Chapter Eight
Meek
A hammering knock sounded again, demanding the attention of everyone nearby. “I got this, Mason,” Kevin called over his shoulder, headed for the backdoor of Jackson’s, one of the Chicago bars owned by the Rebel Wayfarers MC. “I’m on shift tonight here. Merry had me put a menu together, so this delivery is for me I’m sure, because you ain’t got shit I’m willing to cook with in your cupboards.”
Good-natured laughter pursued him through the supply room and up the hallway to the wide door leading to the rear parking lot. “Not one of them assholes appreciate the shit I put up with,” he muttered, hands working to slide the locking bar out of the way, freeing the door for the delivery driver to pull open. He turned away to place the metal bar to the side as the opening swung wide. The chill that invaded the hallway was followed immediately by a shattering pain in his shoulder. A shocked bellow burst from him and, ignoring the agony, he twisted around to see a dozen men he didn’t recognize pushing through the door.
“Fuckin’ prospect. Piece of shit. One of Mason’s pussyboys.” A man with distinctive tattoos on his neck and face growled out the words, pushed Kevin to the floor and kicked him high on the side. Kevin wheezed as all the air left his body in a rush, the pain overwhelming him. Tattoo guy drew back his boot and brought it forward, cutting short Kevin’s garbled shout for Mason, kicking him under his jaw. His head snapped back hard, connecting with the wall and then blackness rushed over him, and he didn’t know anything for a time.
***
Hands pulled at Kevin, boots pushing his legs to one side, someone’s fists gripping the leather at his shoulders to slide his back up a flat, vertical surface. “Hartley. Jesus, brother,” a gruff voice muttered from in front of him, and he groaned, gingerly leaning his head forward a couple of inches to cup a hand around the back of his neck. “You are fucked up. You gonna make it, man?”
“Fucking shit.” The words were mumbled, all he could manage at the moment, sitting and squeezing his eyes shut tightly against the pain reverberating through his head. He parted his lids slightly, squinting, seeing a familiar face in front of him. “Goddamned fucking shit.” At least his voice was a little stronger with those words. He stared at the white moustache, dark hair, arms extended to support him. Known. Kevin’s eyes sagged closed as he asked, “What the fuck, Tugboat?”
There was a pulling slide at his shoulder, and he opened his eyes to see Tug’s hand retreating. He was holding a knife, a drop of blood trembling on the tip for a moment before falling free, darkness soaking into the fabric of his jeans. The sharp pain in his shoulder changed to a dull throbbing until Tug’s other hand came forwards, fingers probing the spot, waking the pain in a way that made Kevin suck air between his teeth. “What the fuck?”
“You’re gonna make it,” Tug said. Then Kevin felt him leave, heard him moving, the soles of his boots slapping the floor of the hallway as he walked quickly back towards the bar, bloody knife in hand. Cold air hit Kevin from the side and he twisted to squint at the door, seeing it swing open. Seven or eight Rebels walked in, haloed by painful brilliance from street lights outside, supporting two bleeding and bound men between them.
Tentatively tipping his head back, he watched them step over his sprawled legs, feeling the dragging toes of one captive bump across his ankles. “What the fuck?” Why won’t anyone answer me? He twisted to see Slate walk through the door, his face fixed in a dark scowl as he pulled it closed with a slam, slapping the locks into place.
Glancing down at Kevin, Slate paused a minute, then sighed. “Fucked your face up, man, but you’ll live. We’ll get Tats to look at you.” He squatted, knee to the floor and reached out, grabbed Kevin’s head and tipped it far forward, causing a rolling wave of nausea to surface. At the gagging sounds produced by his throat in response to this insult, Slate laughed, pushing him away roughly. “Don’t you dare puke on me, brother. Keep that fucking shit to yourself.” A pause, then, “Fucked you up, but you got your shout out before they clocked you. You gonna need some stitches back there, too.” He stood, unfolding to his full height in front of Kevin, pausing for a moment before he reached down a hand. “Come on, man. Let’s get you on your feet.”
Lifting his arm, Kevin gripped Slate’s hand and pulled. He slid his feet back against the wall, listing sideways. He stayed half bent over for a moment, struggling to stand upright but trying desperately to not throw up. Face angled towards the floor, he asked, “What the fuck happened?” If I can get just one person to answer me, I’ll be a happy man.
“Disciples.” Slate’s one-word answer came, and Kevin squinted, frowning. That didn’t make sense. He’d been told the club was unfriendly, and zero contact was tolerated. Unlike another Chicago club, the Skeptics, there weren’t any relations between the clubs that he knew of. Why would they be coming to the back door of Jackson’s?
His head throbbed, and as the stars retreated from the fabric of his vision, he lifted a hand, feeling the swollen and split skin on his jaw. What the fuck happened? He searched his memories. There’d been a hammering on the door. He’d been joking with Mason.
Remembering.
He stood upright and pushed away from the wall, letting Slate’s supporting hand drop. “Fuck,” he growled, coaxing his legs into working, taking him up the hallway, the direction the Rebel members had taken the two men. Men he now realized wore the same vest as the ones who had boiled through the door.
“Ambush.” The word slipped the bonds of his lips, hanging in the air. “Fuck.”
“Yeah,” Slate said from behind him, and he realized he had turned his back on an officer. Him, a fresh prospect, introduced to the idea by Goose, had just disrespected a high-ranking man in the club.
“Fuck.” He staggered slightly sideways, catching himself on the corner of the door leading into the bar proper. “Where are they?” Rounding the opening, he was behind the bar proper, seeing a gathering of men in the corner of the room, past the pool tables and near where one of the private party room doors stood open.
Steadier on his feet, he made his way there, pushing through the men and into the room. Glancing around, his gaze locked onto the person he was looking for. Across the room from the door, self-possessed, the man was sitting unbound in a chair. He appeared unconcerned with his head tipped up, face composed in a sneer at a big man standing in front of him. Striding straight to where they were, Kevin gave hardly a glance to anyone else before pushing past, only giving the smallest thought to the big man being Hoss.
Reaching down, he gripped the throat of the man in the chair, fingers wrapping firmly around the tattoos decorating the sides of that neck. Squeezing hard, with a grunt he pulled the now struggling man from the chair and lifted, allowing him to dangle from his fist. Looking up, he watched as the man’s face turned red, mouth opening and closing, fruitlessly sipping at air that refused to pass the closed off airway. His face darkened, purpling, eyes rolling frantically back and forth in their sockets, looking for help that wasn’t coming his way. Feet bicycling in the air, finding no purchase for salvation. A moment more and he heard Slate say from behind him, his tone a cautious warning. “Brother.”
Kevin cocked his elbow, pulling the man close and relaxing his grip the slightest amount. He heard the hiss and felt the rattle of air as it sucked past his fist around the man’s throat. Then, unable to control his temper any longer he opened his mouth, roaring, “I fucking opened the door to you and your trash. Let your trash into my house. This is my house,” he brought the man a little closer, so they were nose to nose, “and I don’t like trash in my house.”
Muscles tense and bulging, he shouted, “I might be just a prospect, but—” With a heave, he threw the man against the wall, watching as the back of his head connected, leaving a bloody dent in the plaster before he rebounded off, falling to his face. He lay unmoving on the floor as Kevin finished his shout, “But I’m a goddamned fucking Rebel, and you’re nothing but trash.”
“Fuuucck.” The drawn-out exclamation came from beside him, and he looked down to see the other Disciples members staring up at him from their positions on chairs. His gaze swept the line of men and he watched as each face blanched in turn.
“Goddamn. Tore that assclown a new one. Motherfucker. Meek and mild Kevin Hartley turnin’ all badass and shit on us.” This came from Slate, and Kevin glanced back, seeing the grin on his friend’s face. “There you go, found your name, prospect.”
“Badass?” That came from Tug, standing behind the seated men, and Kevin shook his head at how the Rebel members casually had this conversation over the top of their captives’ heads as if this kind of scene happened in Jackson’s every day.
“Naw, brother.” Slate’s grin warmed his eyes, the corners folding into lines that attested to the frequency with which the expression hit his face.
Mason’s voice came from behind them, and Kevin had nearly turned to face him when he uttered a single word, “Meek.”
***
Chicago
The rumbling noises grew in volume until the pane in the window beside her seat shook, reverberating in time with the sounds. She turned her head, already knowing what she would see. A lengthy string of motorcycles, riding through the downtown traffic two abreast in a single lane, each rider calm and confident of not only their own abilities, but of those around them. Eyes flickering from row to row, she searched frantically, praying for a glimpse before the column rode past.
Finally, she found what she sought. Chin lifted in unabashed pleasure, dark sunglasses covered his eyes but her memories easily filled in the details. Soft and caring, or fierce with passion, she’d never forgotten any expression that could cross his features, all memorized years ago. “Kevin.” Soft as a wish, she spoke the single word, caught off guard when a man in the next booth looked up, moved to tears by the sadness she knew was in her voice.