“I won’t stand behind you if you pursue this.” Jimbo seconds his motion, and soon all the Nationals agree that Chaps should stand down. While they wait for his decision, Roach turns to me, and I find that sparkle of pride I longed for from my grandfather in the eyes of my brother.
“There is no problem here, Dirk. The club trusts you will handle yourself and your property, like you always have.” I feel my chest swell with pride at the thought of making Saylor my property. Branding her with my patch, my name, and my club would be the equivalent of marriage for people unrelated to an MC. It would show everyone in my world that she was mine, not that anyone would have any doubts after today.
Chaps steps up next to Roach, and my feelings shift immediately, as do my eyes. And what I see is not defeat, but respect, not that I need it from him.
“You’re a good brother, Dirk. I never should have doubted you. It won’t happen again.” When he sticks his hand out to me, I know that even Saylor’s laughter couldn’t persuade me to shake it. I give him a nod, and pull a cigarette from my cut. Ignoring his outstretched hand.
“We need some beers,” I tell one of the patch holders who was sent in for reinforcements.
“Sure thing, Dirk,” he says, and disappears inside. Conversation starts and the whole ordeal is squashed and forgotten, just like that. Not another word will be spoken about it. Beers are passed around and a toast is made in honor of the anniversary of our club. We pour some out on the ground in honor of fallen brothers and drink in honor of our patch.
Chaps tips his beer bottle toward me and tells me, “One day, Dirk. One day you will shake my hand.” I take a pull from my beer, knowing that will never happen, but keeping the thought to myself. Then, I hear Saylor’s laughter again, and now I’m not sure it won’t.
10
“DIRK, DON’T LET me fall off,” Saylor slurs as I practically carry her to the bike. While I’d been on the porch with Nationals, she had been taking shots with the ol’ ladies at the bar. Three hours and a fifth of liquor later, she was finally ready to call it a night.
“I won’t, baby.” I help her with her helmet, and then on the bike, pulling her arms around my waist and locking her fingers together. The place we are staying is only a few minutes from here, and I take my time getting there. The last thing I need is for her sexy little ass to fall off. I turn down the gravel drive, unable to keep the memories of my childhood from flooding back.
This is not my home and never was. My bike is my home, and it has been since I was old enough to ride. This is just a place that reminds me of who I am and what made me that way.
The white, wood-framed house hasn’t changed a bit. If the Prospects from a nearby chapter didn’t keep the yard cut, you would think it was abandoned. I can’t remember the shape I left it in the last time I was here, but I’m sure Saylor won’t complain. It’s probably better than most of the cheap-ass motels we have stayed in. And she thinks they are perfect. I really need to get her a dictionary.
I pull the bike under the old carport, next to all the other shit that hasn’t been touched in the last ten years, and cut the engine. Saylor is laying on my back and if she is passed out, I don’t know how in the hell she stayed on. I unlock her fingers and hold her hands in mine, mentally preparing myself for what lies inside the house.
“I’m comfortable. Let’s just sleep out here.” Saylor’s words are slow and slurred. I like getting to know all the different sides of her.
“Deal.” I don’t want to go in any more than she does. I hate this place, but it’s my responsibility, and since I have to be here a few days anyway, I might as well get it over with.
“Whose house is this?” she asks, her head still on my back. I don’t know why I feel the need to tell her, but I do.
“Mine.” I feel Saylor’s head lift, and watch her in my mirrors as she looks around the dark carport.
“I didn’t know you lived here.” I can tell by her body language that she is ready to get off the bike and explore the place. Nosy little shit.
“I don’t live here. I just own this place. Let’s sleep.” The need to share shit with her vanishes just as suddenly as it appeared. I should have known better than to expect her questions would stop.
“Does anyone live here?” she asks, moving to get off the bike. I stand and help her, ignoring her question, thinking maybe she will just let it go. When I don’t answer her, she asks a different question. Fucking conversation. “Did you grow up here?” I grab our shit from the bike and move through the carport easily, despite the shit strewn everywhere. I know this place better than any, and it hasn’t changed in years. “It’s quiet here.” Saylor says, and before I can process that her words are a simple observation, I’m lashing out.