Eagle

Serafina’s name has been rolling around in my head all night. I didn’t get any sleep. The cold shower didn’t work and throwing myself into fixing the transmission on this goddamned classic truck isn’t either. The Iron Norsemen own three blocks of property in Holly Beach. After Katrina, we purchased several lots in our neighborhood and expanded our two businesses. Iron Specialty Bikes and Iron Mechanical are the life’s blood of my charter.

I drop a wrench on the mat on the floor and gaze up at Sunny. “I can’t wrap my mind around this shit. Take over for me.”

He grunts and wipes his hands on his pants, waiting for me to move out of the way. “What happened last night? Why’d the boys have to go looking for you?”

“I ran into a little problem.”

“How little?” Sunny stares at me, expecting details.

“Maybe five-three and wears a G-string.”

He laughs. “That’s more than a little problem.”

I strip off my blue overalls and hang them on the peg on the wall behind me. “Finest pussy I’ve seen in a long time.”

What else can I say?

Serafina Scala isn’t the kind of girl you just forget about. She’s worth a second try. Maybe a third. For now, that’s all the information Sunny is going to get from me. “How’s Annie?” I ask about his old lady.

“That’s fucked up,” he says, sticking his head under the hood of the ’67 Chevy. “Pussy and Annie shouldn’t be mentioned in the same sentence.”

“No? Your four kids say you’ve been hitting it regularly.”

“Eagle?” a prospect says from across the shop. “You have a phone call.”

“See you at the meeting tonight, Sunny.” I head to my office and close the door.

Line one is blinking on the multi-line phone. I pick up the receiver and press the appropriate button. “This is Eagle.”

“Motherfucker . . .” a familiar voice says.

Recognizing Bear’s tone immediately, my defenses turn on. “What the hell are you calling me for?”

Bear is the only relative left of Angelique’s in Holly Beach. He’s the vice president of our biggest rival, the Dead Dogs. Every so often he calls to gloat. To remind me of the mistake I made by not slicing his throat the way I did his brother’s the night he tried to kill me. Maybe its good timing, I need a sharp reminder of why I distance myself from women.

“Angelique’s five-year anniversary is next week.”

I lean back in my swivel chair and kick my feet up on the desk, disgusted by his audacity. Every year it’s the same goddamned thing. I attend Angel’s memorial, usually keeping to the shadows where no one can see me. “You’re going to celebrate her death—again?”

“It’s a club tradition.”

“A fucking sick one.”

“Thought you’d want to attend the service.”

I laugh bitterly. “Have I ever forgotten to show up before?”

“No.”

“Then why would I now?”

He sighs. “Five years . . .”

I hear the sorrow in his voice and for a split second I understand where he’s coming from. It’s not sympathy . . . but it’s something. Then reality slams into my chest and I remember his part in making Angel suffer. I remember why I hate him.

“The Crows are trying to open a clubhouse in Lake Charles,” he says.

More bullshit to try and make me react. “Good. Lake Charles needs a little diversity.”

“This could affect your business, too.”

“How? I don’t peddle heroin and meth. That’s your specialty.”

“The last time the Crows moved into new territory, they flooded the town with counterfeit money. Thousands of hundred-dollar bills. The cops showed up everywhere. Judges issued warrants for dozens of businesses, seizing so-called evidence to build a case against them. It included fifty thousand in untraceable bills for the Hangmen. Legal tender they’ve never gotten back.”

The Crows have been on my radar for over a year. My charter is the dominant MC in southern Louisiana, so if anyone tries to establish a new club or move into our territory, they have to get my blessing first. “Old news,” I say. “I’m losing interest in this conversation.” I lower the headset, ready to slam it down.

“Wait!”

The intensity of his tone draws my interest. “What?” I place it on my ear again.

“My mother is attending the memorial service for Angelique. She personally requested your presence. She wants you to say a few words in Angelique’s honor.”

I swallow the ugly words I really want to say. Like where was Angel’s bitch of a mother when her brothers were going to sell her like a piece of livestock to the highest bidder when she was sixteen? Or how could she continue to live with herself when she missed her only daughter’s funeral? I don’t, though, because I know people hooked on drugs don’t think clearly. I’ve watched several brothers lose the battle against heroin and alcohol, only finding relief after they’re six feet under the ground. And Angel’s mother is a hardcore junkie.

I’m not heartless. But I’m an Iron Norseman. There’s no way I’m making an appearance without a security detail wearing our colors. “My brothers are coming, patches included.”

“Memorial services are considered neutral territory—no colors.”

“Not anymore.”

There’s a brief pause. “Fine. Agreed. Next Saturday, sunset at the cemetery.”

I hang up, wondering what I just let myself get talked into. I open the center drawer on my desk and pull out a small framed photograph of Angel and me. She’s wearing black leathers and her enigmatic smile still tugs at my heartstrings. Like she’s been with me all along. “Hey, Baby,” I whisper, running a finger over the glass.

I close my eyes, pretending I can see her, smell her, feel her. That’s how potent our love was. Pure and rare. As powerful as the first spring rain that washes all the shit and muck away left over from winter. That’s what Angel did to me. She cleared all the bad from my life and gave me a reason to live. Even from the grave. My eyes pop open and I stare at the picture again.

“I know you’d want me to be happy.” I tuck the photo back where it belongs. In reach but out of sight. The same with my own life. Within reach . . . I’m guilty of treating myself the way I do Angel’s photograph. Whenever an opportunity to move on presents itself, I tuck my heart in a drawer somewhere, refusing to let go of the past.

Funny how life moves along without any planning. I wake up every day to the same thing—my brothers. Twenty-three to be exact, with a second club in Beaumont. We’re not the biggest MC in the state, far from it. But we have the respect of ninety percent of the other clubs. That takes years of precise planning and diplomatic skills. When it comes to growing our charter, we’re selective about choosing prospects.

We have three cooperative treaties in place in Louisiana, Texas, and Oklahoma. Our mainstay is money laundering for the cartel. No drugs. No sex slaves. No kidnapping. We provide bodyguards occasionally and sell some guns when we need extra cash. That’s as close to legitimate as you can get these days. And the bike shop and garage are a success. I’m damn proud of my club for it. Keeping my brothers on the straight and narrow can be a challenge sometimes, but we get through it.

Someone taps on the door.

“Come in.”

Maverick, Tonsils, and J.P. file inside. “Come on, Prez. The bike is done.”

“Which one?”

“Yours,” J.P. says, beaming like a teenager. “It’s ready for a test ride.”

The perfect distraction. I’ve waited eight months to restore my grandfather’s 1960 custom Pan Head. With a seventy-four-cubic-inch motor, it’s everything I want. Blazing red with lots of chrome and chopper style, and my soul is already longing for the open road. I follow my brothers outside, across the street, and into the bike store. We’re the only custom shop within a two hundred mile radius. The gray concrete building has three overhead garage doors and six work stations. We employ four full-time mechanics and a couple local girls answer the phone and man the showroom floor.

Evie greets me. “Hey, boss.”

“How’s it going, sweetheart?”

“Pretty sure I’m reeling in that guy from Memphis on the Electra Glide Ultra Classic.”

Evie is a shark. She could talk the pope into buying a Harley. And with all the rich urban bikers who think buying an American legend will make them look badass, I’ve finally learned to leave the sales to the girls. If I have to see another engineer on a goddamned Harley, I’ll slit my wrists.

We pass through the breakroom and into the work area. Two of my mechanics are busy. The others are waiting for me. I see the outline of a bike under a sheet. Rubbing my hands together, I wave at Tonsils. “Uncover it.”

As soon as the machine is visible, I’m all over it, circling it like a hungry predator. Even the original spring solo seat has been carefully refurbished. I slide my hand over the black leather, then eye the new paint job with appreciation. “Who did the silhouette flames on the tank?”

“Johnny,” Tonsils answers.

“Stick a couple C-notes in his mailbox. It’s fucking incredible. All of it.” I walk a few feet away and gaze at a color photograph of my grandfather on his bike that’s tacked to the wall. He’s wearing a bell rogue helmet and a scuffed up leather jacket with patches from all the states he rode through. I check the original color and flame design against the new. It’s a match. “If I’m not back before dinner, hold off on the meeting. Church can wait. Today I’m resurrecting an old friend.”

I roll the bike outside and kick start it. It rumbles to life and I grin ear to ear as I straddle the seat. My brothers form a semicircle around me and clap.

Some kids went fishing or hunting with grandpa. I didn’t. He threw me on the back of his bike as soon as I learned to walk. Never mind that a two-year-old could fall off and crack his skull. Old school. That’s what he was, and that’s what I’ll be until the day I take my last breath. I let out the clutch and soar out of the parking lot, feeling better than I have in a long time.