from Virginia to Washington state.

My nickname, Speed, came from my penchant to fly down the open road and the fact I had gotten a ticket the very first time I'd taken out my bike. I thought I’d never live it down with my dad and the club, my mistake thinking they had a little more maturity than my friends had. My friends, my brothers, I couldn't wait to see them.

We'd barely had our cuts when we started to leave one by one. It hadn't meant shit our dads were the six military buddies who had founded the Black Hawk MC, we had to bide our time just like every other Prospect. Damn, the closer I got, the more I realized how much I missed the club—my family—more than I would have thought possible.

It would be different this time; I would have to adjust all over again to my dad's absence around the clubhouse. The Marines kept me busy, and I hadn't had to dwell on his death since the day I left after his funeral. Now with each mile that brought me closer, the more Cutter surfaced in my thoughts.

I was raised in the Black Hawk MC, my mother had been a club whore, and when my dad, Harvey "Cutter" Weston, wouldn't make her his ol’ lady, she'd handed me over and walked away, never looking back, I'd been three years old. Rumors traveled through the club that she was bouncing between clubs, trying to find a permanent place; another rumor surfaced that she became an ol’ lady at another club. Started using drugs and died of an overdose of heroin a few years before my dad died, the needle still stuck in the vein in her arm when they found her. It had come to no surprise for the members of Black Hawk, she’d been a user when she was with them. It wasn't like I was sad she was gone—couldn’t miss something I never had to begin with because even when she was around, she paid no attention to me.

My dad, Cutter, had been an Enforcer in the club. The one who made sure every member followed the rules of Black Hawk. He was also one of the originals.

Looking down at my fuel gauge, I wasn't going to make it all the way in; one more stop was needed. The sun was going down, and I was tired, vowing tomorrow night I would be in my own bed. The next town I came across I would stop, fill up my tank, grab some food, then stay the night, getting a good night's sleep before making the final leg of my trip and finally reaching my destination. As I passed by the road sign stating food, gas, and lodging at the next exit, I flipped the blinker making my way down the exit. One more night and a few more hours on the road and I would be at the club.

It’d been a while, and I was ready. At least I thought so.

The next day, passingthe sign that stated Shades Valley, a smile settled on my face. Damn, I was glad to be back. I looked around at the businesses lining the sides of the street and noticed some had changed over while the majority were the same ones as far back as I could remember.

The MC ran some of the businesses in town, like the garage on the corner, Hawks. From the looks of all the cars sitting behind the fence, business was booming, which wasn’t a shock because the men that worked there knew their shit. I would have stopped if the gate hadn’t been shut, signaling they were closed. Seemed the boys had finished early. As I continued, I passed Inked, the club’s tattoo shop, they were closed too, but it was more like they hadn’t opened yet for the day.

In the middle of town sat the sheriff's station, city hall, the bank, post office, and then the B&B grocery. With the edge of town in my sights, I could see the strip club in the distance and as I drove by I noticed a few bikes in the parking lot but decided not to stop. I'd reach the club in another ten miles.

I slowed when I reached the turnoff to the club, rode a few minutes up the road until hitting the gate. The Prospect on duty stood and watched as I approached. He didn’t look as young as I thought, more like closer to my age. I hadn’t been around for a while so wasn’t going to know most of the Prospects at all.

As I got closer, I watched the guy look me over, his eyes settling on my cut. When he stepped out of the shack, I had been right about him being close to my age, but that was it, the guy was a brute, he had to be six and a half feet tall if he was an inch. His head was shaved, and as I looked him over, I could see the artwork peeking out from the edges of his sleeves. I slowed as I passed, he lifted his chin in acknowledgment, and I rode through the open gate. A minute later I pulled up to the clubhouse only to be greeted by raised voices and a sheriff’s car parked out front.

Killing my bike’s engine, I threw my leg over and dismounted the bike, then looked around—yeah, nothing like home.

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