Page 57 of Tear Me Down
We’re riding back to the house now, about to go through downtown so we can cut across to our mountain route, when I hear the roar of multiple other bikes approaching us. It takes me a minute to register what the noise is, but I look back to confirm five road monsters barreling towards us, each with burly, tattooed, and leather-coated men riding on them. Their bikes all have the same old school look as Damien’s, but some are clearly more worn, and might actually be aged appropriately. The men don’t look at us, but they make it clear that we’re their targets as they box us in. One man pulls in front of us, then one on each side, and the two remaining bikers follow in behind us.
“Don’t look at them baby, just keep your eyes forward,” Damien says through the mics in our helmets, and I tighten my grip around him—more wary now that I hear the concern in his voice.
“Who are they?”
“CMMC. Chaos and Mayhem’s local charter,” he says blankly, but I can hear the worry in his tone. Even though his head isn’t moving, I can feel him looking around as we cruise forward.
“I haven’t heard of them.”
“Good. That means you aren't on their bad side.”
“Does that mean you are?”
“Not necessarily. We’ve been on good terms, but they obviously want to talk. We’re going to have to follow them, most likely to their clubhouse. When we get there, you stay right with me, and don’t say anything. Don’t look at them. You keep your eyes on me or on the walls.”
His demands are nothing new to me, but the concern behind them is. I know this isn’t a normal visit, and most definitely isn’t a normal occurrence. These men want something, and I’m assuming Damien doesn’t know what that something is.
“Okay.”
“I'm serious, Ashia. They’re dangerous, and they’re going to want to push back—see if they can rattle me,” he says, seemingly getting more worried as the seconds pass.
“Okay, baby.” I faintly run my hand over his chest as we turn, telling him that I understand, and I’m thankful when his muscles relax under my touch. We follow every turn and straight line they make, complying without question, and while I find it odd, they don’t use any type of hand signal, gesture, or even chuckle in amusement as we ride. Whatever this is must be very serious, and I can’t help it as my heart rate kicks up. Of course, our peaceful ride has come to a close too soon, and now it may have gotten us into a bad situation.
About ten minutes later, we’re pulling into a shared parking lot between a large commercial garage and what looks like a bar. Neither is worn down to look unsafe, but they’re not in pristine condition either. The buildings are a little rough around the edges and clearly carry a heavy presence with worn paint and dusty windows. Bikes are lined up next to each other in rows, and a few men in patched vests stand by the door looking relaxed, until they moment they notice we drive in, and then they stand at attention. We all park, and the men that followed us are sure to get off their bikesafterDamien and I—surrounding us as we make our way to the door.
They escort us inside, two in front and three in the back, and the men playing guard duty look at us like we have no right to be there. Their lips are snarled, and they look away in annoyance, like our presence is a bug that won’t stop buzzing in their ears. I notice their leather vests have large name patches, and I think a skull on the back, but I listen to Damien and don’t stare. I look straight forward, taking in every detail on anything but the people here—even through all of the whistles and cat calls directed at me. Surprisingly, Damien doesn’t fly off the handle into a fit of rage, but he does tighten his grip on my hand in anger.
The inside looks much more maintained than the outside. The dark wooden floors are surprisingly clean, the tables and chairs don’t look worn or wobbly, and it’s actually well decorated with chains, posters, neon signs, brand decals, and bike tires hanging on the walls. Even the people surrounding us, who I’m assuming are also a part of the club, seem to be respectful about how they’re handling themselves. There are coasters under their drinks, and they’re not flailing about or slushing alcohol everywhere. I’m guessing they’re either like this all of the time, or they knew that they were going to bring us in and are putting on their best behavior.
We’re escorted into a large office, where we’re greeted by a man who radiates the same authoritative aura as Damien. He’s obviously tall and has a large build, a bald fade with just enough hair to tussle on top, and the sides of his head are tattooed. This man has a warmer and darker complexion, and his dark brown eyes stare with an intensity that screams impatience. He’s sitting behind a large desk, and another man with the same vest as everyone else stands beside him. This man is much bigger somehow, probably about six-foot-six and has the build of a pro wrestler, and I can feel the anger radiate from him themoment we step through the door. He’s bald and has his arms crossed against his chest like he’s ready to beat someone for answers, with an enraged essence rolling off of him in waves.
Both men look exhausted, the big one more than the sitting one, and the dark circles under their eyes are apparent. Even as they stand confident, I see the desperate type of fatigue buried beneath the surface, and that only makes me worry more.
The sitting man gestures to the two chairs sitting in front of the desk, making it more apparent that he’s in charge. A patch with the word ‘President’ is stitched across the left side of his chest, and after he lowers his hand, he sits back in his chair like we’ve just walked into his kingdom. The one standing, whose vest reads ‘Vice-President’ doesn’t move an inch, almost like if he starts moving he won’t be able to stop and would barrel through whatever necessary to get to us. Whatever this impromptu meeting is about, it’s serious, and I’m afraid that they think DH has done something wrong to them.
Damien pulls me over to the chairs, and he sits in the one on the right. He places his hand on the back of the left one so he can assert that I'mhisonce I sit, but I have a better idea. I know how leaders try to intimidate others, especially those who believe that nothing can touch them. So, I sit on Damien’s lap, staring right at the man behind the desk to assert my loyalty up front. I feel my fiancé smirk against the space behind my ear as he wraps his arm around my waist, while mine lays around his neck. The men that escorted us inside don’t leave, but they stand at the edges of the room to listen. All of them stand at attention and stare at us like we’re going to make a break for it, but our confident posture will tell them otherwise.
“We’d heard you had an old lady, D. I like her spirit,” the president says with present attitude, clearly trying to prove his point that he’s been keeping tabs on us.
“What is this about, Grease?”I hope that’s his biker name. “This couldn’t have been a phone call?” Damien retorts.
“I thought you had Dust under control? We don’t cross into your territory, and you don’t cross into ours. Yet it seems the druggies are growing a pair of balls,” the president retorts, his patience obviously wearing thin.
“You going to tell me what you’re talking about? Or are we going to sit here and play twenty questions? I don’t have time for your shit,” Damien spits out as his grip on my waist tightens. He clearly doesn’t like being here, and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m here with him, or if there is actually bad blood between them somewhere.
“OUR shit?!” The VP slams his hand on the desk, causing the sturdy wood to quake hard enough for us to feel it from our seats. “Dust is YOUR problem! The MC’s are ours! That’s the deal! And yet you let Dust slip away with my old lady!” Ice shoots through my veins at his words, and I feel Damien tense under my hold, clearly unaware of this revelation. Considering this guy’s wife is missing, maybe sitting on his lap wasn’t the best idea.
“Care to elaborate?” he says, trying to come off as unaffected as possible.
“Maria, his wife, was taken from their house last night,” Grease says much calmer than the VP.
“How do you know it was Dust and not someone he pissed off?” Damien says with an accusatory tone, earning a warning glare from the muscle man, and Grease starts typing on his computer before turning the screen to us. He clicks a key, and a video starts to play, instantly showing a grainy, but mostly clear recording. It looks like it is from a doorbell camera, only showing us their driveway, sidewalk, yard, and half of the street.
We watch as a woman, who I’m assuming is Maria, gets out of her car, and as soon as she takes a step onto the walkway towards their door, a black van screeches up and three men run out—all of which are tall, clearly fit, and covered head to toe with black. They each have long pants, sleeves, and a balaclava hiding their features. She tries to fight, even pulls a gun, but they’re on her too quickly, practically tackling her and trying to wrangle her like a steer. As she tries to fight back, one of the men hits her on the back of the head, and the two others carry her into the van before they speed away.
“The man that hit her?” Grease continues and clicks over to a screen shot of the video to reveal a tattoo of a small dagger running over the man’s thumb. “Matches saw him early this morning completing a deal with a known Dust mule on the edge of town, for those new pills floating around. My guess is they needed more workers. You know Dust uses women to make most of their drugs.”
Damien growls low, but keeps his composure as he responds.
