Page 30 of Spyder
“You’ll have to forgive me. It’s been a while and I’m a bit rusty at this.”
He really does have a beautiful smile. It makes him look even younger than he already looks and far more approachable. It makes me forget that he’s part of a biker gang. That thought, along with the echo of Ruby’s words, makes the smile slip from my face. I try to cover it, but Derek doesn’t miss a thing. He really is far too clever for my own good.
“What is it?” he asks.
I hesitate to bring it up and cast a pall over what really has been a lovely evening. But I feel like if I don’t, that worm of doubt is going to continue writhing around in the back of my head, wrapping itself around everything until it chokes out all of the good feelings that he’s inspired in me. And I don’t want that. Plus, I’d rather get out all cards on the table up front now while things are still new. That way, there are no nasty, hurtful surprises down the line.
Not that I’m saying this is going to go anywhere. It’s certainly far too early to even think about things like that. But being with him makes me feel good. I enjoy talking to him and like I said, there’s this sense of comfort between us that’s really… nice. It’s something I haven’t felt in a really long time. I feel like I can be myself with him. Like I don’t have to put up any pretenses and I can just be who I am, and Derek won’t judge me for it.
“I need to ask you something,” I tell him.
“Uh-oh. This sounds serious.”
He takes another swallow of his beer and sets the glass down, leaning forward on the table, his expression earnest.
“It’s just this motorcycle club. I’ve heard some things and—”
“Let me guess… We’re hardcore murderers. We sling dope all over town. We dabble in human trafficking. And we also assassinated everybody from Abraham Lincoln to JFK. Did I miss anything?”
I laugh softly. “No, I think that about covers it,” I say then look up at him. “Is there any truth to it?”
He frowns and sits back in his seat. “Listen, I shouldn’t say anything. Ordinarily, we don’t care what people say about us. And believe me, we’ve heard it all,” he says. “People in this town love to gossip, and most of what they say is flat-out bullshit. They see MCs on TV and in the movies and assume that’s what we do.”
“You said, most of what they say is bullshit,” I say. “What isn’t bullshit?”
“I want to be open and honest with you. I mean, I don’t know what it is, but there’s just something about you that makes me not want to keep things from you.”
“All right. So don’t. Lay it out for me. I’m a big girl and I can take it.”
He hesitates, and I can tell he’s struggling with the decision to spill his club’s secrets. I feel bad for putting him on the spot like this, but it’s better to get this all out now before either of us lets our feelings get the better of us. I mean, once feelings start to solidify and get real, people start getting hurt. And I can tell he doesn’t want to hurt me anymore than I want to hurt him.
Derek takes a long swallow of his beer and sets the glass back down. He looks around as if he’s making sure nobody is close enough to overhear. Even still, he leans forward and lowers his voice so only I can hear.
“The truth is, we deal in weed. It’s our main source of income,” he says.
“But weed is legal in California. How is that the main source of your income?”
A small grin flickers across his lips. “It’s mostly legal. And definitely not in the quantities we deal in. Truth is, most of our product goes out to other, less enlightened, and forward-thinking states.”
Weed doesn’t seem like a big deal to me. I know plenty of people who smoke marijuana for a variety of mental, physical, and just recreational reasons. Hell, my mother has a medical marijuana card for her pain. To me, that’s not a deal breaker. But I get the feeling there’s more to it than just that.
“What else?” I ask.
“That’s it. We don’t sling meth or heroin or any kind of crap like that. And we don’t tolerate people in town who do.”
That lines up with what Ruby told me, and that seeming penchant for violence is a little worrisome.
“Did you and your club beat some guy up who was abusing his son and dealing heroin in town a few years back? Did you force him to leave town?” I ask.
He frowns. “Probably. I only joined the club a couple of years ago. But I have been part of a couple of incidents where we—strongly suggested—to somebody that they stop selling drugs in town,” he says.
“Strongly suggested?” I ask, arching an eyebrow at him.
“We usually give one warning. We tell them to stop slinging their shit in town or they’re gonna pay a price,” he replies.
“And if they don’t take your warning to heart?”
“Then, we have to reiterate our point… physically,” he says softly. “Listen, we all come from around here. This is our home, and we all love this town. We protect it. At all costs. We won’t tolerate anybody slinging that poison in Blue Rock.”
