Cutter
Cutter woke to an empty bed. Confused, he patted the cold spot next to him, where Liona should have been. Wondering where she was, he sat up and looked around the room. Around him, the clubhouse was even more silent than normal. She'd probably gone for a walk, or something. He got up, performed his morning ritual, and pulled on some fresh jeans and a Vanguard emblazoned tee shirt. Ears open, he stalked out of his room and headed out to the rec room.
He stopped at end of the hallway and listened. There was a noise, coming from his kitchen. The rest of the clubhouse was silent, though, with most of the guys already gone for the morning shift. He still had an hour or so before he had to be there for the lunch rush. As he made his way across the rec room, and to the door leading to the kitchen, the noises grew louder. Was that Liona? Cooking for him?
He pushed through the door and poked his head inside. The smell of burning bread hit his nose immediately, and the sound of sizzling grease filled his ears. Liona frantically scraped at a pan with a flat spatula, making scrambled eggs. In the corner, their little toaster had a plume of smoke billowing from the top like the barbarian hordes had just razed it and stolen all their women. At the sound of his entering the room, she spun, a mildly worried look on her face, the flat spatula raised like a deadly weapon. A little startled by her response, Cutter froze in his tracks.
“Hey!” she squawked in surprise, clearly flustered. “I'm trying to make you breakfast.”
“Smells like it,” he said, trying to get past the burnt taste that was filling his nostrils and mouth. “Your toast is burning.”
“Shit!” she yelped, almost dropping her flipper as she scrambled over to pull the crisped and blackened bread.
He fought the urge down to jump in and save the day. She was trying to cook him breakfast, even if she was ruining all the food in the process. Instead, he just asked, “Need any help?”
“No, no,” she said, clearing the smoke from the toaster with a waving dish towel, “I've got it.”
He just shrugged and went over to the coffee pot and poured himself a cup. To her credit, it tasted just fine. He took his coffee black, just like his old man had, and went over to perch himself on the edge of the bar stool.
“What am I having for breakfast?” he asked, his voice still drawling with sleep.
“Bacon, scrambled eggs, toast,” she said, making a face as she dropped the burnt toast briquettes on a small plate. She went back over and began trying to save the eggs.
“Sounds good,” he replied. He could already tell, though, that the eggs were going to be dry little nuggets, and the bacon was going to be slightly undercooked. But, whatever, he'd forced the guys to eat worse when he'd first been starting out. “How long you been cooking?”
“Not very long,” she said, laughing nervously. “I tried to learn once, like you did. But, that didn't go over so well ...” she said.
Cutter knew “with Wyland” was the unspoken ending to that sentence but he kept his mouth shut and steeled his resolve to eat every last crumb he had. When it came to food, he lived by the Grandma Rule, something a much more famous chef than he had once said. If anyone cooks you food, and they do it with good intent, you eat it and you fucking love it. Food's the gift of life, and you don't just throw it away.
When she finally set his plate of overcooked eggs, burnt toast, and floppy bacon in front of him, he just covered the little, pale nuggets in pepper, and the burnt effigy of bread in as much butter and jelly as he could handle. She hovered over him with a wary, nervous look on her face as he choked it all down and contentedly began to chew the bacon for the five minutes it took before he could swallow it.
“What'd you think?” she asked, coming around to his side.
He belched a little and smiled. “Delicious, honey.”
“I thought the eggs were a little overdone,” she said as he put an arm around her waist and pulled her to his side.
“A little. You just need practice, that's all. I can teach you, if you want.”
She shook her head. “I don't think I'll get much better,” she said, looking away.
“I've taught bikers how to be chefs, babe,” he said, grinning. “I think I can teach a cute little thing like you.”
“You really think so?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he assured her, squeezing her tight, “how about we start with dinner tonight?”
She nodded. “Yeah,” she said, her voice a little brighter, “I think I'd like that.”
“Good,” he said, nodding. He checked the time and let out a low whistle. “I gotta hop in the shower real quick and head out of here. Think you'll be okay alone for the day?”
“You've got plenty of books to read,” she said, kissing him on the cheek, “and there's always TV. You'll only be a few hours, right?”
“Shouldn't be any more than just a few,” he said, grinning. He reached up, stroked her cheek.
She looked back at him with the most adoring eyes he'd ever seen, and something shot into his heart right then. Something he'd never really felt before, something he had no point of reference for. It felt almost the same as when he was out riding on a perfect summer day, the cool wind blowing in his face, the road stretched out before him. He smiled again, this time even more genuinely.
“Want me to hop in there with you,” she asked, touching his chest as she made the suggestion. “Scrub your back?”
“No, can't this morning,” he said and laughed, before kissing her softly on the lips. “Smalls's already bending over backwards to cover for me, and I don't think I'd leave on time if I took you up on your offer.”
# # #
Cutter slipped back into the daily dine and grind of the Farm to Fable line like he hadn't missed a shift. Even with their staff shorthanded as it was, and business as busy it could possibly be, the prep went smoothly and the food got out of the kitchen with only minor complications or confusion.
In fact, he even had a customer wanting to thank the chef personally. Just towards the end of the shift, Squirrel, who had been waiting tables for them, came back and got his attention. “Hey man,” he said, a strange quality to his voice, “got a customer out there wants to talk to the chef.”
Cutter glanced from Squirrel to Smalls, then back again. “Me?” he asked, sighing. Honestly, he really wanted to finish up his last bit of prep on this dish, but a compliment from a customer was still a compliment. You didn't want to snub someone who might leave a shitty review on some website out there.
“Sure,” Cutter said, nodding as he wiped his hands clean on a kitchen towel, “lead the way.”
Together, the two men walked out to the front of the restaurant. Cutter looked around the small eatery.
“Over there,” Squirrel pointed. “That guy.”
Cutter's eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched tighter than a bear trap. His chest tightened and his heart began thumping double time. Seated at the corner table, all by himself, was Wyland West. With a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of Cutter's tomato bisque soup sitting right in front of him. In the Vanguard MC's restaurant of all places. His hair was as perfect as the day before, his charcoal gray spotless and well-pressed. He looked like he didn't have a care in the world.
Cutter stalked over to him, his fists clenched, simultaneously thankful and pissed that he hadn't brought a chef's knife with him. He'd love nothing more than to slit the motherfucker's throat and drop him face first in that bowl of tomato bisque, to see his heart's blood pump out with each dying breath into the reddish-orange tomato soup as he slowly gurgled to death in front of God and everyone.
But, that wouldn't help anything. No, it'd just set Cutter up for a one-way ticket to the gas chamber. “Hello Wyland,” he growled as he approached the table.
“Oh, are you the chef today, Desmond?” Wyland asked, feigning surprise. “I had no idea! It was great seeing you at the courthouse yesterday, by the way. Sorry I couldn't stay to chat, had a long list of meetings.”
“What do you want here?” Cutter growled through gritted teeth, his fists squeezing so hard his knuckles popped.
“Just getting my favorite, a grilled cheese with some tomato soup. You guys really do an excellent one here, you know? Par excellence, if you ask me.”
“Thought you hated grilled cheese and tomato soup,” Cutter said, but quickly regretted his words. That was something Liona had confided him just recently.
“Oh? Is that what Liona told you?” Wyland asked, laughing. He picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth clean with it. “No, no, I get it every chance I can when I'm out to eat alone. It was one of the only things she could cook without fucking up, so I made a rule about never having the stuff for it in the house. Had to keep her on her toes so she wouldn't get too comfortable, you know?”
No, he didn't know. Cutter shook his head. What kind of sick fucker had this man turned into? He stayed silent, just put his hands on the back of the chair that sat across from Wyland.
“And, don't worry,” Wyland said, leaning forward conspiratorially. He put up one hand, pretending to shield his words from anyone who might be watching. “I know you've got her, Desmond, hiding out in your little clubhouse,” he whispered and gave an exaggerated wink.
Cutter squeezed the chair so hard he was almost worried it would begin to splinter.
“It's so adorable you think your brotherhood, or whatever, can keep her from me, Desmond. Your little gang, you're all so cute.”
Squirrel and one of the other waiters stepped up beside Cutter, their arms crossed as they leveled their gaze on the assistant DA.
“Oh,” Wyland said, that fake mirth still in his voice, “great job today. Really knocked it out of the park, considering how shorthanded you were today. What's his name, Big Jack? He not show up for work today? Oh, that's right! Word around the water cooler was that he hit a spot of legal trouble and had the cops cart him out of here.”
Cutter growled, deep in his chest, vibrating the chair. “Get. Out.”
“Really, Desmond?” Wyland asked with a grin, flashing those perfect teeth of his. “Don't be that way,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “It's been so long since we had a nice chat. Since school, I think.”
“Out,” Cutter said again, this time louder. “And never come back here again.”
The clinking of forks and scraping of knives stopped behind him, as they were merely a water faucet that someone had turned off. Cutter could feel the eyes in the small restaurant all turn to him and land squarely on his back. Wyland gave him a gratified self-congratulatory grin as he pushed his chair back from the table. The legs scraping across the tiled floor might as well have been rictus fingers tearing over a gravestone it was so ominous. He stood and straightened his tie as if getting thrown out of diners or antagonizing biker gangs was something he did on a daily basis.
Cutter realized that the second part was actually true. Eyes still on Cutter, Wyland reached into his pocket, grabbed a fat money clip, and began to thumb twenties off on to the tabletop. He left a small stack and walked around the table toward the three men. He stopped next to Cutter and said, in a low voice, “How's that leg, by the way? Heal up just fine?”
It took every ounce of Cutter's dwindling self-control to keep down his darker bloodier urges. He could have easily reached out and crushed Wyland's windpipe and ended things. Liona would no longer live in fear, the Vanguard would go on without him, and he'd just spend the rest of his life in prison. Everyone would be safe. Everyone else would be fine. Instead, he bit his tongue and kept his hands gripping into the back of that poor, abused chair.
“Well, anyways,” Wyland said, leaning in closer, “just remember, my cock was there first.”
The other two men were faster than Cutter, or at least more prepared. They grabbed their president by the shoulders, arms, and waist as he lunged with a roar for the smug-faced piece of shit. Squirrel even caught his fist before it connected with Wyland’s rich pretty-boy face.
Wyland didn't flinch as the two men held Cutter back. He didn't budge, not one bit. “Tell my little whore,” he said as he reached up and patted Cutter's cheek with fake affection, “that Daddy'll be seeing her soon.” Then, he turned and left, disappearing out the diner's front door as he began to whistle “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”
Cutter struggled against them one more time. “Don't go after him, prez,” Squirrel whispered from behind him, his grip like steel around Cutter's beefy arm.
“Not worth it, brother,” murmured the other guy as Wyland got in his white BMW.
“Let go of me,” Cutter growled back, shaking off their restraining hands. “I'm fine.”
They released him as Wyland West backed out and drove away with a happy wave.
“I'm fine,” he repeated again, then exhaled swiftly.
But he was anything but fine. He could feel the blood pounding in his temples, the anger coursing through his body like a live wire. All the eyes of the patrons, wary and cautious, were on him. He should have done it, he should have killed him. Just broken his fucking neck, right there in the middle of the diner.
“It'll be okay,” Squirrel said, reassuring Cutter as best he could. “We got this, brother.”
“Yeah,” said the other guy. “It's cool, alright?”
Cutter nodded to them both and, with another grumble, headed back into the kitchen. The eyes followed him as he left, as worries about Liona being alone for the day filled his mind. Worries about Wyland knowing where she was, and her being left unprotected all day.
He burst back into the kitchen. “Smalls,” he said to his second-in-command, “need your help.”
“What's up?” Smalls asked as he turned from the line.
“Need you to go check on Liona.”
“Things alright?” Smalls asked as Cutter crossed to him.
Cutter shook his head. He told him about his encounter just then. “Wyland knows we have her,” he said, his voice low. “Just go stay with her, okay? But don't let her know that piece of shit found her. Alright?”
Smalls nodded. “Sure, buddy. I'll take care of her like she was my own. But, dude, you really should tell her.”
“We'll tell her, alright? But I wanna be the one to do it.” Cutter clapped him on the shoulder, squeezed his arm. “You're a good man, Smalls. Best friend I ever had.”
Smalls grinned. “You too, son. The best.”