Cutter
They rode back to the Vanguard clubhouse. The setting sun hung low in the western sky, warming them as they made their way down the back roads. Cutter's head reeled from all the contradictions happening in his life. Liona's arms wrapped tight around his body as she clung to the back of the bike, and he felt dizzy with newfound emotions.
He was with her: literally, the girl of his dreams. After nearly a decade of pining after her, of trying to forget her and put her from his mind, he had her. But the universe couldn’t simply let him have just this one thing. Instead, it had to pile misery upon his contentment.
When he'd spoken to Hunting earlier in the day the lawyer had laid it out for him. None of his guys were coming home. Not anytime soon, at least. And the cost of keeping up with all this was rising by the day. Soon, the MC would be tapped on cash. They wouldn't have the money to smoothly transition from gangsters to legitimate businessmen. Nor would they be able to afford the cost of the bail, if that even became available. Payments to the men's families would stop, and protection for the guys on the inside would cease.
Everything seemed to be unraveling right before his eyes.
He hadn't said anything to Squirrel, Smalls, or Liona. He hadn't wanted to burden them with such a bleak outlook, especially since he desperately needed them to be focused and in the moment. He also couldn't have them curl up in a ball and give up, like he almost had that morning. As he pulled into the nearly deserted clubhouse lot, he realized that he would have to tell them something, though.
The situation was untenable. Dire, even. Squirrel and Smalls deserved to know what the future likely held in store for them. They had the right to choose their own destiny. That's what an MC was about. You take away a man's free will, you make him into a cog in a machine and just another walking corpse. You strip away his ability to choose, and you strip away what made him a man in the first place.
“Hey,” Liona said as they climbed off the bike. Before he could respond, she'd slipped her arms beneath his jacket and pulled herself close to him.
His chest swelled with emotion as she wrapped herself around him and snuggled up close. He realized she'd used some fruity shampoo, probably left behind by one of the club girls in his shower, and her hair smelled like peaches. “Hey, yourself,” he said, wrapping his arms around her and just holding her.
She pulled back a little so she could look up at him. “I really care about you,” she said. “You know that, right?”
He was actually a little surprised that she felt she had to tell him. But, it was still nice to hear. “Yeah,” he said, resting a hand on the back of her head, “I know, babe,” he said as he massaged her neck lightly, “I know.”
“And, whatever happens,” she continued, her words slow and deliberate, “I want you by my side.”
He listened to her words, taking them in. He nodded. He wanted to tell her he loved her, wanted to spill his guts and just put his emotions and needs into words. He froze as he remembered what had happened all those years ago when he'd put the choice in front of her. Worried about the past repeating itself, he kept a lid on the words he wanted to say and just smiled, instead. “I know,” he said. “Me too.”
Even though they weren't the words he desperately wanted to use, they were good enough for her. She stood on tip toes and kissed him, embraced him tightly.
He held her head against his chest, his heart racing double-time. Even as he cradled her to him, his eyes swept out over the nearly deserted parking lot, at the spaces that had once been filled with bikes. He leaned down, kissed the top of her head, and patted her ass with a free hand. “Ready to head in?”
“Yeah,” she chirped, her voice chipper and upbeat, as she released him. “What do we have planned for tonight?”
“Dinner, first,” he said as he headed inside, holding the door open for her. They went into the nearly silent clubhouse, with her in the lead. He could hear Smalls and Squirrel in the rec room, speaking in hushed tones like they were graveyard visitors wary of waking ghosts.
They were both leaning forward, intently discussing the MC's options over beers. “I just dunno,” Smalls was saying as he and Liona entered the room, “I think we should go in and get the fucker.”
“Nah,” Squirrel replied, shaking his head furiously, “rule one: don't kill the cops.”
“Ain't a cop, he's a lawyer,” Smalls retorted.
“Technically,” Cutter interjected as he walked up, “he's an officer of the court, which means it's a shit load worse than just killing a cop. You'll bring down the feebs and God knows what else, we do that.”
“Feebs?” Liona asked, confusion in her voice and on her face.
“FBI,” Squirrel supplied. “Worse than the DEA, not as bad as the CIA.”
“Why's the CIA worse?” Liona asked.
“Cause, if the CIA's coming after you,” Cutter answered, “you probably did way worse than just killing a prosecutor.”
“Well, what should we do, then?”
Cutter took a breath. This was the time, this was the moment. He had to bite the bullet, had to let them all down. There was a bitter pill, and someone needed to swallow it. As the president of the MC, it was his job. Just then his phone buzzed in his pocket. He kept his mouth shut and fished it out. It was a message from an unknown number. “Been thinking, Desmond. Think I screwed up. Call me. WW.”
He couldn't believe his eyes. There was no way Wyland was calling for a truce. Maybe, though, he'd seen the way they handled Farm to Fable almost getting shut down, and it had changed his mind on whether or not he could win. Or, perhaps, something else had changed his mind. Whatever it was, maybe this was an opportunity. He couldn't say anything to the others, not yet. Not until he knew for sure what Wyland was up to. He was already giving them false hope by not completely leveling with them. What was worse was that he was no disregarding the promise he’d made to Liona. He'd said he'd put an end to Wyland, to his abuses, that he'd make sure he never hurt another woman. He couldn't go back on those words, could he?
He warred with himself in that split second. He could make this work. He could form a truce with Wyland, if that's what it came down to, if it at least meant he could get his boys back and get some breathing room. Once he had the Vanguard whole again, had them back on their original path to legitimacy, he'd end it with Wyland. He'd come out of nowhere with his attack, too. Just like that, it was decided.
“Cutter?” Smalls asked him as he stared quizzically down at his phone. “You okay, brother?”
“Huh?” Cutter asked, his eloquence knowing no bounds as he looked up at his second-in-command.
“Just looked like you were about to say something, that's all.”
“Nope,” Cutter replied, shaking his head. “Got nothing, man.”
A concerned look passed over Smalls's face like a cloud over the moon. There one moment, gone the next. “Cool,” he said. “Why don't you guys grab some beers, and we'll talk about all this?”
“Sure,” Cutter said, nodding. “I'm gonna duck into the bedroom real quick and get cleaned up, first.” He turned to Liona and, with a hand on her lower back, gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Grab a cold one for me, babe,” he said, then stomped off deeper into the silent clubhouse to make a phone call.
Cutter went into his bathroom, locked the door behind him, and turned on the shower. Hopefully, the running shower would throw Liona and the others off his scent. He dialed the number the text had been sent from and pressed the phone to his ear. Then, he waited.
The phone only had a chance to ring twice before it was picked up on the other line. “Desmond?” Wyland asked on the other end. “That you?”
“Yeah,” Cutter growled. “Got your text.”
“Good,” Wyland said, just as jolly as he had been back in the Farm to Fable the day before. “Haven't changed one bit. Still prompt, still razor focused.”
“You wanted to talk about a truce? Or you wanna spend your time running your mouth, Wyland?”
“Oh, that's right! You're calling about the truce. Well, believe me, I've got a deal that I'm certain we'll all be more than happy with.”
“Spill it then. Ain't got time for this bullshit.”
“Well, it occurred to me that getting you guys, tearing you all apart. That might be fun, gratifying even,” Wyland said, his tone completely conversational. “But, I thought to myself, 'Wyland, is that all you really want? To see Desmond rotting in a jail cell somewhere?' It occurred to me, though, after you and my little whore of an ex-fiancée managed to pull off a shift at Fresh, that brotherhood is what really matters to you bikers. How it's all about trusting the man next to you.”
“Okay. Your point?”
“Here it is. You know who the Bolt Riders are, right?”
“Course I do. They're our biggest rivals in the area. What about 'em?”
“I want you to testify against them. Do that for me, and I'll give you and your crew immunity, leave Liona alone, and we'll pretend everything is just water under the bridge. Hell, you can leave town and take her with you, even. But I want the Bolt Riders.”
Cutter bit his lip, stayed silent. He couldn't speak out against them in court. The Vanguard would tear his patch off his vest in a heartbeat for bringing the cops into a rivalry like this, for turning state's witness.
At the same time, though, he couldn't sit back and do nothing. Wyland had practically already won, anyway. What was he going to do, fight it out in the courts? He was already at the end of his rope on that front. “Why?” he asked. “Why are you offering me this, now?”
“Because you wouldn't do it otherwise. Know why I'm going after the Vanguard and not just you, Desmond? It's because it'll look good for the papers when I go for the big chair, and later run for judge. I don't give a shit if it's the Vanguard I grind under, or the Bolt Riders. You're all little fish to me, anyways. But, boy, does the public love it when a big bad biker gang gets put away. Besides, I get what I want out of this, anyway.”
“Which is ...?”
Wyland laughed into the phone. “Well, you suffer either way, big guy. Don't testify, I dismantle your crew and send you all to prison. Well, keep them there, at least. Testify, and none of your brothers, or any other biker, will ever have anything to do with you. No matter which option you choose, you're screwed.”
“I need time to think about this,” Cutter said, his head spinning from this new option. “I need you to show me you're not just bullshitting around.”
“How about I give you till tomorrow afternoon? Three o'clock, down in that old park we used to drink beer in on Friday nights?”
“Parr?”
“That's the one, I think. In the meantime, I'll call and talk to your lawyer, Hunting. I'll let him know I'll stop protesting his bail requests, and we'll get your guys already in moved up on the dockets and released. How does that sound?”
“Yeah,” Cutter said, the world seeming to rush by, “yeah, start working something out. I still need time to think about this, though.”
“I know, Desmond, I know. You're going to be betraying everything you believe in, right?” Wyland asked with a laugh. “I mean, of course you're going to have second thoughts. But, just remember, you decide to go back on this deal, this all starts over again. You've seen what I can do with just one phone call.”
There was a knock at the door. “Cutter, sweetie?” Liona called through the door. “You alright in there?”
“Just a second, babe,” Cutter grumbled back, his thumb over the phone's receiver.
“Don't be late, Desmond,” Wyland said, a touch of the familiar cruelty in his voice. “Deal expires at three-oh-one tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Cutter mumbled.
Then the line was dead. Cutter tucked his phone away in his pocket, took a deep breath, and considered what had just happened.
He'd just been offered a way out. A light at the end of the tunnel. He looked at himself in the mirror, looked at the scars that were etched out over his body, the scars that traced over his flesh like a history written in blood and sinew. If he did this, if he ratted on the Bolt Riders, he'd be out of the Vanguard, and he'd have broken his word to Liona. If he didn't do it, he'd eventually wind up in a cell, four feet by eight, constantly looking over his shoulder for a Bolt Rider hitman, or worse.
He reached up, touched his cheek. Could he do this? Could he turn rat? Or, looking at it in a different way, could he sacrifice everything to save his crew? He'd still end up with the girl, this way. But if her feelings for him were tied to this vest, to this lifestyle, he might lose her, too.
A thought occurred to him. There could be an alternative. He had to talk to his lawyer first, though, to see how well it would hold up in court. “Maybe. maybe,” he said into the mirror as he allowed himself a small smile, “there's a way out.”
“Babe?” Liona called from his bunk. “You okay in there?”
“Just talking to myself,” he called back.
“You're not losing it from the stress, are you?” she asked, a note of humor in her voice.
“Not yet,” he said, grinning at himself in the mirror.
He stripped down the rest of the way and hopped in the shower. Phone call, or not, he still needed to get the grime of this day off.