Minus

One week earlier...

“This is bad news, man.”

“Well, hello to you, too,” I said as I shoved my tattered duffel bag into the back of Clutch’s ’71 Barracuda.

“Hey, watch the interior, or I’ll leave your ass on the curb,” he said.

“Still in a relationship with your car, I see. It’s nice to see that a committed couple in this day and age can make it after all.”

Clutch flipped me the bird. “Fuck you, Minus. What are you driving these days, a tractor? Hey, if you’ve got any of that cowboy shit tucked in your bottom lip, you’d better spit it out before you get in.”

“Why? You hopin’ to kiss me later?” I asked as I slid into my seat.

“See! You’re even starting to sound like one of them good ol’ boys,” Clutch said.

“Yeah, well I’m still smarter, taller, and better looking than you.”

“You checkin’ me out, Minus? You make some other big change while you were gone that I should know about?”

I smirked. “Sorry, buddy you’re not my type.”

“Hey, man, how am I supposed to know what you’re into these days? Just look at you! You’re wearing fucking cowboy boots. For all I know, you’re carrying pearl handled six shooters under your jacket,” he said, pulling away from the curb and into the flow of airport traffic.

“From what I’ve heard, all of Portland is in beards and cowboy boots these days,” I replied.

“Yeah, a lot has changed since you’ve been gone. Then again...,” he paused, “... a lot of shit is exactly the same,” he said, throwing me a sideways glance.

I said nothing, but we both knew very well what he meant. When I left town six years ago it wasn’t under the best circumstances, to say the least, and I had no reason to believe a ticker-tape parade awaited me.

“Don’t get me wrong, brother, it’s great to see you back home—”

“This isn’t home,” I interrupted.

“And Savannah is?” Clutch asked.

“I can’t say that either,” I admitted.

“Which leads me back to my original point,” he replied. “It can only be bad news that the not-so-prodigal son is back in town.”

“Please, brother, this warm welcome is all just a little too much. You’re gonna embarrass me.”

“Don’t get cute with me, motherfucker, you know exactly what I’m saying,” he replied.

“Oh, believe me, I know all too well. Back in Savannah I’m the Yankee stranger, and here I’m the long-lost redneck. I’m a man without a fuckin’ country, but here I am, nonetheless.”

“Yeah, but why are you here?” Clutch asked.

“Because Cutter asked me to be here.”

“See? Bad fuckin’ news,” Clutch exclaimed.

“How is that bad news?”

“Since when is it not bad news when the Prez sends for you?”

I laughed. “Sends for you? What are we, wiseguys? He called me and asked me to get on the next plane to Portland, so here I am. To be honest, I thought you’d know what’s going on.” I paused dramatically, and sweetened my tone. “What with you being the new Sergeant—”

“I knew it.” He jabbed a finger at me. “I fucking knew you’d hear about it, and that you’d bust my balls.”

“Sergeant Clutch. Ooooh, that does have a nice ring to it.”

“I’ll kick you right the fuck out and you can walk the rest of the way in those shit kickers,” he deadpanned. “I get enough crap outta Grover and the dipshit twins.”

“I can only imagine,” I laughed. Hey man, in all seriousness, congratulations. It’s a big deal, you makin’ Sergeant at Arms, and I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, man. We all miss Rusty, but after he died the club needed someone to step up, and I guess Cutter thought it should be me.”

“I’m sure he was right,” I said.

“Bullshit. You know goddamned well if you were still in town, it’d be you wearing the Sergeant patch.”

“Well, then it’s good for you I’m not still in town.”

Clutch and I grew up together in Portland―back when I still went by my given name and he was called Nicky―and together we were known as nothing but trouble. We were both orphans who had been taken in, and educated by the Catholic church. A handful of us kids were fortunate to receive scholarships to private schools in the Portland area, and Nicky and I attended St. Mary’s Academy together; that is, until he was kicked out during our sophomore year of high school.

I loved school, especially anything to do with reading. I inhaled novels, biographies, textbooks, anything I could get my hands on. I was a straight A student, and didn’t hassle the nuns too much, but I was also a very angry kid with a smart mouth. I can’t recall a time in my youth when I didn’t have a chip on my shoulder. Understandable if not predictable for a kid that’s been abandoned by his parents, but it would soon begin to weigh on me. I also had a profound (perhaps overly sensitive) sense of justice. Seeing anyone bullied or treated unfairly threw me into fits of pure rage. This, coupled with my size (I was already pushing six feet), made me the perfect candidate to serve as the unofficial school bodyguard. Because of this, I found it easy to make friends, and (more or less) fit in with whatever crowd I found myself in.

Nikolai Christakos, not so much.

Coming up in Portland in the “naughties,” Nicky had two things going against him. First off, he was Greek. These days Portland is more of a melting pot; with a sort of ‘college town’ vibe where just about anybody can do their thing without being hassled, but this was not the case back in the days when we were coming up. It wasn’t uncommon back then to see a pickup truck flying a rebel flag, or walk several blocks before seeing a face that was neither Anglo nor Saxon. Portland was still pretty dominated by a culture of white boy, blue collar types. The Pacific Northwest was, after all, built on logging, shipping, and paper mills, and the dot com bomb had yet to drop, so the good ol’ boys would readily come to town lookin’ for trouble.

Nicky was dark skinned, but not black, tough, but not into sports, anti-social, but not a loner. To put it mildly, he didn’t fit in anywhere, and him being Greek somehow seemed to be the central cause of this. Secondly, Nicky would fight anybody, and I mean anybody. Teachers, students, cops... hell, I saw him take a swing at a priest once. Unfortunately for Nicky, that priest was a former golden gloves boxing champ. He’d also apparently not read the “turn the other cheek” part of the Bible in seminary and hit Nicky with a stiff jab, causing blood to pour from his nose, which is still a little crooked from the altercation.

This kind of thing was simply commonplace where we came up. Since I got along with just about everybody in the neighborhood, I always looked out for Nicky. I made sure he came with me to parties and football games, the kinds of places where young people met other young people. I thought it would be good for him, but without fail, some jackass would mouth off to him, or he’d hit on someone’s girl, and then it was on. Bloody lips, loose teeth, and black eyes seemed to follow him wherever he went, so eventually the school kicked him out.

The church had had enough by that time as well, so he was out on the street. I was his only friend, and I knew that if he was out on his own, he’d get himself arrested, beat up, or killed within weeks, so I left school and he and I moved to downtown Portland together.

Being broke, we bought old, beater bikes to get around town, which led to fixing those bikes, which led to fixing bikes for other people, which eventually led us to the Burning Saints Motorcycle Club, and our current lives as Minus and Clutch.

“Hey man... ah, we’ve got a quick stop to make before we go to the Sanctuary,” Clutch said. I could tell by the shift in his tone that I wasn’t going to like where we were headed, and I was right.

* * *

Cricket

“Don’t Even think about it, asshole!” I yelled at the motorist attempting to merge into our lane. My Uber driver flinched and reflexively cupped his right ear. “Don’t take your hand off the wheel, you’re gonna let him in! Don’t let him in!”

I was a fraction of a second away from grabbing the steering wheel, and literally attempting to back-seat drive, when my long-suffering coachman shot me a look, and said sternly, “Lady, if you’re going to do that again, I’m going to have to let you out at the nearest safe stopping place.”

“I’m sorry,” I grumbled. “I really am, I’m just very—”

“Late,” he finished my sentence. “Yes, I know. You’ve explained this many times since I picked you up.”

He’d clearly lost patience with me, and I couldn’t blame him. This poor guy was simply trying to do his job and I was sucking him into my vortex of chaos.

“I’m so sorry, it’s just that I’m meeting with someone I haven’t seen in a long time, and I’m not even sure why I agreed to meet with him, and I know it’s going to get me into trouble with my brother who’s being a big jerk, but I know he’s only trying to protect me. The problem is, I don’t want his protection, and I hate being late,” I said, sheepishly pausing to take a deep breath, now embarrassed by my outburst.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got a brother and he’s an asshole, too. What can you do?”

“My brother’s as far from an asshole as you can get,” I snapped.

“Sorry.”

I sighed. “No, it’s okay. I’m spiraling, and I sound like a bitch... or a lunatic. Omigod, I sound like a spiraling lunatic bitch. I’m so sorry.”

I was even more nervous than I thought. I hated that my oldest brother, Hatch, could still make me feel like a little girl. He was going to be furious with me, and I suppose he had good reason, but I still didn’t like the fact that soon he’d likely be sitting me down and scolding me for making decisions that were mine to make. I’m an adult and I didn’t need his permission or blessing to visit a family member if I wanted to. It’s true Hatch has had to act more like a father than a brother to me, and the fact he’s seventeen years older makes it worse, but I wondered if there was ever going to be a time when he’d start treating me like an adult; like his equal. Actually, I’d like that from all my brothers... I had four... all of them older than me, and all of them over protective.

But what the hell does my uncle want?

When I was a little girl, my dad, my uncle Cutter, and their buddy Crow used to ride with the Dogs of Fire motorcycle club in San Diego. They’d been asked by the club’s president to start a new chapter in Portland and we were all going to move, but then my mother got sick and everything changed overnight. After she died, my dad was never the same. She was his heart and soul, and once she was gone, he went off the rails; eventually ending up in prison.

My uncle and Crow went to Portland as planned, but it seemed they had very different ideas of what a motorcycle club should look like. Crow stayed with the Dogs of Fire, and over time, became the club’s national president, and my older brother Hatch currently serves under him. For the most part, the Dogs have always been a clean club, consisting of mostly business owners, and ex-military types. They had very few local troubles and a good relationship with law enforcement.

My uncle Cutter, however, along with a group of dirt bags and petty criminals, started the Burning Saints, and they blazed a much more violent trail. Since then, I’d seen very little of my uncle, so why in God’s name I’d been asked to meet with him is anyone’s guess.

“Okay, here we are,” my driver said as we reached our destination, failing to hide the relief in his voice.

“Thank you again, and sorry for the... um... backseat driving. I promise I’ll leave you a glowing review,” I said, slinking out of the car.

Moments later I found myself standing in front of a place I never thought I’d be. I took a deep breath before pushing the talkback button on the security box in front of me.