Page 1 of Jasper
Chapter 1
Jasper
It’s almost noon. The morning sun is high in the sky, shining right on my back and warming the Sons of Rage patch set dead center on my cut. It’s a fuckin’ good day to be alive. Ridin’ the open road all alone is my fuckin’ happy place. I can go as fast or slow as I want, with no need to match pace with anyone else. I love my club brothers, but sometimes I just like to clear my head. Riding down I-80 does the trick every damn time.
When I’m at my happiest, that’s when I spot the fuckers about to ruin my solitude and maybe my life. Three motorcycles pull out behind me as I pass the gas station on the edge of town. A quick glance over my shoulder tells me they’re spaced in a tight V formation spread across both lanes of the four-lane interstate. Fuckers are ridin’ like they own the goddamn place.
They’re not from Sons of Rage. I know that much because none of our crew would ride bikes that look like they’ve been cobbled together from actual fuckin’ trash. We’ve got more pride in ourselves than that.
Two of them ride past slow enough that I get a good view of their back patch. They’re flying colors alright—Hyenas MC is on their top rocker bold as brass. Bottom rocker reads, Cedar Falls CA. These bastards have some damn nerve putting the name of our town on their bottom rocker. That bottom rocker isn’t just a name. It’s a claim of territory, and that means they’re our enemies.
I keep my speed steady, ‘cause I ain’t about to let these assholes rattle me. These fools don’t scare me. They’ll end up being just another rival that was wiped out by me and my club brothers. It’ll be like they never existed. Just another cautionary tale about what happens when dumb fuckers roll into town thinkin’ they can take what belongs to the Sons of Rage MC.
I might be alone, but I’m not weak. Let them try something, they’ll soon find out that I’m hard as fuck to kill.
Unfortunately for my peaceful ride, I don’t have to wait long for them to get cocky.
The middle rider comes up behind me, forcing me to match his pace to keep our bikes from going down in a tangle of metal. The other two surge forward until one is in front of me and the other is on my left side. I immediately realize they’re trying to box me in and doing a pretty fuckin’ good job of it too. The tight triangle they’ve formed around three sides means they’re fixin’ to run me right into the guardrail.
This maneuver ain’t easy. It takes coordination and practice to pull it off, much less as smoothly and quickly as these bastards did. That means they’re not weekend riders at least.
I clench my jaw and try to ignore them. I don’t engage, I just ride. I have to play this out to the end. I got no other choice here.
I see a pull-off near a scenic overlook ahead. If I can just get to that stretch of highway, I might get myself out of this situation. The thing is, they see that opportunity too and have no intention of letting me slip their grasp. So, the one boxing me in on the right side gives my rear tire a good kick with his boot.
It takes everything I’ve got to keep control of my bike. I correct the wobble with pure muscle memory and instinct,cursing under my breath. It occurs to me that these nasty fuckers aren’t trying to send a message. They’re out for blood, specifically mine.
The one on the right comes at me again. He leans in, grinning like he’s having the time of his life. I grin right back because two can play that game. I drop one hand down to the holder welded to my bike seat and whip out the thin metal rod I carry there for just such occasions. Before he can react, I ram it right into the spokes of his front wheel as I ride off. Fuckers were so busy playing games that they let me get to the overlook.
He shouts something I can’t hear over the wind and my engine. I catch a glimpse of his bike going airborne in my rear-view mirror. The one in front drops back and gives my bike another kick before I can get all the way off the road. My handlebars jerk and I nearly lose control.
I twist the throttle, trying to punch out ahead, but then he speeds up as well and cuts across in front of me, close enough that I see his furious expression through his open visor.
I keep veering right, towards the parking area for the overlook. I make it alright, but my back wheel clips the very end of the guard rail. I miss the pavement and end up careening into a ditch. It’s fine, I tell myself. I’d rather eat dirt than die on asphalt. But then before I know what’s happening, I hit a large rock they lined the parking area with for decoration.
I don’t remember the moment I go airborne. My ears fill with the scream of metal, and the world going sideways. When my body hits the ground hard, the bike slams down on my leg before rolling once over twice and dragging me right along with it. Dust, blood, and black spots consume my vision.
On the road above, the sound of motorcycles fades into the distance. An old man comes stumbling down into what I now realize is a steep ravine that ends with a cliff. Thank God my bike stopped before I was flung off that huge drop.
It takes a minute or two for the ringing in my head to quiet. Spitting out blood, I taste copper and dirt in my mouth. Still feeling dizzy, I push myself up with my hands to find that I’m unsteady on my feet—but at least I can stand and nothing’s broken. The old man grabs my arm to steady me. My world is still spinning, but I manage to shake it off as I get my feet under me. When I look at him, his weathered skin and white hair put him around seventy at least.
That’s when I realize he’s talking to me. “You okay, son?”
I nod, stammering, “Yeah, I’m tough as nails.”
He gives me the once over and I can see he’s worried. “You look pretty tough, but don’t go thinking you can shake off a crash like that.”
“I’ve been through worse,” I tell him. “What’s your name, old man?”
“Wilbert Smith. In case you don’t know, you’re bleeding from your leg there, and your lip is busted up pretty bad. You hit the ground hard, so you might have a concussion as well.”
Shaking his hand off my arm, I begin limping towards my mangled bike, “I’m fuckin’ fine, I promise, Wilbert.”
He brings one hand up to block out the sun as he watches me squat down to inspect my ride. “You need to go to the hospital.”
My bike looks like shit. The frame’s bent, handlebars are twisted, and the mirror snapped clean off at some point. I dragit upright, check the engine. There is a slow fuel leak, barely dripping from where the tank came apart from the frame.
“Come on,” I mutter, thumbing the ignition. It sputters, almost like it’s gonna start, so I hit the ignition again. It tries to turn over but can’t quite make it happen. I truly believe she has a little more life in her, so I pause, not wanting to flood the engine.
