Bones by the Wood (5 page)

“On a serious note, though, boys.  I get the impression they’re not all that bothered by the changin’ hand on the wheel.  It looks like there were some issues, namely protection not bein’ a high priority for the clubs further out.”

Mark ‘Fitz’ Fitzgerald leant forward.  “I s’pose it’s up to us to prove we can do better.  We should keep a high profile at the clubs that were most pissed. Just to prove our intentions and all that.”

Fitz looked like the scary bastard that he was.  He was perfect in the role of Sergeant at Arms.  He had linear scars crossing his face and most of his torso, the result of a prosperous stint in underground fighting rings in his early twenties.  Fitz had grown up in the system after being removed from his crack addict mother only minutes after his birth.  Most people that knew the man’s history wondered at him not being a raving sociopath; the fact that he wasn’t was mostly due to the brotherhood he’d found in the MCs he’d been a member of during the thirty years since the state had cut him loose.

John ‘Easy’ Ryder nodded in mock sincerity.  “I’m sure we can manage that between us, boss.” 

“Yeah, I’m sure you can.”  Dizzy smiled wryly.  “Think we might have to work out a schedule, though.  Can’t have all you boys disappearin’ round the state for weeks at a time.”

There was more laughter.  Easy hitched his chin towards Chris ’Ferret’ Goodwin, the club’s intelligence officer.  “Your old lady Lyla’s takin’ up at the Dusky Kitten ain’t she?”

Ferret nodded as he took a deep drag on his cigarette.  Named for his appearance, enhanced by the scruffy light brown hair and goatee, as much as his ability to find information as a hacker, he defined the term ‘Chain Smoker’.  “She sure is,” he said through a plume of exhaled smoke.

Dom Reed and Scott Collins, otherwise known as Scooby and Shaggy, were both shaking their heads in disbelieving skepticism.  Both men were huge, well over six feet tall and heavily muscled.  They’d come from the same club and had both just finished a long stint in prison, during which it seemed they had worked out during every waking moment.  They reminded Dizzy of Shark, damn mountains walking around.  They’d gotten out only to find that their old club had gone legit.  They’d been struggling to settle into the quiet, legal life and had been glad of the opportunity to join an active outlaw charter.  Scooby had dark eyes and dark hair that he kept buzzed short, Shaggy was blue-eyed with long, blonde hair that fell past his shoulders.  They were close friends, and Shaggy’s hair had inspired Ferret to give then their nicknames, which had suited them down to the ground and rapidly replaced their old road names.

“How did a scrawny shit like you bag a goddess like her?”  Scooby asked.

“My twelve inch cock and my sparkling wit, fuckhead.”  Ferret replied with a smile through billowing smoke.

“Does she do that shit with the feather fans in bed?”  Shaggy looked genuinely interested.

Ferret laughed.  “Dude, I’m not telling you that.”

“Jesus, those are some great tits.”  Scooby didn’t seem to realize that he’d spoken out loud.

Ferret’s smile dropped a couple of notches, but his tone was still friendly.  “Hey, you keep talkin’ ‘bout my old lady like that and I will hack into your entire lives and wipe you out. I can have you both in a Super-Max for breach of parole quicker than you can say ‘soap’.”

Shaggy, the slightly more Neolithic of the two looked confused. “I’m not on parole.”

Ferret laughed and said through another drag on his cigarette, “Exactly, shit-for-brains.  Exactly.”

“Okay, boys.  Calm down.”  The atmosphere was still friendly, but Dizzy didn’t want to see this issue ending up in the ring tonight or any other night.

Ferret’s old lady, Lyla Lyssa, was a stripper devoted to the burlesque style, who was beginning to find fame across the country, thanks to a couple of national magazine features.  She was from Texas originally, and it had been her that had persuaded Ferret to take up the Priests’ offer.  Ferret had been more than happy to appease his wife’s desire to return to her home state.  Dizzy had asked why, assuming that her burgeoning career might be better served by a move to Los Angeles or New York.  Apparently Ferret’s old lady was a home girl, and as her fame expanded she felt the need to return to her roots to remain grounded.

“I don’t think we’ve got anything else to cover tonight.”  Dizzy continued, catching everyone’s eye as he spoke, but no one brought up any extra business.  “Well then, I don’t know about you boys, but I’m thirsty.” 

Dizzy banged the gavel, bringing the meeting to a close, and the room was suddenly filled with the scraping of chair legs on the floor as seats were pushed back. Dizzy followed the rest of the men through the double doors into the main room.

The interior of the clubhouse had been average, generic biker décor.  It still was, but at least now it was theirs.  It was possibly the only time that brand new couches had ever been bought for a clubhouse in the history of the Priests, but no one wanted to get a blow job on a couch that some traitorous fuck had banged some chick on.  The floor had been redone with terracotta tiles in some fancy pattern, all the easier to mop the puke and beer from, and the bar stools, captain’s chairs and tables were all matching dark wood.  The pool table had been re-covered and the stripper pole had been bleached almost enough to take the chrome off.  Instead of just tacking magazine covers and posters to the white-washed walls they’d had some of the classier posters framed up.  In time, pages ripped from calendars and centerfolds pulled from magazines would be added.

All in all, Dizzy was pleased with the results.  To him, at least, it felt as though all traces of the Rabid Dogs had been removed.  It was still shiny and new, and it needed to be puked on and broken in and scarred up some before it felt lived in, but it had the makings of home.  However homey it turned out to be, Dizzy was glad he didn’t have to use the clubhouse as his home address anymore.  He’d lived in the dorms while the bulk of the work had been being done, and it had it had only reminded him about all the aspects of that communal style of living that had made him feel the need to look for his own apartment in Louisiana.  Anticipating that, as President, there might be times that he didn’t want neighbors twitching their curtains along the street, he’d found a ranch-style house out in the sticks.  It was bigger than he needed for himself, but had plenty of room should the President of the mother charter decide to visit, or should a brother need somewhere to rest or recuperate.  Ravensbridge was smaller than Absolution and generally poorer.  There were a few suburbs, but Dizzy neither wanted nor needed that lack of privacy or those kinds of neighbors.

There were women milling around the main room when they exited the Chapel.  This was a new development.  Along with the hangarounds, the sweetbutts had disappeared, too.  Dizzy figured word had gotten around that there were some new fucks to be had.  None of the men were so green as to run through the room whopping and hollering and slinging girls over the shoulders.  They headed for the bar like they always did, where it was still ‘serve yourself’ until they found a suitable grunt.  Ferret took the role of bartender for this round, a fresh cigarette dangling from his lips.

Dizzy accepted a glass of whiskey as Annelle Beaumont approached from the other side of the room.  He’d met her some weeks previously, when he’d visited her to inform her of the change of ownership of the Dusky Kitten. As house mama and manager of the closest club, Annelle had been his first port of call for that discussion.

She could have been Moira’s older sister; she was in superb form for her age and had the same classy way of presenting herself.  She was tall, and tonight she was wearing shiny black pumps with a wickedly spiked heel and a simple grey dress that outlined every curve and showed off a stellar cleavage without looking trashy.  Only her hair interrupted the image.  Dizzy thought maybe it would have been tied back to match the outfit, but the reddish waves were freely brushing her shoulders.  He touched the brim of his Stetson in greeting when she stopped in front of him.

“Hey, Dizzy.  Thought I’d bring a few of the girls round for the party.  Rounded up a couple of the girls that used to hang about here, too, and told ‘em you boys were in town.  They were real keen to meet y’all.”

Dizzy looked at the various females.  It was obvious which were from the Kitten and which were sweetbutts.  The strippers were all wearing tight, shiny dresses and the obligatory Lucite heels, but managed to look classier than the other girls.  Two of the others were wearing those tiny, denim shorts with their perky butt cheeks peaking out the back.  The one that wasn’t had long, curling platinum-blonde hair that was streaked with a kind of pale purple.  She was wearing a leather skirt that barely covered her ass and a patterned tank that was fighting a losing battle to contain her tits.

“It’s appreciated, Annelle.  Thank you.” 

Dizzy could see just how appreciated it was.  Shaggy and Scooby were staring, enraptured, at a waif-like blonde who was spinning herself round the pole as if it were easier than walking, and Cage was inviting a tawny blonde with deep golden skin who was at least twice his height to sit in his lap while she sipped her tequila.

Annelle laughed.  “The pleasure’s all theirs.”  She stepped in a little closer.  “You need to watch out for Reba, though.”  Annelle indicated with a tilt of her head towards one of the girls in the denim shorts; this one had long copper hair and green eyes.  “She likes to party hard, gets a little strung out on occasion.”

“Thanks for the heads up.  That gonna be a problem for us?”  Dizzy asked.

“Shouldn’t be.” Annelle stepped back.  “But you should know anyhow.  If you want my personal recommendation, you should take a drink over to Orchid there on the pole when this song finishes.  I’ll get Lucy to distract those two beasts.”

Dizzy looked over to the pole just as the tiny blonde executed a move that started with the splits and ended up with her damn near walking on the ceiling of the clubhouse.  He thanked Annelle, pulled two glasses and a bottle of tequila from behind the bar and wandered over to the pole.  He was glad he’d stopped for condoms on the way in tonight.

Thea placed a plate of cookies on the little white dining table in her kitchen nook before turning back to the counter to pour the coffee.  By the time she’d brought the mugs to the table, Annelle had almost finished a cookie.

“These are good.  Your handiwork?”

Thea turned back for the sugar and milk.  “Christ, no.  Josh baked them after I mentioned you were comin’ over.  But he did say not to expect them every week.”

“Did he now?  Well, that’s just no good.  He can’t lay on this cookie goodness and then welch.”  Annelle stirred three spoons of sugar into her coffee, but ignored the milk. 

Thea added a touch of milk and ignored the sugar.  “I’ll tell him.  But since he started asking for gel so he can do his hair for school, I don’t think he’s goin’ to be bakin’ for much longer.”

“Your little boy is growin’ up
, Mama.”

“I know, Nell, I know.”  Thea sighed and looked forlornly at the cookie she’d snagged from the pile.  “He’s eleven next.  I swear it was only yesterday I was changing his diapers.”

“Before you know it he’ll be smokin’ and tryin’ to get into the Kitten.”  Annelle grinned over the top of her mug.

“Don’t.”  Thea screwed her eyes up in denial.  “I have no idea how to deal with all that shit.  I have no moral high ground to take at all.”

Annelle put her mug on the table and leant forward.  “You don’t need it.  Tell him that smokin’ll give him bad breath and keep the girls away, remind him I’ll tell you if I catch him in the Kitten before he turns twenty-one and that I know most of the mamas at the local clubs so I’ll know if he goes elsewhere.  Don’t make a big deal about drink and he won’t be wonderin’ what all the fuss is about.  He’s a good kid, Thea, you don’t need to worry.”  She said, kindly.

“I can’t help it.  He’s never had a daddy, or, hell, any fella, even a fuckin’ uncle, in his life to show him how to be a man.  And there’s precious few decent examples wanderin’ round this town.”  It was one of Thea’s biggest worries that the lack of a male role model in her son’s life would result in a teenage rebellion that she wouldn’t be able to nudge him out of.

“You can only do your best, hon.”