“San Mateo City Hall! End of the trip!” the bus driver yelled. He shouldn’t have. I was the last one in the bus. And it was the final station. He should’ve known it was my stop.

I reached for my Prada fairy bag - with bluish hue and a pretty pixie printed on its surface - as well as my small luggage. With laborious steps, I traversed the aisle from my seat near the back to the exit opposite the driver’s corner. The trek was longer than I expected. The passage was too narrow and my suitcase was too bulky. The bus itself was too small. To call it a bus would even be too gracious. This was like a glorified coaster. A retrofitted RV, even. No wonder I felt suffocated throughout the seven hour ride. Damn it! The buses in LA weren’t this cramped, weren’t this scalding, and they didn’t have an impolite navigator.

Why oh why did I have to come back to this godforsaken place?

After what seemed like an eternity, I arrived at the front end to a waiting driver with a vexed face and a door that has long been open for me. I gave him a smile brimming with sarcasm as I hurriedly alighted from the prehistoric contraption that he drove.

From the frying pan into the fire, as the saying goes. In my case, it could’ve been literal.

What greeted me was the scorching heat of the noontime sun. San Mateo was like a darn desert. Sure, it was a city by the bay, but that didn’t help any. It was burning hot here... worse than LA... worse than Nevada, even.

I walked a little bit more towards the waiting shed. He was supposed to pick me up there. If not him, then one of the lackeys he ordered to do that simple task for him.

I couldn’t complain about the latter possibility, though.

Especially if he sent Bang Bang. That guy’s a solid ten, perfection at its peak. Why he became a biker, I wouldn’t know. But even if he was a freaking pedicab driver, he’d still be a delectable creature.

I found myself biting my lips while thinking of him. I didn’t stop, however. His image was a nice thought to cling to, especially with all the shit the day’s throwing my way.

His brother’s not bad, as well. But he has a weird sense of humor. I’d rather go for Bang Bang’s more... exquisite... sensibilities.

As I reached the shed, I looked for a Harley that’s parked nearby.

I didn’t see any.

I checked my watch, a Bulgari Butterfly Edition, and it read 1:12 P.M. I told him I’d be arriving at 11:30 in the morning. I was almost two hours late. He, or one of his goons, should be here by now.

Unless...

I knew it! There was another ‘club business’ that came up and his daughter had to take a backseat once again, just as she has done so many, many times before.

Rage began to fill up my heart as I was reminded of why I hated my father so much. It’s because of him and his ridiculous devotion to his club that his marriage to my mom broke down. She never recovered from that. She died a miserable woman, drowning her sorrows every single night with cheap whiskey and two packs of Lucky Strikes.

During her last days, she pleaded that I shouldn’t be angry at my father. That was difficult, considering that, deep inside, she loathed him for how he treated her.

I don’t know if I was a glutton for anguish, but every time I remembered how much I despised him, I found myself enumerating the instances when he showed me just how insignificant I was to him. Today wouldn’t be any different.

My thoughts, however, were disturbed by a tap on my shoulder.

“Samantha? Samantha Cross?” a man’s voice inquired.

I turned around to see a face that was completely unfamiliar to me. Lean, well-built, scruffy black hair, stubbles that covered the lower part of his face as if he was trying his best to grow a beard, eyes as blue as the Pacific summer, a nicely shaped nose, a strong jaw, a double cleft chin that complemented his manly looks, lips too red for a life of turmoil.

Nah, he didn’t look like a biker. But the kutte he wore belied my assumption.

“Who the hell are you?” I asked irately. I didn’t appreciate being touched, and I didn’t appreciate him not being Bang Bang.

“Hello. I’m... errrr...” he stopped before mentioning his name.

“Your name is errrr?” I impatiently questioned. I wanted to show him how stupid he sounded.

“Uhm... my name is... Lowlife,” he uttered shamefully.

I almost failed in curtailing my laugh, so much so that I nearly snorted. Thank goodness I didn’t. That would’ve been gross.

“Ah! My dear, loving father sent a prospect,” I stated, confident that I was correct about his position in the club.

“Yeah,” he confirmed with a semblance of pride. He drew the left side of his torso closer to me to emphasize the solitary patch that he wore on the front of his leather vest, one that clearly read PROSPECT. He didn’t have to bend down. This boy’s quite tall. My eyes were at level with his chest.

“Okay, Lowlife...” I began to acknowledge him after letting out a reproachful sigh.

“Please, you can call me Prospect,” he interjected. He didn’t like his assigned road name. Few prospects ever did.

“As I was saying, Lowlife,” I continued, making sure to accentuate his name. “Let me lay down the rules for you. First, never touch me. Never! Not a tap, not a brush of your dirty, lil’ fingers, not a poke. I don’t like being touched. Understood?”

He just smiled to express his assent.

“Second, Never touch my things. I don’t like anyone messing with my things. I don’t care how chivalrous you may think you are, I don’t want you coming near any of my stuff. Is that clear?”

He just chuckled, something I found rather impudent.

“Find that funny, Lowlife?” I asked confrontationally.

“Nah,” he was quick to deny.

“Then why’re you laughing?”

“You got issues,” he answered with disparaging flippancy.

It was at that moment when I knew, with all certainty, that we wouldn’t get along. He had this certain kind of arrogance that I would surely find abrasive every now and then. Soon enough, he’d get under my skin and I’d spend considerable time being irked by how he was. I shouldn’t allow that to happen.

“They’re called idiosyncrasies, not issues,” I corrected him condescendingly. I wanted him to remember his place in the totem pole. He was just a stupid prospect.

“Big word,” he responded with an impish smile which I would’ve found even more annoying were it not for the, admittedly, cute dimple that shone on his left cheek.

“Whatever,” I said to dismiss him. “Lemme guess, you don’t have a bike?”

He bowed his head a bit. He was embarrassed. Ha! Victory.

“No, not yet,” was his simple reply.

Rare were the cases when prospects could afford to buy their own rides early into their days in the club. Most of them would only be able to save up during the first few years of their actual membership - if they’re admitted - as only then will they have a cut from the club’s profits. It was a knowledge that came in handy as I was able to use it to shame this cocky jerk.

“Then, you brought the cage, I suppose?” I continued, referring to one of the vans that the club used for their activities, whatever that word entailed.

“Yeah, it’s right over there,” he said, pointing to one of the vehicles parked across the street behind us.

I was shocked to discover the vehicle that he brought with him.

“You mean that piece of crap?!” I asked incredulously. He directed my attention to a wagon that looked very familiar - an old, decrepit Ford. It was a relic from the seventies, painted in all black. The bullet holes on the right side were still visible, just as how I remembered them.

“Yep,” he verified with what looked like a satisfied grin.

“That thing’s still alive?”

“Oh, you recognize it?”

“Recognize it? Bigalow’s older than me!”

“Heh. You even know its name.”

“His. Not its. Bigalow’s a guy. He’s been with the club longer than most of the patches. He’s probably more deserving of a membership than you.” I didn’t allow the opportunity to insult him to escape.

He wasn’t a bit slighted, however. He just continued smiling.

“I gave him that name,” I added. “Back when I was eight. Or nine. I can’t remember.”

“I see,” was all he could say while he gave me a quizzical stare. “Well, since you two are well acquainted, shall we?” He moved his hands as if to usher me in crossing the street.

I groaned before tightening my grip over my Prada’s leather handle. I grabbed the haft of my trolley luggage to pull it with me.

Then he stepped in and attempted to get the suitcase from me.

“Hey, hey, hey! What did I tell you about touching my things?” I reminded him with much alarm.

“Oh, sorry, I forgot about that,” he said as he took a quick step backwards...

But he wasn’t looking. The idiot stepped on my foot.

“Watch it!” I screamed as I pushed him away. I must’ve shoved him so hard that I almost lost my balance, regaining my footing only at the last second.

“Shit! Sorry,” he apologized once more.

“You just stepped on my Manolos!” I yelled angrily at him as I checked the red pair of heels that were very precious to me.

“Manolos?” he wondered aloud. “You really have this thing... this idiosyncrasy... about giving an object a name?”

“Whatever! I don’t expect a caveman like you to understand.” It was useless to explain to him that Manolo Blahnik was a brand. An expensive brand. He’d just find another reason to be intentionally contemptuous.

To his credit, though, he did escort me well when we were crossing the road. He stayed a good distance away from me but he shielded my danger zone, shifting to the other side once we reached the next lane. He opened the door for me and didn’t leave until I was able to climb up to my seat. He closed the door as gently as he could, but the bolt seal didn’t bite. It was probably just as rusty and dilapidated as the rest of Bigalow. He had to ask for my permission so that he could slam the door shut. I nodded with a scowl.

That got me thinking.

This guy... he’s too much of a boy scout to be a biker. He’s just too refined, too polished, too nice. Without his kutte and with a preppy attire as well as a good shave, I could easily mistake him for a yuppie. But he was a prospect, and quite proud of it from what I could tell. He’s dedicated himself to be an outlaw.

There’s a monster in him. They all have monsters in them. It was just a matter of time before he got to unleash it.

I wondered, though... how savage was that side of him? Just like Uncle Bart, I wondered? Or Uncle Bend? Or my father’s?

He started driving towards Burlingame, which was at the opposite side of the city, away from pier where the clubhouse was.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked grumpily.

“One of the warehouses in San Carlos,” he replied. His eyes never left the road.

“A warehouse?” I repeated with some perturbation. “Why?”

“Prez’s order. Can’t tell you more. Not because I don’t want to. I can’t. My pay grade doesn’t allow me to ask questions.”

I could’ve grumbled about it even more. But he’s right. He’s just a prospect. He wouldn’t know the reasons behind the orders he’s given. He’s just a footman, the lowest of the low, one who’s supposed to do trivial tasks that the patches would find meaningless... like picking up their president’s daughter on her first day back in town.

But the warehouse?

Why would my father ask Lowlife to bring me there. The club owned several warehouses all over the city. But the San Carlos bunker was reserved for the most classified of club activities. No one outside the MC knew that they owned it. The paperworks could never be traced to them. That’s where they brought the contrabands they wanted to hide, the enemies they wanted to torture, and the people they wanted to kill.

“Funny,” he suddenly blurted, disrupting my thoughts.

“What’s funny?”

“I never knew that Prez has a daughter.”

“How long have you been with the club anyway?”

“A year as a hangaround. Been prospecting for around the same period.”

“So, two years? I’ve been gone for five.”

“I see. That long, huh?”

“Yes, but if my dad has his way, I’d be gone forever.”

“I don’t think he wants that.”

“Well, you don’t know him that well, obviously.”

“Where did you come from, anyway?”

“Los Angeles.”

“Ah. For college?”

“You can say that.”

“What do you mean?”

“My dad sent me there to get a diploma. But it was more of an exile. He said that I should be with my mom. But I know better. He just wanted to get rid of me, so that he could focus on the club.”

“That’s quite a pessimistic view.”

“No. That’s called being real.”

“I’m sure it’s not like that at all. He probably sent you to LA to get a good education and to secure a nice future for yourself.”

“Wow! You really think so, Mr. Tony Robbins?” I sarcastically remarked, almost cooing. “Why, that’s a mighty cheery thought you have, Sir.”

“Seriously. Your old man loves you.”

“Tell me,” I said as I turned serious. “Has he ever talked about me during your stay with the club?”

“No,” he defeatedly answered after pausing for a few seconds.

“There you go. Exhibit A,” I replied triumphantly. “And now, he wants me to go straight to the San Carlos warehouse. I know you’re a noob, but you do know how that place is, right? It’s dirty, it stinks, and it should’ve been condemned years ago. And it doesn’t even have a restroom!”

“I’ll tidy it up for you,” he told me as he smirked. “A year of being a prospect made me good with that kind of a job.”

“Awww, that’s very sweet of you,” I began to respond with renewed sardonicism until I realized the grimness of his words. “Wait a minute! Are you telling me that I will be staying there for a long time?”

“I... I don’t know,” he labored to answer. I could tell that he really didn’t have a clue.

“Just bring me to the clubhouse,” I started to insist.

“I think Prez will eventually ask me to take you there... just not right now. Driving you to the warehouse and keeping you there until his next call is his strict order.”

“You can’t blame me if I find this... everything... very suspicious, right? San Carlos is, what? Forty, forty-five minutes away? The clubhouse is just by the pier. That’s like fifteen minutes away from where you picked me up. Isn’t it more convenient to just go there?”

And again he fell silent. His quietness this time around was different. It was eerie. Disturbing, even.

“No one told you?” he asked.

“Told me what?”

“The old clubhouse’s gone.”

“What?!”

“The Aztekos blew it up two months ago.”

“Shit! You’re kidding, right?”

“No I’m not, sadly.”

“Those damn Mexicans! I always hated them! Why did they do that?”

“Retaliation.”

“For what?”

“Rotten knocked up one of their members’ sister.”

I wanted to laugh so hard were it not for the dread that still lingered in my heart. That’s very typical of Rotten, to fuck anything that moved. Anything with a hole, actually... and it didn’t have to be alive. Still, knocking up the sister of a rival club’s member doesn’t justify that kind of revenge.

“Their reprisal was kinda over the top, don’t you think?” I expressed my concern.

“She’s thirteen,” he calmly replied.

I was stunned in disbelief. I wasn’t expecting that. Rotten has always been a nutjob who thought with his dick. But he’s, what? Pushing fifty? And the girl probably just got her first period?

“Was anyone hurt?” I asked instead.

“Aside from our pride, none, fortunately.”

“So... where’s your HQ now?”

“The donut shop at Redford.”

This time, I didn’t even try to stop myself from laughing.

“The Big Hole?” I wanted to confirm. “The one that Old Man Bollock gave the club to pay for his debts way back... when was that again? 2007?”

“Yep. That’s the one.”

“You’re meeting up in a donut shop?” I laughed so hard that I had to cover my nose with a hankie just to be sure that nothing unsightly would’ve found their way out. “What a way to strike fear into people’s hearts, eh?”

“It is what it is,” was his rather detached response. His tone told me, however, that he himself had some reservations about the club’s choice for a new clubhouse.

“It is what it is, indeed,” I repeated his words just because I was too preoccupied with a new thought that I didn’t have the time to come up with a more meaningful reply.

I already knew where the club, my dad included, was holed up. No pun intended. It would be such a thrill to actually piss him off by visiting him there, against his express wishes. All I had to do was to get rid of the underling he assigned to be my bodyguard.

An opening came at the bend of Morisette and Starview. It was near a school and there was an ice cream truck parked there.

“Oooohhh. Ice cream!” I barked with feigned enthusiasm. “Can we get a scoop? Maybe two? Pretty please?” I gave him my best impression of a doe-eyed child begging for some sweets.

He grunted a bit before pulling over.

“Do I have to give you money for a cone or did my dad give you an allowance?” I mischievously asked.

“I have cash,” he crabbily said.

He went out of the van and started to walk towards the vendor. “Rocky Road!” I yelled to inform him of my choice of flavor which I didn’t have any intentions of tasting.

He nodded and proceeded to the truck.

That was all that I needed. An opening.

The dumb bloke didn’t even bother to turn the engine off. I hopped over to the driver’s seat and surveyed the panel. The wheel steered smoothly, good. The break pedal was quite tight but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. Side mirrors were well adjusted, excellent. The transmission was...

Wait...

Shit!

I completely forgot that the damn thing was on manual. And the stick was attached to the side of the wheel. How was I supposed to change gears?

It didn’t matter. I knew I’d be able to figure it out once I got going.

I stepped on the gas. The engine produced an unexpectedly clunky sound that caught Lowlife’s attention. His eyes opened wide, shocked by what I was about to do. He started to run back. I had to hurry.

I fiddled with the stick. Up? Down? L-movement? How was I supposed to go to first gear?

A few tries and the stick locked into something. That must be it. I freed up the handbrake and released my foot from the brake pedal.

The van moved.

I stepped on the gas once again and steered Bigalow back to the road. I could hear the prospect screaming. I just laughed at him. Sayonara, bitch!

Driving the old contraption was easier than I thought. I was stuck on first gear, though, as I didn’t know where to position the lever to go to second. And there’s that third pedal that remained a mystery. It didn’t matter. It was moving and I was well on my way to give my father a very unpleasant surprise.

I passed by Canteen Junction which was the intersection near City Hall where the prospect picked me up. It was a few minutes away from downtown. Soon enough, I’d be driving along Redford, parking in front of the Big Hole, and appearing before my father to give him a heart attack. Excitement coursed through my veins, something that I haven’t felt for the longest time. Getting my father mad has always given me an immeasurable sense of satisfaction, an addictive feeling of accomplishment. Seeing his face turn red with rage would never get old.

I took the road to the right of the crossing. I was so near the donut shop that I could almost smell it.

Then I heard my name being screamed, frantically, by someone behind the van.

I looked at the rearview mirror.

And I saw him.

A supposedly badass biker, huffing and puffing as he rode a puny, pink bicycle he probably stole from some kid.

“Samantha! Stop!” he repeatedly yelled in between moments of catching his breath. “You gotta stop!”

I didn’t. No one tells me what to do.

I continued to watch him via the side mirror. I wanted to laugh at him. But I couldn’t. I just smiled the rest of the trip. Seeing him like that... it wasn’t a funny sight at all.

It was an amusing one.