“Get on your little bicycle and head home to Mommy, kid.” The gang member’s comment set off his cronies, who laughed loudly.
Dixon had no problem taking up arms to battle these guys. He considered three against himself and Tank to be a pretty fair fight. Though one shout from these guys and all thirty—hell, forty or more—Mayhem members would descend on the gas station.
“Step aside,” he gritted out in his deadliest tone.
“Ooooh, big man’s wearin’ dog tags around his neck and thinks he’s big stuff.” The older of the three members roused more laughter from the others, but he twitched his head to the side. They walked away from the entrance.
For a moment, he and Tank remained rooted in place, watching them.
“Fuckers need to go,” Tank said.
“Yeah, they fuckin’ do.” Dixon went inside to pick up a six-pack while Tank watched over their bikes in the lot. When Dixon emerged from the building, the Mayhem were gone, but his anger was far from it.
He bungeed the beer to the back of his bike while his mind worked over all the possibilities of getting the gang to move out of Mersey.
The thing that struck him most was the Mayhem’s sense of brotherhood. Camaraderie. For good, bad or ugly, they had each other’s backs. Not much different from platoons he fought in. The difference was what they were fighting for.
He could see something to fight for now—cleaning up Mersey seemed like the best reason to form a new kind of platoon. A new brotherhood.
He didn’t say any of this to Tank—he needed a lot more time to consider the angles of forming such an organization. He knew little of biker gangs, but he heard plenty did a lot of good around the world. Not all were one-percenters, thriving off crime and killings. The Mayhem looked to fall somewhere in the middle. Either way, they were no good for Mersey. They had to go.
After moving down the road, they headed to the shop with the six-pack to kick back. They passed by the Painted Pig. A single glance at the steel lined up in the parking lot had him turning in, Tank right behind him.
As he cut the engine, two men exited the bar. Laughter rolled from inside the open door, along with a woman’s voice raised higher than the rest.
His fists curled. No fuckin’ way. He was putting a stop to this.
He strode to the front. One of the guys attempted to block his path, and Tank shoved him aside.
Dixon threw his buddy a look.
“Go. I got this.” Tank grinned, fists raised.
Inside, three gang members took up the stools. A guy leaned over the bar, making a grab for Fiona. She stood there looking like an avenging angel—cheeks red with fury and bullets shooting from her green eyes. She waved a Louisville Slugger like she’d done this a hundred times—and damn if Dixon didn’t get more pissed off to think of her needing to defend herself.
“Get the fuck outta here.” His loud bark of a command stopped the laughter, and all three men swung his way.
Dixon raised his brows. “Fiona, you all right?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“Call the sheriff. There’s about to be a bar fight.” With that, he grabbed the nearest burly motherfucker by the shirt front and slammed his head off the wooden top. Blood spurted and bone crunched.
Dixon shoved him off the stool, and he toppled into his crony, while the third leaped off the stool and took a swing at him.
Ducking the blow, he popped up again in time for Fiona to toss him the bat. He caught it and brought it across the guy’s back. He bowed with a roar of pain, probably at the shattered ribs.
“Make that call, honey,” he tossed out to Fiona.
“Not your honey.”
He couldn’t stop the grin from overtaking his face as he took on the third guy. Those in the rear hovering around the pool table started forward. Just then Tank burst in.
“Your buddies are lying out in the gravel. Might want to pick their asses up before the buzzards start circling,” he announced.
The few guys moved quickly to the exit, and Dixon kneed the third guy who’d been harassing Fiona in the balls. Once he hit his knees, he punched him in the jaw. A tooth went flying across the floor.
“Get them the hell out of my bar.” Fiona twisted from the blood and tooth as if disgusted at the mess she’d have to clean up.
Dixon and Tank dragged the three outside. The door slammed on the quiet, empty bar. When he returned, Fiona stared at him.
“I’m sorry for calling you honey.”
She gave a single nod. Tough cookie. He couldn’t help but wonder if she was as gooey and soft inside as his momma’s oatmeal butterscotch specialty.
“Sheriff’s on his way,” she said, setting two shot glasses on the bar top. She poured them each a drink—Crown for Tank and Johnnie Walker for him. “Here. On the house.”
He could see the aftereffects of her ordeal in the slight tremor of her hand. Ignoring the drink, he reached across the bar and touched her arm. “You all right?”
“Of course.” She raised her chin a notch.
“Your hands are shaking. You’re shaking.”
“You’re wrong. My hands don’t shake. No whimpering or whining from me or anyone in my bar. If you’re not going to drink your whiskey, then you can see yourself out.”
He saw how rattled she was—maybe because of him.
After exchanging a glance with Tank, they nodded and then walked out. The sheriff just pulled in, and after giving their side of the story, Tank moved to his bike.
“I’m headed for home. You good, man?”
“Yeah. I’m just gonna…” He looked toward the entrance of the bar. It would be hours before the place closed, but he felt the need to see Fiona got out safe. If anyone else came by to test her, he’d be here to take care of the matter.
Tank grinned. “I get it. If ya need me, I’m only a phone call away.”
“You sound like a damn commercial, dude. Get the fuck outta here.” He smiled.
“See ya tomorrow.”
Long after he left, Dixon leaned on his bike, standing guard over Fiona’s bar. None of the Mayhem returned, and a few townspeople went inside.
He popped the top of a cold one and drank it off as the sun sank behind the distant mountains. He grew so entrenched in his thoughts of a brotherhood, of cleaning up Mersey, that he didn’t realize how late the hour was until the lights went out on the Painted Pig sign hanging out front.
Still, he watched the door. A tough lady owned this place—but he saw through her bad-ass act. Each time he thought of her shaking hands, he felt like knocking skulls again.
When the door opened and Fiona emerged into the dark parking lot, he watched her. She made her way to her older model car parked near the front. No one lurked around to bother her, but he didn’t regret sticking around, even for hours, to ensure she made it out safe.
As soon as she slipped behind the wheel, he started his bike and headed for home.
Dixon stuck his head into the kitchen. His momma stood at the sink, washing vegetables. She looked up at him with a smile.
“Ma, I got some people comin’ over tonight. I’d appreciate it if you don’t come into the shop.”
Her brows hiked upward. “Is this like when you were twelve and holding a meeting with your friends about running away to join the Marines young?”