“Got a sled?”
“Dutch told you I did.”
Trip smiled, but it wasn’t a friendly one. “Yeah, he did. But since you’re a man, you need to speak for yourself just like a real man would.”
That got the guy on his feet and his smirk wiped away. He dropped his arms and planted his hands on his hips covered in greasy jeans. “Got a ‘75 FLHF Shovelhead.”
If it was in good shape, it was probably a sweet bike. “In good workin’ order?”
“Fuck yeah.”
“Want in?”
“Depends...”
“You want in, you’re patched in since your Dutch’s blood. Only offer you’re gettin’. Don’t accept it now, then you’ll need to prospect.” And Trip would make sure to have fun running him through the damn gauntlet.
“I’m in.”
Trip dropped his head, stared at his boots and once he could wipe away the grin, he lifted it again. “Thought so. Got a road name?”
“Cage.”
“Cage? How the fuck d’ya get that?”
“I gave it to him. Taught the boy to work on sleds. Prefers to work on cages,” Dutch grumbled.
“Pop thinks there’s an endless supply of bikes to work on. The garage would go outta business if we only worked on sleds. This ain’t the old days.”
“Hopefully that will change,” Trip murmured. “I’ll get you your colors. Get your mommy to buy you a cut and sew them on for you.”
Cage’s jaw went tight. “Don’t got a mommy, but there’s a fuckin’ tailor in town. Get me my colors and I’ll get ‘er done.”
Trip gave him a nod. “Good.”
Cage gave him an answering nod, then sauntered away.
Before he had gone too far, Trip called out, “Cage... One more thing...” He waited until Cage stopped and turned his head to look at him over his shoulder. “Gonna be your president.” He met the man’s narrowed blue eyes. “Might not want to forget that.”
“Know how it works,” Cage grumbled, then continued on his way.
“Doubt you do,” Trip muttered under his breath.
Trip turned back to Dutch, who was grinning. “Not sure where he got his attitude, musta been from his momma.” Dutch shook his head. “Was great at suckin’ and fuckin’ my cock, but the rest of the time, the bitch was impossible to live with.”
“His mother wasn’t Bebe?” Trip remembered Dutch’s ol’ lady. In fact, he remembered Dutch having a son around Sig’s age.
“Yeah.”
“She split when the rest of ‘em did?”
“Yeah, but left the boys behind. Never wanted to be a mother. And the club fallin’ apart was the perfect excuse for the bitch to escape. Left me raisin’ the two hellions all by my fuckin’ lonesome. And tryin’ to run this damn shop.”
“How old’s Cage?”
Dutch squinted as if he was thinking hard. “Don’t fuckin’ know. Lost track... Old enough to drink, not old enough to have a lick of fuckin’ sense. But then his older brother don’t have any, either. That’s my fault for tryin’ to raise those boys myself.”
It wasn’t Cage he remembered from back then, it was Dutch’s older son. Rook, if Trip remembered right. “Wasn’t Rook around Sig’s age?”
Dutch’s brown eyes landed on him. “Yeah, ‘bout there. And Cage was born ‘bout five years later.”
Trip did some figuring in his head. That meant Rook was about thirty-two now and Cage about twenty-eight. “Where’s Rook?”
“Somewhere where the sun don’t shine.”
“Fuck. Sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, But he’s a short-timer. Just got a month or so to go yet.”
Huh? “He ain’t dead?”
“Fuck no, boy. He’s in County.”
“Where?”
“Lycoming.”
“What’d he do?”
“Bought weed from an undercover pig, then fled.”
“That’s it?”
“And then took the pig to the ground.”
“And?”
“And knocked ‘im the fuck out.”
Damn. “Out soon, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s he goin’ after he’s out?”
“No fuckin’ clue. Rook does what Rook wants to do.” Dutch shook his head. “Though he’s a damn good mechanic.”
Trip might have to make a trip to Williamsport and offer Rook a place to land when he gets out.
“Anyway, got your first member. Now you got a club of two.”
“And you. That’s three.”
Dutch ignored that. “Need your executive committee.”
“What spot you want?” Trip asked, hoping he’d bite.
“None. Leave that shit to you young fucks.”
“How ‘bout interim VP? ‘Til I get who I want.”
“Who do you want?”
“Sig.”
“Fuck, boy,” Dutch groaned.
“Know where he’s at?”
Dutch’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “Makin’ his ass VP already and you don’t?”
“Nope. It’s on my list.” That never-ending fucking list. But Dutch was right, he needed to fill the committee so decisions could be made and set in stone. The whole “live free, ride free” shit was a myth. All MC’s had rules that the members and prospects had to follow. And they all had someone to enforce them. One more thing added to the list. Finding someone to fill those boots. Someone willing to fill those boots.
Damn, he needed to start crossing some of those things off. No time like the present.
“Yo, Cage!” Trip yelled across the garage.
Cage’s head popped out from under the hood of an old Chevy sedan.
“My first order of business is makin’ you Road Captain. Can you handle it?”
“Can handle anything you fuckin’ throw at me.”
Right. The only question would be if Cage would throw that shit right back. Like a goddamn monkey throwing its own shit at people standing outside its cage.
Trip’s lips twitched until he heard, “What about me?” from behind him.
“What about you, Mouse?” Dutch grumbled at one of his mechanics.
“Got a bike.”
Trip turned and checked out the twenty-something guy. “Name’s Mouse?”
“Mickey. Dutch just likes bein’ a dick.”
Dutch snorted but didn’t deny it.
“What kind of sled you got?” Trip asked.
“An Indian.”
If you didn’t own a Harley, an Indian was the second-best bike out there. “What kind?”
“Dark Horse.”
A Dark Horse was a badass bike. And while Harleys were the norm and sometimes required in an MC, he needed to decide if an Indian was good enough.
Another executive decision he needed to make on the fly. Or needed to delegate to his new Road Captain.
“Yo, Cage!”
Dutch’s son lifted his head again, appearing annoyed.
“His sled bad enough to ride in your lineup?”