I grew up the youngest of four brothers. I was strong-willed with a mouth to match and wasn’t afraid of anything. I owed my charming personality to my three wise-ass brothers. Being the smallest made me an easy target, so they took every opportunity to make my life a living hell. I had to get tough. They gave me no choice. I learned early on if I wanted something, especially where junk food was concerned, I had to be prepared to fight for it. Deep down I liked the way things were. Living with them made me stronger and more prepared to take on the world, but being the youngest wasn’t my only obstacle. I was different from my brothers in every way. Unlike them, I wasn’t very good at school, sports, or following rules. They were choir boys, doing what was expected and kissing ass, while I was busy looking for some kind of trouble to get into. I was always on the hunt, and when I found an old, beat-up Harley, I knew I’d found what I was looking for. Even though my family disapproved, I saved every penny I earned working part-time as a mechanic and bought it. Until then, I’d never felt passionate about anything. I spent an entire summer bringing her back to life, and I’d never felt prouder than the day I rode her for the first time.
My folks always hoped I’d follow in my brothers’ footsteps, but none of the heartfelt lectures or parental threats ever stuck. I had no desire to sit in some office the rest of my life, so I set out for something different. My parents weren’t happy that I wasn’t heading off to college, especially my dad. He pulled out all the stops, thinking if he pushed hard enough that he could change my mind. He gave me one ultimatum after the next, but I didn’t waiver. I knew then I wanted something more than a mundane life working nine-to-five in some office, then coming home to my two and a half kids. It was what was expected, but it just wasn’t for me. I wanted something different.
Determined to find my way, I started working full-time at the shop and moved into one of the apartment upstairs. I worked my ass off, staying after hours and on weekends, until I saved enough money to buy myself a 2007 Harley Softail. With the few clothes I could stuff in my saddlebags, I hit the road. It was a decision that would alter my path in ways I couldn’t begin to comprehend.
After a week of traveling from town-to-town, I’d found myself in a small bar on the outskirts of Clallam County. It was like any other run-of-the-mill bars I’d ridden by, but something about it caught my attention. Maybe it was the flashing cold beer sign or the various motorcycles parked out front, but something about it drew me in. Unaware of what I’d find inside, I walked through the front door and headed straight for the counter. Several bikers from the Satan’s Fury MC were sitting there with their beers, talking. They were seemingly unfazed that I’d approached. I’d heard my fair share of stories about the notorious biker club, but seeing them firsthand made me curious to know more. I ordered myself a beer and couldn’t help but eavesdrop as they conversed back and forth.
“The asshole pulled right out in front of me,” a man with a dark beard growled. He was covered in tattoos and had a hard look about him—the kind that screamed “don’t fuck with me”. He took a slug off his beer before he continued. “Never even checked up until I pulled up to his window.”
From the end of the counter, I heard one of them say, “Careless bullshit.”
An older guy in his mid-forties to early fifties, leaned forward as he shook his head. “Common sense is all it takes, brother.”
You know that thing that most people have that tells them to keep their mouth shut and mind their own damned business? Yeah, I didn’t have it. My brain just didn’t work that way. I said what was on my mind, whether it was a good idea or not. It’s one of the reasons my dad always called me Two Bit; I was always throwing in my two cents whether it was warranted or not. Without giving it a second thought, I turned to them and said, “Problem is… most folks don’t have common sense.”
The men all turned and looked at me with their eyebrows furrowed. You’d think I would have turned away, tucked my tail between my legs, and shut the hell up, but I didn’t. Hell no. I just kept running my mouth. “They have their heads crammed too far up their own asses to even notice anything else.”
“No doubt about that.” The older guy gave me a questioning look. “You got a name, kid?”
“Seth Lanheart… but most folks just call me Two Bit.”
“You ride, Two Bit?”
I nodded. “Since I was just a kid.” I could’ve just stopped there, but I didn’t. “There’s nothing better. Just follow the basic rules, and life is good.”
He paused as he studied me for a moment. “Care to share these rules of yours?”
“Pretty simple. Take care of your bike, use your head for more than holding up your fucking helmet, and respect the road because it can hit back harder than you ever could.”
“Pretty good rules you got there, kid.” He turned up his beer and finished it off before he stood up. The others followed suit and started for the door. Before they left, the older man turned to me. “You should come by the clubhouse sometime. If you’re up for it, we might be able to put you and your rules to use.”
Even though I had no idea where their clubhouse was, I replied, “Maybe I’ll do that.”
“When you get to the gate, tell him Cotton sent ya.”