Vindication: A Motorcycle Club Romance (7 page)

Sensing her discomfort, Bridget
turned to her and said, “What’s the deal? What’s bothering you about this?”

Muriel looked up at her, the freckles
splashed across her face dark and flushed. “I don’t know, honey, do you think
that’s a wise idea?”

“What?”

“Dating a
biker guy?”

“God, who’s dating a biker guy?” said
Bridget. “I’m barely contemplating the idea of a date with him.”

Muriel’s mouth squished up to one
side. “I know you about as well as anyone, Bridg, and you barely even
contemplate dates with very attractive and suitable men who basically follow
you everywhere. You turn down single dads with hedge funds who slip their
numbers during parent-teacher conferences…”

“C’mon, that’s different. Dating
students’ parents is a snake pit.”

“Still, I insist the point. If you’re
even considering a date with this biker dude, it must be because you actually.
really want it for once.”

Redness flushed over her face. “Fuck,”
said Bridget with a snorting laugh. She stared down at her beer with a smile.
“I did not expect such an astute observation of my bullshit to come out of your
mouth.”

“Just be careful. Some people might
start to talk if they know you’re hanging out with a man like that.”

“What year is it, 1956?”

“I’m just saying,” said Muriel, an
apologetic whine to her voice. “I don’t want to see you get yourself into
trouble with some rough guy, or have Henrietta hassle you.”

Bridget was silent a moment. Muriel
did
know her just about as well as anyone else did, but there was still a lot
Muriel didn’t know. She knew about Bridget’s time in the service, and she knew
it wasn’t entirely pleasant. She seemed to understand why Bridget’s PTSD-like
symptoms existed and never bothered her about it, where other friends had raged
or abandoned her outright.

But Muriel didn’t know the other part
of all of it, the deep part of Bridget that drove her to things like the
military, the parts of her that made her so fiercely independent. That same
untamed part of her was wildly, hopelessly attracted to Ghost. Having Muriel
sit there and warn her against it suddenly made the reality of her feelings
stand out stark, like the silhouette of a howling wolf against a full moon.

The reason Muriel didn’t know was
because Bridget was a stranger in her world. She loved the kids at the Academy,
but there was nothing about this comfortable, even decadent, world that Bridget
understood well. She was simply intelligent and good enough at adapting that
she could fit in here without having been born into it. She played a part. She
figured out exactly how rich parents and stuck-up Ivy League-educated teachers
wanted to be talked to, and she used it to get her job done. She let them
assume anything they wanted about her background, knowing they would fill in
the blanks with some familiar story about debutante balls and sorority houses,
and she never had to correct them. She let everyone paint their perception on
her like a blank canvas, never letting them see what she really was underneath.

Muriel was born into this world.
She’d never want for anything in her life, and never had. Even if she stopped
teaching tomorrow, the rich fiancé in the finance industry she had waiting at
home for her would make sure she had everything she needed. Bridget was just a
visitor, a pilgrim wandering through, who had only settled down in LeBeau and
taken the job to make sure Gramps had someone around until the end. She didn’t
care about maintaining a reputation with the powerful people she knew now.

She would do what she always did—what
she wanted. But Bridget knew she couldn’t make a woman like Muriel understand
it. Women like Muriel turned their fire down for their men, and Bridget didn’t.
That’s why Bridget was alone, and Muriel wasn’t.

Bridget cleared her throat. “I’ll be
fine,” she said without looking at Muriel.

She would never admit it to her
friend, but Bridget had her own reservations about being with Ghost. They just
had very little to do with her reputation.

~
SEVEN ~

Ghost

Already he loved and hated this city.

Ghost had lived in plenty of cities
in his life, before he settled down in LeBeau for good, and he nearly always
felt the same about them. The parts he loved, he loved with all his heart: the
anonymity; the energy and culture; the endless possibilities of a labyrinth of
back alleys, side streets, winding halls, and identical doorways. There was a
power in cities that, when tapped properly, could send you rocketing into the
stratosphere. But it didn’t take much of a hiccup to turn your flight to the
stars into an interstellar explosion.

The part Ghost hated about cities
burned hotter than the things he loved. He hated how much harder everyone made
it for each other, and themselves, living all cooped up and cramped together
all the time. It didn’t matter how nice the city was or where it had been
built. Maybe he’d notice it in a day, maybe not for a few years, like with
Seattle. But eventually that stench of apathy caught up to him and he was on
his bike again, off to somewhere he could find some brightness for a while.
LeBeau ended up being that place for good, right when he was about to give it
up for myth. He liked the space. He liked the defensibility of the cozy
mountain corridor. And he liked being a bad guy that kept the worse guys away
from people like Sid and Bridget and the rest of the town. The MC’s jobs slated
the lust for blood and adrenaline he was sure now would never go away.

He’d been to Eagleton once or twice
for something or other, lame errands he couldn’t remember now. Mid-sized,
fairly clean and quiet, not as progressive as a place like Seattle, but
certainly not as sheltered as the Midwest. The Black Dogs charter up here made
their money distributing guns; they’d take in the shipments from the harbor,
rent a warehouse to package the merch, and then make shipments to smaller
outlying places around Eagleton. Sometimes the guns went straight into the
hands of men at war, ready to use them on a rival gang. Lots of times, they were
being resold, sometimes three or four times before they found a permanent home.
Other charters like LeBeau frequently act as hubs for sales or storage, if
needed.

Two of the Eagleton Dogs were outside
the building, smoking on a worn, wooden picnic table, when Jase led the four of
them, mounted on their bikes, through the open chain link gate and down the
wide driveway. Ghost was sure he remembered some of the faces from one of those
times LeBeau managed a weapons sale, when Eagleton dudes had come down to them.

The charter had converted an old
office building from the 40s into their clubhouse, but erased much of the charm
by painting the place a stonewash gray and replacing all the landscaping with
gravel. Ghost supposed it was more efficient, but where was their sense of
drama and elegance? These city boys had no showmanship.

Ghost and his brothers parked their
bikes neatly against the chain link fence. By the time they turned, two more
Eagleton Dogs had come outside at the sound of the engines, and the smokers
were walking over to greet them.

The tallest of them was
broad-shouldered with soft, ginger hair that fell across his eyes. He held out
his hand to Will. “Hi, there. Shaun Lee, president of Eagleton.”

“Will Bowers,” said Will, shaking his
hand. “I think we met a few years ago.”

“Did you boys have a good ride?”

“Ran into some construction coming
out of Athens that took longer than we wanted, but nothing horrible. How are
things here?”

“About the same as when we spoke to
Henry last. I assume he caught you boys up.”

The other Eagleton Dogs approached,
boots crunching on the gravel, and all of them lit up cigarettes as they came
to a stop. Next to Shaun was Scott Turner, a skinny kid in his mid-twenties
with a gentlemen’s haircut and a mean collection of arm tattoos. Rick Cappello,
the charter’s VP, was a short and round Italian dude with wiry, black curls
that Ghost imagined he hated trying to fit under a helmet. Last was Harvey
Lucero, skinnier than Scott, but in a lean and hungry way. He had thick, gray
streaks in his bushy beard and spoke with an accent that told Ghost he probably
called Appalachia home. He insisted no one use his first name.

“I’m Jase Campbell, I’m running
things from our end. This is Will Bowers, Tommy Castillo, and Ghost McBride,”
said Jase as he gestured to them in turn.

“Thanks for coming up and helping us
out with this. We can’t tell you how much we appreciate it,” said Shaun. He was
tall, but a big guy, with ropy arms and a lot of incidental scars on his hands
and neck. “We’ve never been in a bind like this before that we couldn’t dig
ourselves out of.”

“Hey, what’s the point of the cut if
we don’t help each other out?” said Will.

“Well, I look damn good in mine, that
is an important point,” said Ghost, straightening his own. Rick and Lucero both
snickered.

Shaun had the leadership here, and
when he was finished with his smoke, his men all followed suit. Jase had
already blazed through his, and Will, God bless the poor little cinnamon roll,
he was trying to quit before his baby arrived. Ghost could only see his stress
if he looked at the corners of Will’s big, brown, puppy-dog eyes; it was small,
but it was there.

The inside of the clubhouse was
unexpectedly warm, with original exposed brick and hardwood floors. The large
main room stretched back half the building and up through the second floor,
which was more of a loft, accessed by a small staircase on the south wall. It
was open and airy and light, but also had sterility to it. The Eagleton Dogs
relinquished seats on the well-worn furniture to their guests, and stood around
the room instead.

“So we leave in the morning. Is that
going to leave you boys enough time to get some rest and learn the ropes?” said
Shaun.

Rick came over with beers from a tall
industrial fridge in the corner. As Ghost took his with a nod, he said, “You
got any place to sleep around here?”

“Upstairs, there are a couple spare
rooms we’ve converted.”

“I gots to have my beauty rest,” said
Ghost, and then tipped back his beer.

“We can order you some take-out, too.
There’s pretty much anything you could want around here,” said Lucero, his
gruff, southern voice standing out stark.

Will tipped a gracious hand toward
Tommy and took his beer from Rick. “The new kid won the race out of town this
morning, so he gets to pick dinner.”

“And don’t say pizza, you little
shit,” said Ghost, pointing with false menace at Tommy’s grin. “Find something
we don’t have in LeBeau. Might as well get the most out of this shitcan while
we’re here.”

“Come again?” said Lucero with a
serious sneer.

“Oh, not
this
shitcan,” said
Ghost, gesturing around the room. “No, your clubhouse is fine. Not my style,
personally, but that’s just opinion, isn’t it?”

“What the fuck is this guy on about?”
Lucero turned to Will like he was a translator.

“Ignore him. He’s just fucking
around,” said Will with a dismissive wave. “He just thinks we need to order
food we can’t get at home to make the most of our trip.”

“That’s what I said.” Ghost raised
and dropped his hands.

“What do you guys like?” said Tommy,
craning his neck to look up at Shaun.

Shaun smiled. “There’s a really great
Thai place about two blocks over. You ever had Thai? You’ll get addicted, I
swear.”

That was enough of a promise for
Tommy. The Eagleton Dogs took the task of ordering and picking up the dinner
while the LeBeau Dogs set up their sleeping spaces. Dinner was served at a
large white table that looked like it came from Ikea or some other big box
store, with matching smooth, round chairs that scraped on the hardwood floor.
As they dug into the hot, spicy food, Shaun decided to informally go over the
next day’s plans.

“The highway’s a really straight
shot,” said Shaun around a mouthful of curry chicken. “It’s one of the flattest
parts of the state. It’s easy to spot an ambush or a tail.”

“How often do you deal with either of
those?” asked Will.

“Rarely to never. We’ve had this
supply line pretty well locked down for about six years now, and the only gang
in the area with the power to challenge us ain’t interested in it.”

“Who’s that?” asked Ghost.

“Chinese mafia,” said Rick, passing a
carton of sticky rice across the table to Scott. “They like running drugs and
cheap knockoff guns.”

“And the cops?” asked Will.

“We’ve got them contained,” said
Shaun. “We’ve got two locals and three Highway Patrolmen on our payroll. They
won’t intervene in a fight, but they’re not going to hassle us.”

“So it sounds like this is mostly a
contingency paranoia,” said Will. “You haven’t been threatened.”

“No,” said Shaun. “Nothing like that.
But the other gangs around here know we’re weak. We’ve never been this low on
active members before, and it’s gotten to where we can’t make appearances in
the streets like we used to. I don’t know how it is back in LeBeau, but that’s
a problem around here.”

“You’re losing your legend,” said
Jase with a bitter half-grin.

“Yeah, you could say that,” said
Shaun, nodding. “We have to make this run or we’re going to be in a bad place
financially, long before we can get our numbers back up. And if someone wanted
to hit us, well… now would be the time.”

“You’re not wrong,” said Ghost. “The
smell of blood brings the predators that aren’t even hungry.”

“So, what’s the plan?” said Will.

Shaun slid aside his plate and some
of the food containers to make space for his elbows as he leaned forward. He
wiped bright red sauce off his face. “We have two identical vans. They’re marked
to look like a meat delivery plant that used to operate around here. Only one
van is carrying the guns. They maintain a constant distance from each other of
ten miles, and each are escorted by two bikes, not close enough to make people
suspicious of course, but tailing back a bit. The idea is that anyone who wants
to try a hit is going to have to deal with fifty-fifty odds they’re hitting the
wrong van, or somehow risk hitting both at once.”

“Smart,” said Ghost.

“So two men per van, and the other
four on bikes?” said Jase.

“Right,” said Shaun. “Since we know
the route, I’m putting my men at the helm of each van—that’ll be Lucero and
myself. Rick and Scott will each go on bikes, along with whichever of your men
are taking their bikes.”

“Bike!” said Ghost immediately.

“Same,” agreed Tommy. “I’d rather not
be cooped up in a van that whole drive.”

“Fine with me,” said Jase. “Will, you
have a problem being in the other van?”

Will shook his head, chewing.

“Good. So it’s just a simple drive,
no stops required unless we run into unexpected delays. But our lines at the
Department of Transportation say there’s no big construction or utility
projects, so we should be in the clear. We’ll refuel in Burling after the sale
is made and head straight back down the highway for Eagleton. Then you boys can
catch another night here, or head home, whatever works for you,” said Shaun.

“We’ll have walkies in each van,
connected to radio lines that each of the bikers will be wearing,” said Scott
as he got up to move some of the empty white ceramic plates to the kitchen sink.
“We should get those fitted and tested tonight before you all turn in.”

“Any questions?” asked Shaun.

“What happens when we get to the
actual sale?” said Will. “What do you want us to do?”