BUTCHER: Wolves MC (Riding With Wolves Book 3) (7 page)

~ Butcher ~

“You’re crazy, you know,” Hammer said, setting his empty bottle down on the counter.

It was a little after five on Monday evening, and I’d stopped in at Pinky’s on my way to meet Lexi for dinner at Olive. Hammer just happened to be there when I arrived, and we’d been chatting for about twenty minutes when he called me “crazy.”

“I was surprised when I heard you were seeing this girl for a second time,” Hammer went on, sliding his cash forward to order another drink. “And now you’re seeing her for a
third
time? Do you really think you’re in the position to be dating?”

I narrowed my eyes and stared intently at my friend. I wanted to punch him in the face. He had a lot of nerve giving me unsolicited personal advice—and by God, I hated it that he was right!

“You’re just jealous,” I replied in a matter-of-fact manner after chugging what was left of my beer. “You’re not out there getting pussy anymore, and you don’t want anyone else out there getting it either.”

“You’re full of shit, Butcher,” Hammer fired back. “I’m not jealous, and I’m not trying to stop you—or anyone—from getting pussy. Do whatever the fuck you want. If you wanna bang every broad in this city, go ahead. I ain’t gonna stop you.”

The bartender had brought Hammer his beer, and he grabbed it and took a drag before he continued.

“But getting pussy—
fucking
—is one thing,” he went on. “And dating is another. It seems to me that what you’re doing with this Lexi girl is dating, not fucking. You’re seeing her again and again, and you’re getting more than her pussy involved.

“And I’m asking you, Butcher—do you really think you’re in the position to do that right now? Do you really think it’s wise? I mean… have you even told her about your situation?”

“I’ll tell her what she needs to know, when she needs to know it,” I answered, trying not to raise my voice. “And I’m well aware of the difference between dating and fucking. But who are you to tell me what I’m in the position to do, or not do? What gives
you
the right? That’s my call, not yours. And right now, I don’t know exactly what I want—but I know I wanna see her again, so that’s what I’m gonna do.”

Hammer shook his head from side to side and snorted a caustic laugh under his breath.

“Okay, brother,” he said in resignation. “Just be careful.”

“I will, man,” I said as I stood up to leave. “Thanks.”

I reached out and patted Hammer on the shoulder. Even though we’d just had a heated exchange, I appreciated the fact that he cared enough about me to have it, and I respected him for his dedication and loyalty to me as a biker brother.

“You’re juggling a lot of balls,” Hammer said, putting his hand on my arm as I began to pull it away from his shoulder. “I don’t want to see any of them drop.”

“Me either,” I replied.

Hammer released his hand from my arm, and I nodded at him and then left Pinky’s. But when I left, his words came with me. They haunted me and clung to me and kept replaying in my head.

Maybe it wasn’t fair for me to start something up with Lexi at this point in my life—or maybe it wasn’t fair for me to
try
and start something up with her without telling her about the rest of the things I had going, namely, as Hammer had put it, my “situation.”

But what would Lexi say if she knew about my “situation”? What would she do if she knew about everything else I had going on in my life? She’d probably run as fast as she could in the opposite direction—and I certainly didn’t want
that
to happen.

One thing at a time
, I told myself as I got on my bike and revved my engine. I was putting the cart before the horse and jumping the gun a little. My dinner with Lexi was supposed to be a meeting to discuss my gang involvement and see if we even had any shot at a future. These other disclosures could come later, if they had to.

I’ll tell her what she needs to know, when she needs to know it
, I reminded myself, repeating the words I’d said to Hammer. And right now, she didn’t need to know shit about my situation. All she needed to know was what she’d asked about, and that was all I intended to tell her.

I’d tell her what I could about the Wolves, leaving out, of course, our most clandestine agendas and other super-secret secrets. I’d answer any questions she had, quash her fears and concerns, and hopefully, talk my way into her heart—and into her bed.

~ Butcher ~

“Are you sure I can’t get you something to eat?” the waitress asked. She wasn’t so much concerned about my hunger as she was about the table I was occupying, and she raised both eyebrows at me as she waited for me to answer.

Hell yeah, I was hungry. I was starving. I did want something to eat, but I didn’t want to get it yet. I didn’t want to order until Lexi got there. It would have been rude to start dinner before my dinner date showed up.

But still, I could understand the look on the waitress’s face, and it gave me good reason to break convention. I’d been sitting at a table, waiting for Lexi, for nearly forty-five minutes, and the restaurant was starting to pick up business and was running low on tables.

I’d arrived at Olive about ten minutes early and hunkered down at a two-seater, and now it was a little after six thirty—the peak of dinnertime—and I was wasting space. If I didn’t order something,
anything
, there were plenty of other people who would, and my waitress would surely ask me to leave so that she could serve any one of them.

“Um… I’ll take an order of hummus—for now,” I said. “And a Miller Lite, bottle.”

I didn’t know a lot about Mediterranean food—other than the cuts of lamb and other meats most frequently used in it—and hadn’t even looked at the menu. But I was familiar with hummus, so I deferred to it for my order.

“We don’t have Miller Lite bottles,” the waitress said. She was cute, but she had an ugly expression on her face.

“Okay,” I lamented. “Give me a Bud Light, bottle.”

“We don’t have that either,” the waitress replied curtly.

“What
do
you have?” I asked.

The waitress went on to recite a bottle list that made my skin crawl. It was full of stouts, lagers, and IPAs—all that pretentious yuppie shit that a guy like me didn’t have the time—or taste buds—for. She was just about to move on to telling me the draft list, which I feared would be just as gruesome, when I had a clever idea and stopped her.

“You know what,” I said, “nix the beer. I’ll have a glass of Merlot.”

“What k—?” the waitress began. I turned my head and raised
my
eyebrows at her.

“Coming right up,” she said, closing the order.

I sat back and stared at the doorway. Every time the door opened, a little bell rang, and my eyes widened, hoping to see Lexi. Where was she? Was she just running late? Or did she ditch me?

I pulled out my phone, to check the time again, and to make sure Lexi hadn’t called or texted. I didn’t have any messages waiting for me and considered, for a moment, taking action and calling Lexi to ask if she was coming. But it was only 6:38 now, and I didn’t want to seem too eager or demanding.

As I was putting my phone back in my pocket, the waitress returned to my table. She set a wine glass down in front of me and filled it about a third of the way. Then, she just stood there, looking at me. I didn’t know why she was standing there, or what she was waiting for, but it made me feel a little on-the-spot and uncomfortable.

“Are you going to taste it?” she asked.

“Huh?” I responded.

The waitress rolled her eyes and sighed. “When you order wine in a restaurant like this, it’s customary to taste it and make sure it suits your palate.”

“Oh,” I said. I picked up the wine glass and took a gulp. It tasted bitter, dry, and thick—just like the shit Lexi had given me the other night.

“Tastes good to me,” I said, taking another gulp and finishing off the small serving. The waitress rolled her eyes again and filled my glass with wine.

“Your hummus should be out in a couple minutes,” she said, turning to leave. I nodded at her in appreciation, then took another drink.

The little bell on the door rang about four or five times before my hummus came. And each time it did, my face lit up in anticipation and excitement. But that light was continually snuffed out when I realized that the new patrons were not Lexi.

The plate of hummus wasn’t
that
big, and it was served with only two circles of pita bread, so I finished it (and my Merlot) relatively quickly, even though I tried to draw out the eating process.

When my plate was clean and my glass was empty, the waitress came to my table to clear them.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

“No,” I replied. I wasn’t sure exactly what time it was, but I figured it had to be around seven. I’d been waiting for Lexi for over an hour. I was too proud to wait any longer—and it wasn’t fair for me to keep tying up the table.

“I’ll just take my check,” I told the girl.

“Alright,” she said, smiling. She looked relieved and happy.

Once the waitress was gone, I pulled out my phone again. It was 7:03, and I hadn’t received any messages. I don’t mean to sound like a sap, but my heart sunk down in my chest when I looked at my phone. Not only had Lexi failed to show up, but she didn’t even reach out to contact me about it, which could only mean one thing… She must have decided that she didn’t want to have anything to do with me anymore. The “gang member” thing must have been too much for her to handle.

I shoved my phone back in my pocket and pulled out my wallet just as the waitress appeared at my table again. She handed me the check, and I quickly scanned it. My hummus and Merlot, plus tax, added up to $19.86.

Before the waitress could walk away, I pulled two twenties out of my wallet and handed them to her.

“Keep the change,” I told her. “Sorry about hoggin’ your table.”

“It’s okay,” the girl answered. She seemed even happier now and was much nicer to me than she’d been over the past hour or so.

I didn’t waste any time after I paid and got out of Olive quickly. The little bell on the door rang as I left, and I felt as if it was mocking me.

When the cool night air hit me, it calmed me a little, and even though I was bummed about Lexi, I was looking forward to the ride home. It was a perfect night for riding, and I definitely needed to relax and blow of some steam.

I was almost at my bike when I heard a car door slam, followed by a woman’s voice.

“Butcher!” the voice called out from behind me.

I held back the urge to smile, as I turned around and looked at Lexi.

~ Lexi ~

“I’m
so
sorry,” I said, catching my breath.

I was in a cab, on my way to Olive, when I saw Butcher walking down the street away from the restaurant. I had the driver stop, paid my fare, and jumped out of the car to chase after Butcher. I started running after him immediately and called out his name. And once he stopped and turned around, I refused to slow down and kept running—and that’s why I was out of breath when I apologized to him.

“Something big came up at work,” I went on. “I got sent on a last-minute assignment, a breaking news kind of thing.”

Butcher put his hands in his pockets, tilted his head, and threw me a condescending stare. “No biggie,” he said. “I get it… But ya know, you could’ve called or texted to let me know you’d be late.”

“I know,” I replied. “But I didn’t know I was going to be late, at least not
this
late. And once I was on assignment, I couldn’t stop to take care of personal business. I was at a press conference, and I had to give it my undivided attention.”

“Hm,” Butcher hummed. “Well, I can’t really hold it against you then, I guess.” He smiled at me with his mouth and his eyes, and I felt as though I was instantly, if not prematurely, forgiven.

“Do you wanna go back to the restaurant?” I asked.

“Hell no,” Butcher answered with a chuckle. I looked at him curiously, and he continued.

“I waited there for over an hour and just left a few minutes ago,” he went on. “So I don’t really wanna go back there now. Plus, the waitress was a little bitchy, the food wasn’t so great, and they don’t even serve Miller Lite.”

“Oh,” I said. I didn’t know whether to laugh or apologize—so I did neither.

“You ate already?” I asked. My stomach growled at the mere thought of food.

“Just some hummus,” Butcher answered. “And a glass of Merlot.”

“Merlot?” I asked. Without even moving my muscles, I was smiling.

“Yeah,” Butcher replied. “Guess I acquired a taste for it.”

“Guess you have,” I said.

“I’m still hungry though,” Butcher added with another chuckle.

“Me too,” I responded. “I’m
really
hungry, actually. I haven’t had anything since noon.”

“You like burgers?” Butcher asked. “I mean
real
burgers—the thick, juicy kind.”

My mouth watered when Butcher said those words, and I nodded my head.

“I know the perfect place,” he said.

Butcher motioned toward his bike, which was parked a little bit up the street, and we both started towards it. I watched him climb onto it, then climbed on behind him and wrapped my arms around him a little tighter than I had to. This was only the second time I had ever been on a motorcycle, and I was already pretty comfortable with it, as well as with my closeness to its driver.

Butcher started his bike and pulled off onto the street in a U-shaped move that turned us around and had us headed in the other direction, away from Olive. The cool night air felt so good as it rushed over me, and I
almost
forgot about my empty belly.

We drove for about fifteen minutes before Butcher pulled over into a parking spot outside of a strip of businesses. I quickly looked over the storefronts, trying to determine our destination as I dismounted.

“It’s across the street,” Butcher said, observing me as I investigated the scene.

I looked across the street and noticed a small, modest diner I hadn’t seen before. It was called “Tellie’s,” and from the looks of things through its windows, it wasn’t very busy, especially considering the hour. There couldn’t have even been ten people in the place.

Butcher led me across the street into Tellie’s, and as soon as we entered, he was greeted by name by the kind-looking older lady sitting at the cash register. We made our way back to a booth located in the restaurant’s rear and sat ourselves, and within a minute, a chipper young waitress came over to our table.

“Hey, Butcher,” she said with a smile. “The usual?”

“Yep,” Butcher said, smiling back at her.

“And for your lady friend?” she asked.

“What do you want on your burger?” Butcher asked, focusing his attention on me.

I had to think for a moment. Most of the hamburgers I got these days were from fast food joints, and I ate them as they were prepared. It had been ages since I’d been anywhere where I custom-ordered a burger.

“Ummmm,” I replied, still thinking. “I’ll take ketchup, pickles, and onions.” That sounded delicious to me. But as soon as I said it, it also sounded bad.
Onions???
What was I thinking! I knew this “meeting” was supposed to be a discussion, not a date, but really, why on earth would I order something guaranteed to make my breath stink?

“And to drink?” she asked.

Again, I had to think for a moment. I’d never been to Tellie’s before, so I didn’t know what types of beverages they even had.

“A Miller Lite,” I finally said. It was the only thing I could think of, and I was sure this place had to have it, given what Butcher had said about Olive.

The waitress grinned and tittered, then scribbled something down on her pad before walking away. She went over to the cooler, got two bottles of beer, and brought them back to us promptly.

“Thanks, Carrie,” Butcher said, grabbing hold of his bottle. He took a long, slow sip and looked over at me.

“Soooo,” he said, dragging out the word. “You want to know more about me and the Wolves?” I was surprised at how swiftly he cut the chase and got straight to the point and surprised at how easily
I’d
put it on the backburner.

“Yeah,” I replied. “I have to admit, I’m not too keen on the idea of seeing a gang member.”

“Who would be?” Butcher asked with a snigger. “But like I told you the other morning, the Wolves aren’t the kind of gang you usually think of when you think of L.A. gangs. We’re only a ‘gang’ because that’s the term people use to describe our affiliation. We’re more like a social group or club, really.”

“Really?” I asked with my own snigger. I was a little surprised by his word choice.

“Think about it,” Butcher responded. “We’re just a group of guys with the same underlying lifestyles, hobbies, and interests. If you put bowling balls in our hands, we’d be a bowling league. If you gave us a deck of cards, we’d be a poker club. Give us bats and balls, and we’re a team. But put us on motorcycles, and all of a sudden, we’re a gang.”

“It’s not that simple,” I said. I wasn’t just surprised by Butcher’s words, but also somewhat offended. His explanation was so oversimplified that it was patronizing, and he must have thought I was incredibly gullible if he expected me to just accept what he said.

“You’ve indicated that you do more than ride motorcycles with the Wolves,” I went on. “You said something about taking care of business. Leagues, clubs, and teams don’t really have ‘business’ to take care of. Those kinds of groups are all about the sport or hobby.”

“Not necessarily,” Butcher interjected. “A lot of groups like those
do
do business. Haven’t you ever heard of a bowling league doing a tournament to raise money for a charity, or a baseball team getting together, off-season, to volunteer for community clean-up?”

“That’s not the same thing,” I said, shaking my head.

“Why not?” Butcher inquired. He leaned over the table and stared me in the eyes, waiting for me to answer.

“You’re talking about groups that ‘do business’ for charities, or for the community,” I said. “Are you saying that’s what your gang does?”

“Precisely,” Butcher replied.

I puffed the air out of my mouth and laughed sarcastically. “Bowling leagues bowl to raise money for cancer research or children’s hospitals,” I said. “Baseball teams clean up parks to save the environment and make it safer for people… Is
that
the type of ‘business’ the Wolves are out there doing?

“If it was, you and your brothers wouldn’t have to do things ‘behind the scenes,’ and you wouldn’t shy away from media attention. If anything, you’d strive for it, so that you could get your cause—and your ‘business’—out there for others to support.”

Butcher drummed his fingers on the table, then picked up his bottle and took a drag. He looked like he was deliberating something, or carefully thinking about what he would say in response.

“By the way,” he said after another sip, “whatever I tell you, I’m telling
you
. I’m telling Lexi, not A. Windsor. I’m not talking to you as a reporter, but as a woman. Everything I say is off the record… Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” I responded. I had no intention of writing about, or otherwise disclosing, anything Butcher told me, but I could understand why he needed to say that.

Butcher nodded, took another sip, and returned to the topic of our conversation.

“The Wolves may not be raising money for cancer or hospitals,” he said. “And we may not be cleaning up parks. But we
are
helping save lives, and we
are
cleaning up the streets—in our own way.”

I wanted to say something sarcastic, or mention the information I’d learned about the Wolves in my research, but instead, I decided to sit back and listen. I wanted to see where Butcher was going with all of this.

“This city—like hundreds of other cities across the world—has a
huge
drug problem, especially when it comes to heroin,” Butcher explained. “It’s really sad, and really sickening. And something has to be done about it.

“One of the Wolves’ main objectives, as a group, is to do just that. We want to do something about L.A.’s drug problem. We know we can’t stop it, but we wanna slow it down. We wanna make it a little harder to get dope in this city.”

“That’s great, Butcher,” I said. “But how exactly are you doing it? You’re going behind the scenes, right? I know what that means. You’re breaking the law. You’re committing crimes. You’re not throwing a fundraiser or volunteering in a crew. You’re doing something dangerous, illegal things—and that’s the big difference between you and the bowlers and baseball players.”

“You’re right,” Butcher replied. “We do have to break the law sometimes, and that
is
what separates us from those other groups, I guess. But for me, and for my brothers, that difference isn’t all that important. The ends justify the means, and we’re more concerned with what we can accomplish than how we can accomplish it.

“What would you have us do instead? Should we be writing letters to the governor? Should we be raising money to support politicians who support tougher drug reform, or raising money to fund public service announcements and school anti-drug programs?

“People have been doing those things for years—and the heroin problem has only gotten worse. Maybe someday, these things
will
work—or maybe someone will come up with a better legitimate way in the future. But until then—in the meantime—people are dying. Families are being destroyed. Communities are suffering. And something has to be done about it. We can’t just sit around and
wait
for change to happen. We have to bring it on, ourselves—and the Wolves have found a fairly effective way to do so.

“What we’ve done over the past decade or so has had a significant impact on the local drug scene. We obviously haven’t fixed the problem—we’ve barely made a dent in it, to be completely honest—but we’ve helped stop the spread of it, and that alone makes everything we’ve done worthwhile.

“Plus, it’s not like we’re out there killing people, robbing them, or doing anything ‘bad’ just for the sake of doing it. For the most part, we’re nonviolent, and we use our brains and other skills to achieve our goals. We only resort to violence when we have to defend ourselves or others, or when we have to get crucial information out of someone who isn’t talking.”

My mind flooded with images I’d seen in the movies—of gangsters, criminals, and FBI agents using physical force to interrogate some dirty crumb. I tried to envision Butcher doing something like that, and it made my empty belly feel queasy.

“But still, regardless of
why
you’re doing it, you’re still breaking the law,” I said, trying to shake the repugnant images from my head. “And that means, for all intents and purposes, that you’re a criminal—and that’s how the cops and the courts will look at you. Whenever you conduct your ‘business,’ you’re constantly putting yourself at risk for being arrested, put in jail, or put in prison.

“And outcomes like those are only
some
of the risks you are exposing yourself to. The greater risk comes from the people you’re dealing with. They’re criminals, too, and I’m sure most of them don’t share your opinions on nonviolence. I’m sure some of them would gladly incapacitate—or kill—you if they had the chance.”

I bowed my head and looked closely at my bottle of beer. I’d barely drank any of it, whereas Butcher was nearly done with his.

“Again,” Butcher replied, “it’s just a matter of what you put in our hands. If I had a badge, what I do would be official work. As a cop, I’d be dealing with the same kinds of people, but the badge in my hand would make it noble… But screw that! I don’t need a badge behind me to validate my actions. I simply do it because it has to be done.”