Bomb (Ruin Outlaws MC #1) (2 page)

“Oh goodie,” I say. I kneel down and scratch one of them under the ears. The dog cocks his head into my fingers and starts panting. Despite my protest and whining, it is kind of nice to hang out with some dogs all day. When I get good ones, they’re nicer than the people I talk to most of the time.

I grab the leads from her and guide the dogs to the back. A huge tub is set up just for them.

Despite the demeanor of the dogs, I'm exhausted at the end of the day. After the scrubbing and suds irritating my skin, I manage to slip out. To my surprise, Becky actually lets me out a little early, since she heard me complaining about the traffic jam the day before. I feel bad for thinking ill of her, but I can’t help her mood swings. I’m just grateful she didn't change her mind and decide to make me stay all night.

A
nother shitty day. The blue afternoon sunlight looks reddish and blinding as it reflects off the massive number of cars strewn across the sizzling pavement. I can’t believe they’re making me come out in this fucking mess. I glance over my shoulder at another car and watch the old man inside playing a game on his phone. I can’t help but wonder what a waste of a life he’s trying to get home to. Probably a wife and a bunch of bratty kids. Maybe no wife at all?

I don’t know how I get so caught up thinking about such trivial shit. I stare ahead and narrow my gaze. The sun is way too bright, and I have places to be. This traffic jam is gonna have to wait. I race my engine with a couple twists of my wrist and feel the exhaust reverberate off the doors around me.

I maneuver my bike between the lanes and start coasting down, glancing past the short, small-engined cattle for any wolves. As I glide past a small sedan, I stare inside for some reason.

A woman is staring right back at me. Nothing I’m not used to, after all. To her, I’m probably an annoying asshole on a bike, especially now that I’m skirting through the traffic jam like it’s nothing. But this is different: her eyes, narrowed and angry, aren’t the usual scared or entranced kind. They’re deep blue. I only look at her for a brief second, and I’m drowning. Another moment, I’m past the hood of her car, and I decide there aren’t any cops around. I twist the throttle open and knock the bike into a tighter gear and I blaze down the highway, passing cars left and right like they’re stones on the ground.

At the clubhouse, Tank and Driver are waiting for me outside. Everyone’s bikes are already lined up, angled in a way, I suppose, to tell people to fuck off. Tank is a burly dude, barrel chested with gorilla-arms. Not just in strength, but hairiness. Everyone think’s he’s the enforcer, but he’s really the vice president of the club. Driver is more of a lanky kinda guy, and much more fresh-faced than me. He can barely grow a beard. I think he looks up to my like a brother, but I haven't quite warmed up to him yet.

“So you decided to show after all, Bomb,” Tank says. He spits on the sidewalk and watches it sizzle. “Thought we’d have to rename you Time-bomb for all the waiting you make us do.”

“What, the three times we’ve gotten together?” I grin for the first time in what feels like forever. Too many shitty days. “Not a chance, I think Rifle would like that a little too much,” I say. “What’s this joint anyway?” I nudge Driver as we walk in, and he gives me a small nod.

Inside, seven men are all lined up around a pool table. They’re using it as a dining room table, complete with burgers and fries scattered across the green felt, which is already destroyed with tears in the fabric. I never cared for the game, but it is a little surprising to see. I don’t know if they’re the ones who destroyed it, or if it was like that already. Rifle shoots me an angry look, but I brush him off. Small fry, in my eyes. The smell of cigar and cigarette smoke reeks, and makes me yearn to light one up. I refuse though, after I saw another brother go aflame one afternoon a couple years back. Some things just ain’t worth it.

Surge shakes his head at something that another guy says, and then turns to us. He grins his maw and slaps us on the shoulders, before shaking my hand. “Glad you could make it, Bomb, wouldn’t be right to start without our newest member.”

“Yeah,” I manage. I don’t know what else to say. It’s weird reuniting with my old riding brother from back across the state border. He’s always been much older, but he took me under his wing. And when he left, he was the first to extend an invitation to join him out here in Arizona.

“Yeah? Is that all you can say?” Surge laughs. He beckons me to sit down and I do. He clears his throat and plants his palms on the top of the billiard table. “We got an important run to do this week boys, we can’t let those asshole Skeletons nudge in on us like they did last time. If we have to,” he stops to eye Tank, “we’ll make an example out of one of them.” As he concludes, Tank balls a fist and slams it into his hand, making a satisfying punch sound. I remain straight faced.

Surge continues. “I’ll need one of you to go out recruiting today. Our numbers have been thinning and we need more meat. We’re okay right now, but the Skeletons are growing fast. That’s a problem.”

Rifle raises his hand lamely, but doesn’t wait for Surge to call on him. “What’d you want us to do? Go to the local middle school and start handing out flyers? Who cares about the Skeletons anyway? Bunch of pussies.

Surge narrows his eyes. He’s old, with a gray beard and thick mustache, but at that moment, he looks like he could tear a house in half. He doesn’t do so much as open his mouth, and Rifle retracts his hand and apologizes under his breath. I smirk, amazed that the president of the gang could have such authority over these brats.

They are brats aren’t they? I glance around the room at my freshly-christened brothers and try to decide if they’re even worthy of my time. I didn’t join up into Ruin because I thought I’d have to babysit people. It was just convenient since Surge approached me first. I might as well be in the Skeletons. Save for Surge. If it wasn’t for him and Tank, I would’ve already left. Surge clearly has always had a soft spot for me. I glance at Driver and wonder about him. How old was I when I joined my first crew?

As he drones on about the plan to move some drugs between state lines, my mind wanders. I don't try very hard to stay focused, since I’d done runs like this a million times, and in a lot tougher situations My mind wanders, and I can’t shake the image of the blue-eyed woman in the car. Her forehead knitted with a desperate kind of anger, and her lips pursed as if she were ready to scold me. Wasn’t she cared of me? Of my motorcycle at least? My tattoos? I absentmindedly rub one of them, an old black skull that has flaming coals for eyes. One of my first.

Flaming coals, kind of like her eyes... Maybe her lips could wrap around mine, and she'd grind her thigh against me. I push the thought away before I embarrass myself and draw my attention back to Surge’s plan. It’s basic, simple even. We meet up with our leads out in the desert and exchange our money for the drugs. Our saddlebags will carry the shipment, and we probably won’t even get hassled by the police. I still haven’t seen where Surge keeps the stash, but I’m sure it’s safe somewhere. This crew is too small to draw any unwanted attention, unlike my last crew.

Too bad for them. I can’t imagine the hell they’re going through in prison. I barely avoided it myself, but I’m not proud of how. I fold my arms when I notice Rifle staring daggers at me, and I resist the urge to flip him off. If Surge saw dissent between his small clan, he’d probably flip the entire pool table over and kill one of us.

Best not to anger the President, even if his ideas are a bit quaint and old.

Rifle stands up and moves over to me, and I meet his gaze. My arms are firmly folded across my chest, and my feet are kicked up on the table. He pushes my legs off and stares down at me. “What are you gonna do, newbie?”

I shake my head and eye Surge, who is already going red in the face. He shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything. So much for that theory. I raise my feet and plant them back on the edge of the pool table, and Rifle pushes them off again.

“What's your deal, Rifle?”

“You think you’re one of us, but I know you ain’t,” Rifle says. He clenches a fist and his voice grows hard. I’ve seen this before. Not my first rodeo. Or clubhouse punch out, I suppose. He tries to swing at me, but I dodge under his arm and grab him by the waist. I stand as I dig my fingers into him, and throw him onto his back on the table, knocking over beer and crushing half-eaten burgers. He scrambles to get a hold of me, but I’m already on top of him. I reel back and punch him in the jaw, knocking his head sideways. He snarls but loosens his grip on my shirt.

Surge steps in, finally, “Bomb, stop.”

I release my grip on Rifle and step back, brushing a hanging fry off my shirt. Rifle looks at me like a hurt dog, but what can I do? If I hadn’t done anything, then I’d look like a push over to everyone, including Surge. “Help him up,” Surge commands.

I extend my hand to Rifle, but he bats it away. “I don’t need help from no outsider. I don’t even know why you’re still here.”

Tank groans loudly. “Rifle, I swear we do this every time. You get your ass kicked and then whine about it forever. You’re the reason why we don’t have any recruits. Didn’t you hear Surge?”

I nod a little to Tank, who grins. Surge interjects again and pushes between me and Rifle. He turns to Rifle. “He’s right. I just went over how we need new members, and you start shit with our rookie? He’s been riding longer than you’ve been sucking titties. Get the fuck out of here, Rifle.”

Rifle stares at him, and his gaze moves over Surge’s shoulder and to me. “You can’t kick me out.”

“I’ll think about it, but leave your vest anyway. I’ll give it back to you if I decide to not kick your ass out.”

“This is your fault.” He points at me. “You’re doing this.”

I hold up my hands in surrender, but say nothing. Surge picks Rifle up and shoves him toward the door. “Git!”

With one last angry glance at all of us, Rifle opens the door to the bar and vanishes. I don’t say share this with anyone else, but I hope for good.

“What are you going to do with him?” Tank asks, with some reluctance. I didn’t want to interject after the beat down I just gave the guy. Surge glances at Tank and snorts. No reply. I’m not surprised. He looks to me and grins.

“I’m glad someone finally knocked some sense into him,” he says. Surge extends his gnarled hand and takes me in for a hug, squeezing the air out of me. I bear it and glance over his shoulder to Tank and the others, who look relieved to have the tension knocked down a peg or two. “Welcome to the gang, Bomb.”

“Don’t roll out a welcome mat or anything,” I say. I nod gruffly and move back over to the billiard table. I’m starving, after all. Massaging my hand to work the soreness out of it, I pick up a free burger and take a bite.

. . .

We conclude the meeting soon after and I climb back on my bike to go home. I let the cool breeze of the spring sunset cascade under my arms, and the drone of the engine carry my mind off to distant thoughts while the bike takes me home.

That's the funny thing. I love the wild nature of the beast. You drive a car, but ride a motorcycle. I remember Surge telling me that one day over some beers, back when we rode together in California. Surge pointed at me and then to the bike and mentioned how all the people in their mini vans and sport wagons were driving, which made it sound like they were in control. They refused to acknowledge the real danger in their lives, the fact that a texting teenager could plow through an intersection and knock them out of their ignorant bliss at any moment.

Not bikers though. We acknowledge the nature of the beast, the chaos of the road. We don’t drive anything, we ride. We’re carried along by the strange machine, and only give it suggestions. The danger is more intense and thrilling than driving a car. It isn't just a texting teenager we have to watch out for, but an old businessman sliding out of his lane because he doesn’t check his mirrors. The grim and hot leather on a sunny day, with sweat getting in your eyes. That kind of freedom is what makes a man ache for his wild side. His beast within.

That’s what he told me. I remember laughing it off and telling him to buy me another beer for rambling to me for so long. Shortly after, he left the gang and moved to Arizona. It was only after the rest of the gang got locked up and I fled to the Copper State that I realized how right he was.

I pull alongside my ratty apartment down by the east side of the city and park my bike. The location isn’t the best, but it gets the job done. After securing the bike, I move into the studio and unlock the door. The deadbolt is broken, but looks solid from the outside. I shove the swollen door out of its frame and toss my leathers on the couch. A long hot day deserves a nice cold beer, I convince myself.

Propping open the fridge in search for a meal, a package of hotdogs beckons me. That should do for now. After sizzling up the grub and twisting a cap off, I settle down in the couch and dig in. No dining room table for me, nothing that fancy. Thinking about it now, I don’t think I ever had one in my entire life. It was always something the other kids at school had, friend’s families when I’d come over to stay the night. Nothing my family had.

The television drones on about the violence in the city and schools, and I flip the channel, disinterested. The hotdogs are filling enough, but I still feel hungry. Not food, but something more satisfying. A deep ache and yearning claws at my insides.

I think of the woman with blue eyes in the car. The image is faint, but parts of it are surprisingly crystal. Her pained but angry expression seared on the back of my eyelids. I sigh and think of meeting her again. Those plump lips, and faint cheek lines. She probably has a body made for sin.

A familiar sensation curdles my insides. I need relief. I jerk at my jeans and pull them down a bit, and try to imagine the woman in the car.

M
y three alarms all blare at the same time. I’m sure it drives Sara crazy, but she’s never said anything about it. I switch them all off, including the old-timey one that has two bells at the top. When I was in college, nothing worked for getting me up for class, until someone pointed out that I should just set more alarms.