Hard Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 1) (4 page)

And then finally, Hugh “Howitzer” Maddox, Ram’s father and the President of the Wrecking Crew. He sat in the corner of the corner, presiding over the table like a lord at court. Thick forearms leathery from years of riding under the open sky sprouted from his body like the appendages of a gorilla. His hair was silver and thick, thick like Ram’s was thick, and he wore a heavy handlebar mustache.

Howitzer shared Rowdy's dislike of cops, though for a vastly different reason. He was a widower because of the cops; Ram had no mother because of the cops.

There had been a raid on Howitzer's home when Ram was less than five years old. Howitzer had been the President of the Wrecking Crew for ten years at that time, and was viewed as a high-danger target by the police. When they came in at the dead of night, they kicked in the door ready to shoot—and Ram's mother was caught in the crossfire.

The cops ended up finding nothing. Howitzer wasn't dumb enough to keep anything illegal in his own house, which the police probably would have known. It was a scare tactic, a form of hazing that they used to keep the criminal element under control.

It hadn't worked.

When Howitzer was angry—and he was angry often, like he was angry now, an easily stressed titan of a man managing a club in stressful times—it was like watching a painting move.

“You all right?” Rowdy asked as Ram sat down next to Mikhail, across from the other three.

“Sure.”

“No damage or nothing to you?” Rowdy pressed.

“No, nothing,” said Ram. “Look at me. I’m fine.”

“Is Ace all right?” asked Howitzer. “Heard his bike was stolen.”

Ram set his jaw and sighed. “How much do you know?”

“We know you’re in a pile of shit with everybody from us to the cops.” Howitzer cracked his knuckles. “Where’s Ace's ride?”

The waitress approached, hoping for Ram’s order. Mikhail gestured for her to fly away quick. The tension was like glass, transparent and heavy.

“It was gone when we tried to break out from the brawl. Maybe the Black Flags took it. We don't know for sure. He rode out with me.”

“He rode bitch on your bike?” Cattleprod snorted. “I expect we won’t hear the end of that.”

“What’s all this about?” asked Ram. “I got in a brawl with some Black Flags. Big deal. Motherfuckers deserve a beating. I’ll go in tomorrow and pay up to Manuel, he’ll forget all about it. It’s nothing.”

Even he knew he was stretching the truth, but he figured playing it down was the only card he had.

“Nothing?” Howitzer had a way of making himself seem like he was shouting even though his volume remained steady and low. “You call ruining a truce that’s been running for two generations just nothing? You call losing a man's bike nothing? You call sparking a fucking
war
with the Black Flags nothing? You call a
dead cop
nothing?”

Ram’s mouth twitched. He had been hoping he had seen that wrong, that cop getting shot in the head. A dead cop was bad for everyone’s business.

Beretta's fault, Ram silently insisted. It could all be traced back to that traitorous shit.

“That truce was going to end one way or another.” Ram began ticking off his fingers. “Ace can buy himself a new bike. He's wanted to for a little while now anyway. War was coming with the Black Flags one way or the other. And last I heard, a dead cop’s a good cop, or did I join some other fucking MC without knowing it?”

“Dead cops are
fine
, you ingrate,” said Howitzer, “but not when our colors are seen at the crime. Not when there’s witnesses.”

Mikhail leaned in to Ram. He had a way of making a conversation seem intimate even when there were three people watching right close by.

“You know that I’ve been talking a lot with the Black Flags lately. Sounding them out.”

Ram shrugged. “You said that you were trying to find out how much heat they were packing.”

“I was. And I did. But in doing that, I also found out they were willing to negotiate. We were close to striking a deal. Cutting the trade routes in half between us.”

“In half? Fuck that.” Ram shook his head. “That’s not—”

Mikhail continued. “They’ve got access to every cartel south of the border. That would mean a lot of money flowing through here. We’d be making more than twice what we make now, and have peace with them. But...” he spread his hands. “Not anymore.”

A slow spread of doubt and guilt entered into Ram’s belly. He didn’t care about starting a war, didn’t mind fighting. Deep down, he loved it.

But less money for the club, for his brothers, meant a harder life for them. There was no worse crime for a Crew member than to fuck up the spot of his brother.

Anger kicked in, pushing away the guilt.

“What the fuck?” said Ram. “You saw where I was going in the bar. Why didn't you stop anything?”

Mikhail raised an eyebrow. “Sure,” he said. “And then, for my next trick, I'll stop this oncoming train with my pinky finger. And while I'm doing the rest of your chores for you, I'll pick up your laundry, how's that?”

Ram was quieted by that, fuming to himself. A part of him knew Mikhail had a point—that every man's actions were his own. But goddamn if he would admit out in the open of these others, or even to himself.

There was a way to pin all this on Beretta, and he would find it. He would nail that fucker's ass to the wall and make him pay. The war would be a good thing, they'd see. They'd double their territory and halve their enemies.

“You’re fucked, Ram,” growled Howitzer. “And you’ve been fucked for a while. The Flags'll shoot you dead next chance they get. Rumors are going around that the cops want to pin this on
some
Crew member, and you're the most high-profile member we got. No one wants to see you on the roads anymore. I hate to say it, kid, but you need to take a break for a long while.”

Ram's tongue made a slow circle inside his bottom lip. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re flying off the handle every chance you get. You’re fucking your way through half the town’s broads. You’ve got into more fights in the last six months than I can even count, and that’s the ones these lazy fucks will actually
tell
me about when they’re not protecting you.” He waved a hand at Rowdy and Cattleprod. “I know you protect him. I’m not blind.” He leaned forward, shaking his fist. “You think you lost the election to Ace because everyone just wanted to 'give him a chance?' We're scared of you, Ram. You've gone off the reservation.”

Six weeks ago, Ace had run for Sergeant-at-Arms—Ram's position—at the annual election. He had won handily, but not unanimously. Ram had accepted the change in position graciously, getting Ace drunk as hell and dunking him in a nearby pond.

This was just tradition. Any change in office had to be accompanied by a little bit of good-natured rowdiness.

But to think that it had been
arranged
, that his father and Ace had conspired...that was a blow. That was a deep blow. And it would explain a lot of things. Ace had been distant as of late, and had insisted on going out with Ram more often than not.

Keeping an eye on him? Trying to make sure Ram didn't get out of hand?

But if that was true, then why the fuck didn't Ace put a handle on the situation last night? What kind of Sergeant-at-Arms was
he
being then? Why was Ram the only one responsible for shit going wrong?

Even his own brothers moved against him.

But he would show them.

“It's not that bad,” said Ram. “We can take the Flags. You know we can. If you'll—”

“You. Started. A
war
. Do you have any idea what that means? Actions have consequences, Ram. We're down on men and you want a war. How many more do you think we can spare to lose?”

Now that, Ram had to admit—though he would never do so out loud—was a solid point. The police had taken several of their number off the road over the past six months. Most of the time on drug charges, which meant those brothers were fucked for a long time unless they could get a re-trial. The Sheriff's Department definitely had it out for the Wrecking Crew lately.

Howitzer shook his head. “You’re off the road. Probation. This is an
executive
action I’m taking as Prez, got it?”

“You can’t do that.” Ram, somehow, was even-keeled in his voice. There was a heavy, hard temper throbbing at his forehead, begging to be unleashed, but he kept it at bay. “You can’t.”

“Why, because you’re my son? Fuck that. I didn’t raise you to be such a fuck-up.”

Ram bit down hard on the litany of insults that wanted to spring up, deriding Howitzer's ability to “raise” anyone at all. Raising children didn't involve leaving all the work to your oldest daughter and then shoving your son into the life of an outlaw motorcycle club at the age of thirteen, last he checked.

Not that he minded that much.

“No,” said Ram. “Because you
can’t
make decisions like that on your own. Not unless we signed up with a dictatorship. Did we, boys?”

Rowdy, Cattleprod, and Mikhail exchanged glances. It was clear that they—Rowdy and Cattleprod at least—were already on board with the idea of probation. But they knew Ram was right.

“It’s got to be put to a vote,” said Mikhail. “That’s the charter.”

Howitzer’s face was boiling red—especially because even he knew that was how it had to go. But the redness retreated, a cold gaze leveling on Ram.

“That’s fine,” he said. “It won’t be no problem for a loose bolt like you to be put on probation.”

“Take a week or so,” said Rowdy, “to get people in town. Lots of folks traveling right now.”

“Make the calls,” said Howitzer. “He goes out or I do.”

From the looks in Rowdy and Cattleprod’s eyes, he could tell Howitzer wasn’t lying. This was going to happen in a week's time, give or take a day, no matter what Ram did. Unless he could prove he was trustworthy somehow. Unless he could...could come up with something.

“I’m better than you think I am,” he said.

Howitzer sighed, some sadness entering his gaze. “I wish you were, kid. But something’s turned in you. I don’t know what. You’re going after violence and pussy like it’s some kind of currency. If you’re let loose for too long, this whole gang’s due for armageddon. I can’t let that happen. I can’t—”

“I’m better than you think I am,” Ram said again. “I can be calm. You want me calm? You’re talking about tossing me to the curb. I’m the calmest motherfucker here. I even—”

He watched, at the other end of the diner, as June walked inside. An idea struck him, immediate and unstoppable. The words were out of his mouth before he even had time to think on them.

“—hell, I even got an old lady.”

Mikhail snorted on the coffee he was drinking. Silverware clattered in front of him. None of the men looked like they believed Ram.

“
You
got an old lady?” said Rowdy. “One you ain’t been bringing around to the club?”

“Yeah. We wanted to keep it quiet. And you know me. I got a reputation. I don’t want to...you know, disappoint the fellas.”

The lies were coming more easily now. One beget the other, a clean chain of logic resting on one insane premise.

“There she is now,” he pointed to June, who was talking to the waitress at the counter. “Maybe you saw me talking to her earlier outside. We bumped into each other, coincidence. I guess now’s as good of a time as any to have her meet you. Hang on.”

––––––––

S
hortly after the hunk went inside, June took a few minutes and finally gathered up the courage to call her family for help, and discovered promptly that her phone was, of course, out of power. So, she decided the best course of action was to ask the diner for theirs.

Would that there was a single person in Marlowe she knew and trusted outside of her family. But growing up under John Colt, it had been tough to make friends, and those spare few she had made had all moved far away from Marlowe. June kept up with them online, but that was all.

Only seconds after entering the diner, she felt the presence of that giant hunk again—Ram—and smelled the characteristic scent he sported. It was masculine and heated, a heavy musk that made her think of long open roads and wild, sensational nights of hard loving.

She had almost just caught the eye of the waitress behind the counter when, moments after sensing his nearness, Ram gathered her under one arm and swept her to the far end of the counter, speaking in a low voice.

“I would really appreciate your help with something here.”

June didn’t know quite how to react at first. His arms were thick and heavy with muscle, and that heavy scent filled her entire head. Like asphalt and oil, like fire and stone.

“Look,” said June. “I don’t even know you, so why don’t you take your hands off me?”

Ram smiled, disarming. “Right, yeah. How's that?”

It was, she had to admit, not quite as nice. His arms felt
good
around her. But that much touching when she barely knew him was strictly out of the question. She wasn't some cardboard model to be carted around.

June looked at him suspiciously. She could see his vest now—a biker’s vest for certain. He was in a motorcycle club, she just couldn’t make out which one.

Her father had rallied against bikers his entire career. It was, perhaps even more than her burgeoning attraction for Ram, that particular fact that made June hear the man out.

“What do you want?”

“I need you to pretend to be my girl for a little bit.”

“Your girl?” June smirked. “Are you in high school?”

“It’s important, all right?” He indicated slightly with his head. “My father is over there. He’s sort of...overbearing. You know the type?”

June did. She nodded.

“Okay. So you’d really be helping me out just to pretend to be my girl. Just for a little bit. I’ll make it up to you, all right?”

“Make it up to me?”

“Sure. Name your price. Anything. Just...do this for me. Please.”

There were a dozen reasons—
good
reasons—to say no. To shove something in his face, to toss water all over him for pulling her so roughly to one side of the diner. A dozen reasons to leave him to the lions and let him work out whatever he wanted on his own.