Clutch
I had a plan. It was a pile of shit plan, and Minus would never go for it, but at least I had something to bring to the meeting. Mr. President had made it very clear during our last conversation that showing up empty handed wasn’t an option. Jase ‘Minus’ Vincent was the newly minted president of the Burning Saints Motorcycle Club, and I was currently his Sargent at Arms-length.
“You need another one of those, sweetie?” Sally Anne’s smoky voice pulled me back from the haze I’d been lost in for God knows how long.
“I’m sorry, what?” I replied.
“Beer. Do you need another one?” she asked.
I needed another ten but knew “Good King Minus” would chew my ass if I showed up loaded. I downed the last swig from the bottle and pushed away my half-eaten burger and fries.
“No thanks, baby doll, I’ve gotta get to church,” I replied, before grabbing my keys and putting my jacket on over my kutte.
“Okay, honey. Put this on the club’s tab?” she asked, pointing to the wreckage on the table.
I smiled and nodded before heading for the door, happy to see it restored to its former glory, and in Sally Anne’s sexy and capable hands.
Sally Anne’s Place, our club’s local watering hole, was once a respectable bar and grill, however, about five years ago, a rival club called Los Psychos took possession and turned it into a shitty pool hall called the Nine Ball. Los Psychos were a club of ex-cons who came up from Mexico and tried to make a name for themselves in the Pacific Northwest. They’d been gaining in numbers in Portland until their president, an asshole named Viper, made a series of miscalculated moves that left him, and his club’s local presence, dead in a ditch courtesy of me and my crew. Any bastard Psychos who survived had been run out of town a little over six months ago.
The wort part of all of it was losing a brother in the process. In the end Grover chose to betray us, and Los Psychos killed him as soon as he was no use to him, but Grover had run with my crew since we’d all been patched in together, and I missed him even though I hated him for what he’d done.
I walked to my bike, Charlene, which was parked around back in a private lot reserved only for members of the Burning Saints, the only family I’d ever known; a family that had recently seen its fair share of drama.
A year ago, I was promoted to Sargent at Arms by the club’s founder, just before he dropped stone fuckin’ dead. I don’t mean to sound callus, because he was like a father to me, but my feelings about the man were still a bit conflicted. Shortly before Cutter had been taken out by the big C, he’d named my best friend Minus as his successor; an unexpected move for several reasons, the least of which being Minus’ banishment to Savannah, Georgia by Cutter himself. Minus was only twenty-nine years old and totally inexperienced. Shit, he wasn’t even an officer before becoming the president, just a guy in a crew, banished to the wastelands. Now, I was supposed to kiss his ring. I didn’t get it and I sure as shit didn’t like it, and I wasn’t the only one.
I kickstarted Charlene, and she came to life with a glorious roar. I headed north to the club’s compound, which we called the Sanctuary, while trying to let the ride clear my mind, but it was no use. I’d barely slept in weeks, was drinking too much, and was dreading going to church. I had a feeling that some of Minus’ recent moves weren’t going down well with some of the old school members, and that a few of them were ready to start pushing back.
Minus had always been my closest friend, but if the shit hit the fan, I wasn’t sure if he’d have my back the way he used to.
I merged onto the freeway, signaled, and moved into the center lane after checking my blind spot. I got up to cruising speed and began thinking about what I was going to say at Church about my business proposal.
Holy fuck, business proposal. What the hell is going on here? Was I still in a motorcycle club, or was I gonna be selling Firefly lipstick on-line before long?
I’m not sure if, on his death bed, Cutter was trying to make good with Jesus or something, but in addition to the curious choice of naming Minus the new President, he’d also given him the task of turning the Burning Saints into a fully legitimate club that would no longer do illegal business of any kind. Minus was to take a gang of filthy one-percenters and turn them into a law-abiding, but still profitable, motorcycle club. To fuck things up even more, Cutter and Minus had hatched some hair-brained scheme that involved using Minus’ girlfriend as some sort of public relations guru. The whole thing sounded like a fucking joke to me—like some sort of goddamn pyramid scheme—and I couldn’t wait until Minus came to his senses and started running the club like Cutter used to. Or, at least, running it like an actual club. Minus was a smart motherfucker and I trusted him more than anyone, but I still felt uneasy as hell. I didn’t know what he was thinking and he sure as shit wasn’t sayin’ much these days; at least not to me.
About half a mile from my freeway exit, a dark brown Subaru wagon with a plastic kayak rack on top, merged directly into my lane, without any indication, causing me to swerve into the far-left lane, nearly losing control of my bike.
Motherfucker. As if I don’t have enough to deal with today.
I steadied myself. “Hey, shithead! Open your fuckin’ eyes!” I shouted and flipped him the bird, however, the clueless driver continued merging, still completely unaware of my presence, forcing me onto the shoulder. I revved my bike, but even Charlene’s hellfire racket failed to get this checked-out dickwad to notice my presence. I stayed neck and neck with him, riding right alongside until I could see what had his attention; a cell phone in his lap. I was almost an organ donor because some hipster piece of shit needed to send a text to his fuckin’ yoga instructor. Unfortunately for downward facing dipshit, I was in no fucking mood.
I pulled in tight, right along his fuel-efficient turd wagon, and gave a swift kick to his side view mirror, which flew off and sputtered down the road behind him. He jerked the wheel and looked at me like he was gonna shit his pants.
“Ya see me now, fucker?” I yelled before delivering another kick, this time to the driver’s side door. My blade-tipped boot cut through the door panel like butter, and the driver sped up, signaled, and moved into the right lane.
“Oh, your fuckin’ turn signals do work, huh?” I yelled, grinning as I came in for another go at him. Then he made his final mistake. The little fucker turned his cell phone camera on me. I moved in, but he swerved violently into right lane, narrowly missing another car. He then forced his way onto the far-right shoulder and slammed on the breaks. Maybe he thought if he stopped that I’d just keep on going but he was absolutely dead fucking wrong. I pulled over, set down my kickstand, grabbed a Mag-Light from one of my saddlebags, and walked quickly toward his car.
He kept his cell phone on me the entire time, shrieking like a little bitch, “I’m filming you! I’m filming all of this!” I could hear his pathetic wailing through the glass.
“Not for long, asshole,” I said, and smashed his driver’s side window with my flashlight, before reaching in and grabbing his phone from his hands.
“You can’t do that!” he protested as I dropped it to the ground and gave it the heel of my boot, before kicking it into the flurry of traffic.
“That’s a brand-new phone. You’re gonna pay for that. And the damage you did to my car, you fucking psycho,” he wailed.
“I’m a psycho? Wrong pal. You’re the fucking homicidal maniac driving a one and a half ton killing machine made of steel, plastic, and glass, without watching the goddamned road.”
In perfect timing, a truck ran over the phone, instantly pulverizing what was left of it.
“I can’t believe you did that—”
“You want me to pull you out of the car by your man bun and kick your dumb ass into oncoming traffic instead?”
“I’m gonna call the police,” he continued to scream as cars zoomed by.
“Yeah? With what?” I grinned before reaching in and grabbing him by his jacket.
“Gimmie your fucking wallet,” I demanded, and he did as he was told.
“Take... take my money. You... you can have ah... all of it,” he stammered.
I let him go and pulled out only his driver’s license, before tossing the wallet back at him. “I’m sick and tired of checked-out pieces of shit like you flying down the road without a fucking care in the world. I’ve visited too many hospital beds and gravesites because of you cell phone addicted, entitled mother fuckers.”
The driver swallowed and looked down.
“Now I know who you are and where you live,” I said, glancing down at his ID. “And if I or anyone from my club ever hears so much as a frog fart outta you, we’re gonna come to your house, and make your face look worse than this car. Do you understand me?”
The petrified driver said nothing but nodded vigorously.
“Good. For now, I’m gonna let you off with a warning, Mister... Gaylor,” I said, handing his license back. “But if I catch you texting and driving again... ” I gave his front tire a kick with my weaponized footwear, puncturing it with a hiss. “Now, you have a nice fuckin’ day, and be safe out there.”
I strolled back to my bike, hopped on, and continued to church.
* * *
Gina
One more hour. One more hour. One more hour.
I repeated this mantra in my head until my breathing and pulse returned to normal. I then stripped off my vomit-soaked jacket and tossed it into a large medical waste bag. No amount of dry cleaning in the world was going to return this unfortunate garment back to its former glory, and in all honesty, I probably should’ve retired it from my wardrobe three years ago anyway. The projectile artist who had used it as his canvas was currently being attended to by my nurse, Maggie, so I had a few brief moments to clean myself up and get my head right before finishing his examination. My patient was a homeless man named Earl who came to my clinic at least twice a week.
Today, he’d gotten sick after eating seven fish sandwiches that he’d procured from a fast food restaurant’s dumpster. This mixed with the half gallon of cheap red wine he drank, had caused a noxious eruption, the likes of which I’d never seen in my ten years of practicing medicine. I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to stomach even the thought of consuming seafood for at least a year.
I removed the only fresh set of clothes from my closet, a pair of jeans and one of David’s old concert T-shirts, changed quickly, and reminded myself once more that in one hour I would be officially on vacation... and officially divorced. Technically, David and I had split up over a year ago, but today was the day it became official. Admittedly, as much as I still loved him as a friend, I felt a great sense of relief that I could officially move on from that painful chapter of my life. In celebration, I’d stocked up my Jeep with junk food, romance novels, gossip magazines, a very nice single malt Scotch, and was headed up to my father’s old fishing cabin in Government Camp near Mt. Hood. It was the one place I could go to be completely alone, and God knows I needed to be by myself right now.
David Gardner was a good man, and a great cop, but he had been distant and unavailable as a husband, not that I’d been much better as a wife. In all honesty, we had no business getting married in the first place, and likely had only done so because we were both naïve enough to believe that marrying your college sweetheart is simply what people were supposed to do.
Besides, I did love him (at least I think I did), but it was hard to tell at this point, being as most memories of my marriage to him were tainted with disappointment and hurt feelings. To his credit, he tried to work on our marriage once I finally worked up the courage to tell him that I was unhappy, but all the couples counseling in the world wasn’t going to change the fact that I didn’t want kids, and he did. Nor would it change the fact that his job as a police officer was always going to come first. David had been painfully clear about this. He’d say things like “You want me to come home alive at the end of every shift, don’t you?” To which I’d say, “Of course,” so he’d retort, “Well then, I have to be a cop twenty-four-seven. That’s the only way I can stay one step ahead of the bad guys and make sure I come home to you.” Then he’d add, “And someday, to our family.” This kind of talk would always lead to a huge fight, and eventually I wasn’t sure I wanted him home at the end of his shift. It’s not like I wanted him dead or anything, I just didn’t want him home, or around me. Honestly, most of the time I didn’t want anyone around me. I love my patients, my few close friends, and some of my family, but I rarely crave being around people. My mom used to call me shy, but that never sounded right to my ears even when I was little. I don’t really like the word introvert either. It sounds so clinical and absolute. I just have a hard time being around people and sometimes wish I had more time to myself. This little getaway would be just what I needed to recharge my batteries, even if it was just a long weekend.
My office phone buzzed, and the voice of my nurse called out over the speaker. “Doctor Gardner, the patient in room four-oh-three is ready for you.”
“Thank you, Maggie. I’ll be right in,” I replied.