Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC) (19 page)

The other man had a long, full,
and bushy beard streaked gray and black. His lengthy, gray hair was braided into a single tail, wrapped with leather to midway down his back. He took off his sunglasses, parking them on top of the baseball cap he was wearing. His cut was worn over a long-sleeved, white, button-down shirt, and he had on a western string tie, with a huge piece of turquoise at the clasp.

They sat in silence for a few minutes until the bartender returned to their end of the bar, and a conversation started up as if it had never been interrupted.

“Don’t know why you are dragging feet, Bingo. Fucking own that shit and start a chapter,” said the man with the bandana.

“Mason don’t want no more chapters, and you know that, Tug. I’ll have to go nomad if I go home.” The man with the string tie must be Bingo.

The bartender looked at Bingo with narrowed eyes, and said harshly, “I never told you that, motherfucker; don’t fucking put words in my fucking mouth.”

Bingo grew pale. “You told BamBam no more chapters in church last week, Mason. What the fuck am I supposed to think?”

“Goddamn well ask me, brother. Fort Wayne isn’t that far, and I told BamBam no for Lauderdale. Different fucking thing—he’d be too far away to control without chapters scattered between. If you need to go home, fucking go home. If you have brothers who want to go with you, then you fucking better be willing to chapter up, asshole.” He slapped the bar top hard, rattling the bottles and glassware.

Tug sat back, grinning. “Own that shit, Bingo.”

“Church tomorrow, Mason, can we talk about it with the members?” Bingo fiddled with the brim of his hat for a minute. “I gotta be there for her, brother. I got to go home; she’s the only sister I got.”

Mason reached across and clasped Bingo’s wrist in a tight grip. “Then go the fuck home and take care of family. I want you to figure out a revenue stream fast, though; I won’t support more than twelve months of fucking around.”

Andy had first tried to ignore the conversation that flowed over and around him, but gave that up when they clearly didn’t care if he listened or not. This seemed like the type of shit Watcher deemed private—club business—and he felt awkward they discussed it so openly in front of him.

His eyes followed the back and forth chatter, and when they stopped, he realized they were all looking at him. He swallowed nervously, and looked in their faces for a moment, then picked up his beer to drain the mug. “Round’s on me,” he said
, sounding bolder than he felt, and pointed to the men on either side.

All three men burst out into laughter, and Tug thumped Andy hard on the back, knocking him forward into the bar’s edge as Mason went to pull four beers.

“Fuck me,” Andy muttered as he pulled another bill out of his wallet. After he set the mugs down, Mason pointed to his own chest and introduced himself. Then, he confirmed Andy’s understanding of the names for the other men. Taking a deep drink from his beer, Andy nodded and said his own name, acknowledging the introductions with a nod.

“What did Watcher send you here for, kid?” Mason asked. “You aren’t wearing any colors, so you better not be affiliated. Jackson’s is neutral, but we don’t fucking tolerate anon shit.”

“Nope,” Andy said, popping the ‘p’, “Watch said you might be able to point me to someone needing a wrench for a bit. I’ve been traveling and need a place to sit a while to earn some cash. I can tend bar too, but I fucking love tuning and stroking chrome.”

“What do you ride, man?” That question came from Tug, leaning his elbows on the edge of the bar.

“My baby is a ’47 Indian Chief Roadmaster flathead. She’s a fine, pretty little thing,” Andy said fondly, grinning at him.

“Holy fucking shit, this I gotta see. ’47 Chief? No shit? Holy fuck,” Bingo shouted, standing from the barstool and grabbing hard at Andy’s arm. Pulling back sharply to get his arm out of Bingo’s grip, Andy quickly slid from his stool, turning it over in his haste as he took two large steps backward, adopting a defensive stance.

Mason reached out and smacked the side of Bingo’s head. “You don’t go grabbing strangers, Bingo. What a fucking moron. Sit back down, kid, or take him outside so he can stroke off to the Indian. It’s a secret fantasy of his.”

Some of the tension left Andy’s body as he saw Bingo look first at Mason, and then him. “Oh man, sorry. Sorry, didn’t mean to overstep. Respect, man.” Bingo seemed genuinely apologetic, and righted Andy’s stool; he picked up his jacket and draped it across the back.

“It’s okay,” Andy muttered, still somewhat uncomfortable with their lack of serious reaction to the near scuffle. “If you want to see her, that’s fine. Let’s go.” He moved towards the bar and reached out to pick up his mug to drain it, and then leaving his change as a tip, he grabbed his jacket and turned towards the door.

There were mirrors mounted alongside the doorway, and he saw Mason give a signal up the bar as he stepped around the end to walk with Tug and Bingo. Andy pushed the door open, and then quickly stepped towards the side lot where he’d parked, moving past his bike. He turned back towards the men who walked his way, trying to keep everyone in view.

“Fucking
fringe,
” Bingo moaned as he stood and looked at the bike with longing on his face, “there’s fringe on the fucking seat. Oh God, look at those fairings. She’s so fucking pretty.”

“Goddammit, Bingo. I was kidding when I told the kid you’d get hard,” Mason said and laughed.

Andy smiled tightly, still uncomfortable, and asked the men, “What do you ride?”

Mason pointed to a bike barely visible around the back corner of the bar. “That black and white panhead is mine, Tug has the solid black Road King down there,” he shifted to point to a bike far down the row, “and Bingo has this Fat Boy with the low-rise handlebars,” he gestured towards a gorgeous bike only two down from Andy’s Indian.

Andy’s mouth watered when he looked at Bingo’s bike—flames on the tank and shiny chrome, and a tiny little tail seat on the back fairing. “All very nice, man. That Fat Boy is pretty.”

A low roar came from the front of the building, and Mason spat a curse, taking running steps back the way they had come. Andy followed him, and he rounded the corner just as the door burst open, and a dozen fighting bikers wearing colors from several different clubs spilled onto the street. He quickly zeroed in on the only two participants who seemed focused on doing real damage with their fists. He maneuvered himself around the edge of the group towards the two men.

Mason was wading into the group; he yelled and smacked with an open hand as needed to get their attention. His voice was enough to drag most of the activity to a halt, but the two men Andy tracked were locked in their own bubble, and they didn’t seem to hear Mason or anyone else.

Looking back at Andy, Mason said, “Come break these fuckers up, man.”

Without questioning, Andy stepped forward and watched for a pause in the action. Seeing an opportunity, he grabbed the backs of their heads and cracked their foreheads together, dazing both men before he pushed them apart into hands willing to hold them back. Stepping back, he shot a look at Mason, “How’s that, boss?”

Bending over and putting his hands on his knees, Mason laughed hard for a minute. “Pretty fucking priceless. That was classic, man. You are a hard-ass.”

Andy shifted so there were no bikers at his back; he didn’t want to get ambushed if he’d been jockeyed into some trouble. The movement wasn’t missed by Mason. “No motherfucker here will put a hand on you for this,” he said, raising his voice. “You fuckers hear me?”

There was a grumbling acknowledgement from the men on the sidewalk, and Tug broke the silence with a laughed out, “I need a beer,” and pulled the door open to reenter the bar.

Andy lifted a hand in a casual goodbye, walking towards the side lot. He’d had enough excitement for the night, but damned if he wasn’t sorry to leave the bar. It had felt pretty comfortable. “Where the fuck are you going, man?” came from behind him; Mason was calling from the doorway.

“Headed out, thanks,” Andy tossed over his shoulder as he rounded the corner to see Bingo still standing in front of his bike.

Sharp laughter came from behind him, and he turned to see Mason had followed him. “Bingo, what the fuck are you doing, brother? Your girl is going to see you cheating on her, and she’ll take her revenge…you know she will.” He laughed again.

Bingo looked up at Andy. “She’s beautiful, man. I’d give a fuckuva lot for one just like her; cherry red, virgin white, fringe on the seat, chrome so bright—that poetry nearly fucking writes itself.”

Mason slung an arm around Andy’s shoulders. “Come back inside and have a beer; I’d like to offer you a job.” He turned them around and started walking back to the door of the bar. “Bingo will be out here for another hour, but he won’t fuck with your ride. He’ll simply lust from a distance.”

Andy hadn’t heard anything after the word ‘job’, and he was wondering what kind of position Mason had available. Pulling a stool behind the bar, Mason gestured that Andy should sit there, his back to the wall. Nodding, Andy slid onto the seat, propping his heels on the rungs and leaning back against the wall.

The waitress came up and stuck her hand out. “Hi, hon, I’m Merry, as in Christmas, not the mother of Jesus.” She laughed at his expression. “And you are?”

He shook her hand gently, careful not to grip too tight. “I’m Andy, Andrew Jones. It’s real good to meet you, ma’am.”

She looked past him to Mason. “He’s polite; I’ll give him that. Cure him quick, or he’ll be fodder to the masses.” She turned and picked up beers and glasses, filling her tray as she went back out onto the floor. Andy sat patiently, waiting for Mason to tell him about the job.

Three hours later, he was still waiting, but at a look from Mason, he’d gotten up twice to settle altercations before they turned into full-fledged fights. Being behind the bar seemed to grant him some authority over these men, regardless of their club affiliations. Settling back onto his stool after standing and staring down another group, he was pleased; he hadn’t even had to take a step to calm them down.

Mason walked up, wiping the bar. “We’re open ten to two, six days a week. I’ll need you here from three or four in the afternoon until we close, and then escort service for the waitresses to their cages.” Seeing the horrified look on Andy’s face, he chuckled and clarified, “Their cars, brother, fuck. Pay’s a grand a week, and there’s a room in the back with access to a shower if you need a place to crash for a while. Interested?”

“What’s the job?” Andy quizzed him, not sure what was being offered.

“What you’re doing, man—keeping everybody in line and stopping the place from getting trashed. I need an unaffiliated badass to keep the peace here. I haven’t owned the bar long, and I’m trying to keep it neutral territory. I’m pretty sure if I had one of my Rebels pulling this job, it could cause problems.” Mason shrugged. “I also called Watcher, and he vouched for you. That’s fucking rare, man. I have to ask, though—are you looking for a club? He indicated he has hopes you’ll go back to Las Cruces and join the Soldiers. He said you were rock solid during some business of his down in Old Mexico.”

Shaking his head, Andy responded, “He’s a good man, and I’m proud he calls me Brother without me wearing his patch. The Soldiers are a good bunch of guys, and they take care of their own. I’m also proud they would have been happy to have me join the family, but New Mexico isn’t for me. I haven’t found my place yet.”

Scanning the room, he noticed that the clientele had changed in the after-work hours, and there were now what looked to be some business executives scattered at tables around the bar. “What’s the deal with the suits? I’ve never seen a biker bar that drew in citizens like this. Is it because it’s not a club bar?” Andy saw not all of the men were limiting their interactions with each other; some of them were gathering at the end of tables filled with leather and colors.

Mason grunted. “A few are RC members looking for a ride hookup; most are friends of ours. We own a few other businesses around town, and our garage is well known with the high-dollar weekend riders. They like the custom shit we turn out, and when they hang at the garage, they hear about Jackson’s and show up. They feel like it gives them an in with us when they spend 10K on a bike we build.”

He folded his bulky arms across his chest. “It’s a good thing to have them see we aren’t always doing business. There’re lawyers and a couple of doctors in this group today; that guy talking to Bingo is a federal judge, and then we have Chicago’s lead homicide detective sitting at the other end of the bar. It helps keep our options open in some situations.”

Andy nodded, understanding. “They’re not in your pocket, but know your face.”

Mason swung his head to look searchingly at Andy. “Exactly.”

“I’d love the job, man. Can I see the room in the back? Is there a place to park my bike at night so she’s safe? I’ve been taking her into my motel room,” he laughed, “but that doesn’t leave a lot of room to maneuver. You should know that I’ve tended bar, in addition to working security, so I can
cover a shift or fill in as needed.”

“Yeah, there’s room. Lemme show you; it’s back here. Merry, watch the bar,” Mason raised his voice as they walked into the back room. “It’s good to know about the expanded skillset, man. I’ll probably take you up on the bartending some days, when there’s club business to deal with.”