BUTCHER: Wolves MC (Riding With Wolves Book 3) (8 page)

I took a sip of my beer—a big sip—and swallowed hard. There
was
some logic to everything that Butcher was saying, and it all made sense from an analytical standpoint. But from where I was sitting, not even three feet away from a Wolf, not even logic or scholarly analysis could make me feel comfortable about Butcher’s lifestyle. It was a lot to ask an outsider like me to accept and comprehend.

“I don’t know any other way to say this,” I confessed. “So I’ll come out and say it as best I can… Your being in a gang terrifies me. I’m afraid to be involved with you because I don’t want to be dragged into that stuff. I don’t want to put myself at risk for another person’s off-the-books fight. And I don’t want to wake up every morning wondering if my boyfriend is dead. I don’t want to constantly worry that one of the pushers you’re trying to stop is gonna get you, and I wouldn’t want to lose you if they did.”

Butcher nodded and finished off his beer. “I understand,” he said, running his hand over the saturated label. “Your concerns are valid. And I won’t lie to you—we have lost some brothers and had some collateral damage over the years, and sure, it
is
possible that it could happen again. But those risks—at least the ones to which
I
am exposed—are part of the deal I signed up for. If
I
happen to die fighting this ‘off-the-books’ fight, as you called it, then that’s that. So long as I died doing something to help our cause, I’d rest in peace knowing something good was done.”

“So, is Terry Cramer resting in peace now?” I asked. “And what about Sam Hammond and Carl Struthers? How are they doing? They’re not dead, but they both went through the ringer for your cause. Do they—and their loved ones—sleep well at night?”

“I see you’ve done your homework,” Butcher said with a grin.

“Of course,” I replied without a smile.

“Those guys have been through some shit,” Butcher said. “And what you’ll find in the papers only tells part of their tales. There’s more to what happened than what was reported. I won’t get into it all now, but let’s just say those are some extreme instances.”

Butcher’s reply was a pretty lame one, and I wasn’t satisfied with it.

“You’re damn right, they’re extreme,” I chimed back. “And they all happened within the past several months.”

“What else did you find on the Wolves?” Butcher asked. He had a peculiar look on his face, as if he was challenging me in some way.

I thought for a moment and reviewed the numerous links I’d found in my head.

“Nothing,” I finally said, realizing why Butcher had looked at me the way he did.

“And you can keep looking,” he responded. “But you won’t find anything else. The Wolves haven’t made the news in about two decades. Until recently, we’ve managed to avoid public attention and stay safe. But now some other gangs are trying to shake things up, and we’ve had some problems, which we’re working diligently to resolve and control.”

I sighed and took a sip of my beer. I wanted to say something but didn’t even know what to say.

“I can’t promise you anything, Lexi,” Butcher continued, watching me drink from my bottle. “I can’t tell you that everything will be okay if we date. But who can? Every one of us faces a variety of risks every day. Hell, you do, too. As a journalist, you could write a story that pissed someone off, and they could try to come after
you
for that. Or look at how
we
met the other night at the bar. You were willing to leave with me, and for all you knew, I could have been a serial killer on the hunt for prey.”

My face got warm when Butcher said that last part. I was embarrassed and felt judged, and worst of all, I knew he was right. I may not have gone home with a serial killer, but I hooked up with a man I did not know, and
who
he proved to be was a shocker in the end.

“All that any of us can do,” Butcher went on, “is be careful, hope for the best, and pray that everything will turn out okay. When it comes to work, dating—
anything
—that’s all we can go on. Life’s unpredictable, no matter how you cut it. Sometimes, shit happens, and sometimes, good things happen, too.”

Butcher looked to his right and shifted in his seat. The expression on his face went from solemn to cheerful, and a moment later, I saw why.

“Here you go,” our waitress, Carrie, said, appearing at our table with two plates in her hand. She set one down in front of me. “Burger with ketchup, pickles, and onions,” she noted.

Carrie set the other plate down in front of Butcher. “And, for you,” she added, “your usual… A burger, with ketchup, pickles, and onions.”

“Thanks,” Butcher said, dismissing Carrie.

I felt the corners of my mouth automatically curl into a smile.

“Ketchup, pickles, and onions, huh?” I asked, temporarily distracted from the heavy conversation we’d just had.

“Yep,” Butcher replied, leaning over his plate. “Like I said, life’s unpredictable… Who’d have ever thunk we like our burgers the same way?”

I laughed and leaned over my plate as well. The hamburger was huge, and the scent of it made me drool. I picked up the massive thing—with both hands—and took a small bite. It tasted absolutely wonderful and was probably one of the best burgers I’d ever had in my entire life.

“Mmmm,” I said inadvertently. “This is really good.”

Butcher didn’t say anything in response, but just shook his head up and down as he ate his food. I realized then that our conversation was on hold for a moment, which, I guess, was a good thing. After all, it isn’t polite to talk with food in your mouth, and I had a lot more than my burger to chew on for a while.

~ Lexi ~

“Want another beer?” Carrie asked, popping up at our table halfway through our meal.

Butcher pulled his mouth away from his burger just long enough to mutter, “Uh-huh, please,” then went back to devouring the deliciousness.

Carrie went over to the cooler, grabbed a bottle of Miller Lite, and came back to serve it with a smile. She gave us both a rather endearing look before going to stand behind the counter and chitchat with the cook in the kitchen behind her.

I looked around Tellie’s at that point and took notice of all the people who were there. Business hadn’t picked up—at all—since we arrived. However, the patrons who were there all seemed very happy and pleased, not just with the food but with life in general. There wasn’t a sad sack or derelict in the lot, and the atmosphere of the place was warm, quiet, and friendly, unlike most other places you’d find along a busy business strip in L.A.

I took a few more bites of my hamburger, then set it down on my plate. I only had about a quarter of the sandwich left, but I was already full, and I’d seen all that there was to be seen in the restaurant. I was now ready to talk some more—and as Butcher shoved the last nubbin of his burger into his mouth and licked his fingers, I decided that, like it or not, he was, too.

Butcher sighed and made a satisfied sound as he picked up his beer and took a long drink.

“Now
that
was a good burger,” he said, setting his bottle back down.

“Sure was,” I said, nudging my plate to the side. “I can’t even finish it, but it was awesome.”

Butcher smiled and fidgeted around a bit. I, however, remained perfectly still, despite the thoughts racing through my head.

“Listen, Butcher,” I said, trying to reopen our conversation, “I get everything you’re saying. But—”

“Just a minute,” Butcher said, interrupting me before I could go on. “I have to hit the bathroom.” He took another sip from his bottle, then scooted to the end of the seat.

“Okay,” I said. I was a little let down that he chose this exact moment to go to the restroom. Yet, at the same time, I was a little relieved, since what I was about to say wasn’t going to be easy.

As Butcher made his way to the bathroom, I grabbed my beer and quickly chugged what was left. I figured maybe the booze would give me some liquid courage and help me more comfortably make my point.

“Need another, honey?” Carrie said, approaching me.

“No,” I replied. “I think I’m good.” I wanted liquid courage, mind you, but I wasn’t looking to get drunk (or even buzzed).

“Can I get you anything else then?” Carrie asked. “Something for dessert? We have great peach pie here and killer hand-churned ice cream made from a local dairy farm.”

As appetizing as the dessert choices sounded, they didn’t appeal to me. “No thanks,” I said. “That burger really filled me up.”

Carrie bobbed her head a smiled. “Yeah, we definitely don’t skimp on the portions here.” She reached down and picked up Butcher’s empty plate, then pick mine up and put it atop of it.

Just as Carrie turned to leave, Butcher returned to the table.

“You ready?” he asked, still standing.

I looked at him curiously. Truth be told, no, I wasn’t ready to leave. And he should’ve known that, given how I’d tried to reopen our discussion before he went off to “hit the bathroom.”

“I guess,” I responded. “But I wasn’t really done talking yet.”

“I’ve told you all the basics,” Butcher replied. “There’s not much else I can say. And I’m sure you’re not ready to make up your mind yet. You’ve gotta have some time to digest what you just heard. I want you to take that time,
then
talk to me. I’ll wait, and I won’t pressure you. Even though we were already together the other night, I’m willing to take a step backwards and take this slow.”

Hm. I really couldn’t argue with reasoning like that.

“Alright,” I said, sliding out of the booth.

Butcher reached into his pocket, pulled out a $10 bill, and set it on the table, underneath his half-full beer. “See ya soon,” he yelled in toward the counter, and both Carrie and the cook smiled and nodded their heads.

We walked to the front of the restaurant, where the old lady behind the cash register said goodbye to Butcher too, then exited.

As soon as we were outside, I realized something and stopped dead in my tracks.

“Wait,” I called out to Butcher, who hadn’t stopped walking and was a few paces ahead.

“Yeah?” he inquired as he turned around.

“We forgot to pay our check,” I answered. I’ve never been much of a thief, and Tellie’s was too quaint an establishment for us to pull a dine n’ dash.

“
We
didn’t forget,” Butcher said with an intriguing smile. “I don’t ever pay for food here.”

I cocked my head to the side and gazed at Butcher, perplexed.

“Carrie sure is beautiful, isn’t she?” Butcher asked, walking back towards me. The question seemed to come from out of nowhere, and frankly, it hurt me a bit. Yes, Carrie was beautiful, but I didn’t think it was necessary for Butcher to make such a comment. We weren’t on an official date, but our meeting pertained to dating, and I expected more appropriate behavior from him.

“You mean you and C—?” I started before Butcher cut me off.

“You should have seen her about four years ago though,” Butcher said, as if he didn’t even register the question I’d begun to pose. “She looked nothing like she looks now.”

Butcher walked over to the large window and peered in at the activity going on inside.

“She barely weighed a hundred pounds,” he went on. “Her hair was thin; her teeth were yellow; and she was as pale as a ghost, except for the brown bags under her always-swollen eyes.”

As Butcher was talking, I walked over and joined him and the window and observed Carrie as she went about her work. Yes, she was beautiful, and it was nearly impossible for me to imagine her as Butcher had just described.

“The old gal behind the register is her mom, Dora,” Butcher continued after a brief pause. “She owns the place, and she’s been running it mostly by herself for nearly a decade, since her husband, Tellie, died. I’ve been coming here for about as long, and naturally, developed a friendly connection with Dora over the years.

“Four years ago, Dora came to me with a problem. She was at her wit’s end. She told me that her seventeen-year-old daughter was hooked on drugs, and even though she tried to do everything she could to help her, things were only getting worse. She was afraid that Carrie was gonna end up dead, disabled, or out on the streets—and she wanted to know if there was anything I could do to help.

“I’d never told her about my affiliation with the Wolves, of course. But look at her—she runs a successful business, so she isn’t stupid. She was able to put two and two together, and she knew I was the right person to ask.”

When Butcher told me to “look at her,” I knew it wasn’t an instruction, but I glanced at Dora anyway. I hadn’t noticed the similarities between her and Carrie when were in the restaurant, but now that Butcher had pointed out that they were mother and daughter, I couldn’t see how I’d missed it. The two women looked very much alike. And indeed, Dora did look like a wise woman who knew how to take care of business, her family, and herself.

“I told Dora I couldn’t make any promises, but I agreed to help,” Butcher said. “And I actually started helping her that very same day. I put a call into our gang boss and got the ‘OK’ to proceed, then I put some more calls into my brothers to get them on the job with me.

“Within two days, we found out who was getting Carrie her smack from—a lowlife, piece-of-shit drug dealer named Tony Ink. He was no stranger to the Wolves and was already one of our targets. He supplied dope to a lot of young girls in Central and West L.A. at the time and was turning a lot of them out, working them as hookers for his evolving side gig as a pimp.

“Luckily, he hadn’t gotten Carrie into hooking yet, since she was only seventeen, but he had five other girls who were of-age, who weren’t so lucky… So needless to say, he was a troublemaker, a scumbag, and he needed to be stopped. Carrie was just the icing on the cake.

“It took about two weeks for us to work things out with Tony. We strong-armed him into getting out of the dope scene, to focus exclusively on selling pot. It wasn’t an easy sell, and some consolations had to be made, on all parts, but in the end, we got him to stop pushin’ smack,
and
we were able to convince him to let us ‘have’ Carrie and three of the other girls he had under his thumb.”

Butcher had just explained what some would consider an amazing, extraordinary feat. But regardless, he looked rather sad as he recounted this part of his story. And although I didn’t know him
that
well, I was able to surmise why. He mentioned Carrie and three other girls, which meant that there were two the Wolves couldn’t ‘save,’ for whatever reason—and the sadness on his face was lamenting this fact.

“We got Carrie and the other girls into rehab centers,” Butcher said, shaking off his sorrow. “But I took a special interest in Carrie, because of Dora, and I made sure that she had someone who could understand her and her situation, as much as possible, the whole time.

“Sam Hammond—who you mentioned earlier—has a younger sister who was once hooked on dope, and she took Carrie under her wing and taught her everything she knew about living sober and moving on.”

Butcher stepped even closer to the large window. He straightened out his posture and gazed in, with a look of pride and sentimentality on his face.

“Now, four years later,” he said, beaming, “look at her. Look at her healthy, full figure, her glowing happy face. She works in this diner every day. She goes to college, part-time, at UCLA, and writes poetry in her spare time.

“But, most importantly, she’s alive. She’s alive and well. And so is her mother. I helped make sure of that—and by God, I’d do it again. Tony Ink could’ve offed me—and in the future, I guess any punk could… But look at them. Look at Carrie. Look at Dora. Look at all the people they feed and serve. My life would be a small sacrifice for all of them.”

Something inside of me—my heart, perhaps—tightened, throbbed, and expanded again as Butcher said what he said. He said something we all
wish
we could say about self-sacrifice, which is something few of us actually ever have to do to such lengths. I admired him for what he had done. But still, it frightened me to no end.

“You’re only looking at what’s going on inside the window though,” I said.

Butcher looked at me, and his expression asked me to explain.

“You saved Carrie from dope,” I went on. “You saved her mother from a lot of grief, suffering, and loss. And sure you helped their customers, too—as well as all their friends, family members, and other people involved in their lives. But what about the people involved in
yours
?

“Wouldn’t there be grief, suffering, and loss if, for whatever reason, you died? Wouldn’t your parents miss you? What if you had a wife—or a child? How would
they
go on without you? Who would take care of
them
?”

“No death is ever really a
good
thing, Lexi,” Butcher replied, shaking his head. He walked away from the window, towards the corner. “There’s always grief, suffering, and loss. There are always tears, broken hearts, broken businesses, and broken dreams. Confusion. Chaos. Destruction. Despair.

“But I know one thing for certain. If I died—whether in the line of duty, due to accident, or due to dumb mistake—my brothers would be there to pick up the pieces and care for…whomever I left behind. That family-like relationship—that loyalty and commitment to each other and our own—is a vital part of the Wolves organization. It’s part of who we are.”

I followed Butcher across the street, to his bike, and listened as he talked. I believed everything he was saying and saw the decency in it all, but I still couldn’t shake my fears.

“If Carrie
had
died, her ‘friends’ wouldn’t have stepped up to the plate,” Butcher continued. He reached into the satchel on the side of his Harley and pulled out a pair of fingerless gloves.

“They would have run for the hills,” he added, slipping on the gloves. “A dead junkie is a dead junkie, and other junkies, dealers, and ne’er-do-wells don’t want anything to do with
that
. Dora would have been alone, and she would’ve had a lot to deal with in Carrie’s wake.

“I’m not saying that her life—or that hers and Carrie’s lives—are more valuable than mine or the lives of whatever family I may have. But there are ultimate goals that’d be served.”

Butcher leaned up against his bike, poised to get on. I knew that it was pointless to keep questioning him at this point. I wasn’t quite able to articulate all of my concerns, while he was well-versed at how to address them. He was at a clear advantage, and I needed some time to think and level the playing field.

Butcher sat down on his bike and looked at me. “Ahem,” he said (though, it wasn’t a word so much as him clearing his throat). “You gettin’ on?”