Breath on the Wind (2 page)

“This sure is easier with a big fella like yourself around.”  Fletch spoke to Shark, but arched a bushy black eyebrow in Chiz’s direction.

“Yeah, I’m just all sorts of useful.”  Shark grunted under the uncooperative weight and started out of the door.  Fletch, Samuel and Chiz followed. 

They descended the rusting metal steps from the first floor of the motel.  Shark had pulled the club van up with barely enough room for a man to squeeze past it.  He took one hand from steadying the bundle on his shoulder and fished the key out of his pocket, hitting the remote locking button on the fob as he did so.  With a flash of the signal lights and a thunk, the vehicle unlocked.  Shark opened one of the rear doors, Fletch reached around him on the side where his arm was employed keeping the morbid parcel in place, and opened the other.  Shark shrugged the package unceremoniously down onto the floor of the van’s cargo space with an insulting thud.

A couple of the girls that had been touting for business when Chiz arrived were hanging around, watching the scene unfold with openly mistrustful expressions.  Samuel waved them over.  They came reluctantly, teetering over the uneven ground on spindly, scuffed heels. 

Samuel reached into one of the back pockets of his jeans and pulled out the roll of bills he’d taken from the hooker.  He counted it quickly and then divided it in half.  He handed a fold of crumpled bills to each of the women.

“Don’t worry, girls.  He’s not coming here again, are you, brother?”  He didn’t even turn to look at Chiz as he spoke, but Chiz answered all the same.

“No, boss.”

The girls nodded, and with openly hostile glances in Chiz’s direction, they turned and tottered back to the posts they’d been lounging against to resume waiting for their next customers.

Fletch headed over to his bike as Shark squeezed around the van in the direction of the driver’s side door, leaving Samuel virtually alone with Chiz.

“You know you’re gonna havta take a beatin’ for this, Chiz, don’t you?”

“Yeah, boss.”

“We’ll finish this up, then we’ll go back to the clubhouse and take care of that.  You’re gonna have some bruises for Christmas dinner tomorrow, but don’t you dare think of cancellin’.”

Usually Chiz looked forward to the annual festive meal cooked by the old ladies and the sweetbutts and served in happy chaos in the clubhouse.  If Samuel hadn’t expressly said so, he would have cried off this year.  He wasn’t looking forward to the beating, or the derisive looks he would get the next day, although he knew he damn well deserved both.

Samuel seemed to be about the say something further, even opened his mouth to speak, but he stopped, changed his mind, snapped his jaw shut, and instead went to his bike.  Chiz went to his own ride and pulled out after the others when they set off.  He knew they’d be heading to one of their tried and tested dumping grounds in the bayou where the alligators, fish and insects would take care of the body disposal for them.  The bed linens would be burnt somewhere else, and the evidence of Chiz’s inability to restrain himself would be hidden again.

Chapter Two

Bing was crooning about snow, the like of which Louisiana never saw.  Chiz was sitting on one of the less stained couches in the Priests clubhouse, nursing a warm bottle of Bud, and watching the tinsel strewn hurricane that was their Christmas Day as it began to wind down, or at least find a calmer level.  The frantic bustle that had been the opening of presents and the serving and eating of food had ended.  Time was, that this would have been the time to light up the joints, break out the hard liquor and get a sweetbutt on her knees.  Not anymore.  Now there was a young kid and a pregnant woman to make allowances for.

Shark had administered Chiz’s punishment beating on behalf of the club the night before, after they’d returned to the clubhouse having stripped, weighted and dumped the body of the prostitute in a deep bayou tributary.  They’d stripped to their jeans and climbed into the boxing ring that occupied one of the bays in the garage attached to the clubhouse.  Chiz had done his best to stand still and take his lumps with dignity, even though it went against every instinct he had to keep his fists by his sides while someone beat on him.

Normally, as Sergeant at Arms, it was Chiz’s role to discipline errant club members, but he couldn’t very well punish himself, so Samuel had delegated the job to Shark.  Chiz and Shark had been friends a long time, but Shark had an off switch for all things empathetic, in a similar way that Chiz did, but Shark didn’t keep forgetting to turn his back on again or hit it by accident.  In the same dispassionate manner in which Chiz had been able to stand and watch Shark be branded with a motif of the club for patching in with traitorous intent, Shark had given Chiz a solid beating for putting the club in a precarious position.

Chiz wasn’t sure whether or not to be grateful that Shark had stuck to body blows.  He guessed it would have looked bad at the meal if he’d turned up with a broken face.  As it was, he was fairly certain that he had a cracked rib, and his torso was a mass of developing, florid bruises.

Hurting and despondent, Chiz had slunk off back to his dorm room afterwards.  He’d seriously debated hitting the bar for a bottle of something and drinking himself unconscious, but he figured he was in enough trouble as it was.  Rolling in with a hangover the next morning wouldn’t endear him to anyone, so he’d swallowed some Tylenol with tap water and done his best to sleep.

He’d been a member of this club for seventeen years, and never in all that time had he been alone unless he wanted it that way, but now, surrounded in a room full of people that he considered closer than blood family, he felt lonely.  He knew word of his stupidity had spread beyond those directly involved in the clean-up.  Everyone seemed to be looking at him sideways, wondering what the fuck was up with him that he had to do what he did.  Even the club girls were giving him a wide berth.  He’d made sure never to give any of them real reason to fear him, so the fact that they were acting like timid bunnies in his presence now pissed him the fuck off.

Anyone would think that he’d lost control like that every other Saturday night.  In truth, it had happened less than a handful of times before.  There had been other women who had lived through whatever he’d done in an effort to calm the noise in his head, and those episodes had resulted in similar punishments.

But his actions the previous night hadn’t had the desired effect.  His head was still buzzing.  He still felt restless.  It had been months since the almost-betrayal of Shark, his friend and brother, had been laid before the club.  Shark had paid the price that the club had demanded and had found his place with them again.  Everyone was right with it. Chiz had made his peace with it, but he couldn’t help but feel a little responsible.  It had been his idea to call his old friend and offer him a seat at their table in the first place, and when his friend had accepted that seat he’d had assassination on his agenda.

Added to that, his brother, mentor and former SAA of the Priests had left for Texas to head up the new charter that was being established there to replace the Rabid Dogs MC.  Destroying the club that had been their long time allies, but who had tried to stab them in the back, had broken a vital link in the pipeline that the Priests ran for the Rojas Family, moving drugs and people.  Samuel was unwilling to trust another group, insisting he wanted more control, so they had set up a new charter, and Dizzy had left to take the president’s gavel. 

It seemed to Chiz that Dizzy had barely been out of state five minutes before he’d found himself an old lady, one with a kid, no less, a ready-made family.  And Shark had married Ashleigh, and she had a bun in the oven.  Terry and Dolly had adopted a little girl who was as cute as a button and was currently explaining one of her toys in great detail to Kong.  It wasn’t what Chiz was used to, and he was struggling to adjust to the sudden onset of PG-13 domesticity, where a solid R rating had previously prevailed.

Fuck this.  Chiz wasn’t sticking around to be given the fish-eye by everyone that chanced to look over.  He was still sober.  He’d only had a couple of beers with the meal and had barely tasted his third.  He left it on a nearby table and headed to his dorm room.  He needed to get out, to go for a ride.  On a whim he decided that he’d be better off not wearing his club colors. 

In his dorm room, he slipped his kutte off and laid it out on top of the neatly made bed.  His doing, he liked things neat.  He paused, and although he didn’t have a destination in mind, he threw some clothes, some condoms and his toothbrush into an ancient rucksack that had been buried in the bottom drawer of his dresser.  He patted the knife at his hip to make sure it was there, put his gun, a Beretta M9, into his shoulder holster and slipped it on before donning a leather jacket over the top, which he zipped up.  December in Louisiana was not cold, but the air rushing past him while he was riding would be chilly.

Mostly, everyone was occupied with talking and drinking, snacking on leftovers, or clearing up.  No one paid him much attention as he made his way back through the main room.  He was through the door and out into the gathering dusk before a hand on his arm stopped him.  Samuel. Chiz should have known he wouldn’t get to just walk out.

“Goin’ somewhere, brother?”

“Just for a ride, boss.  Not sure where.”

“Okay, you take some time, but stay safe.  We want you back here in one piece.”

“Will do, boss.”

“And Chiz...?”

“Yeah?”

“Call us if you need us.”

Well, that surprised the hell out of him.  He was humbled, that after everything, his president still wanted him around, and was still willing to bail him out.  He hadn’t been expecting that, not tonight.  He’d figured everyone was just plain mad at him, and sick of covering his ass, but it didn’t reduce his need to get the hell out of town for a night, or longer. 

“Thanks, boss.”  He nodded, as did Samuel, who also gave him a slap on his back to send him on his way.

Chiz stowed his rucksack in his saddlebags, clipped his helmet in place, and set off. He headed towards the Interstate, only knowing that he needed more of a run than would be provided by the local roads.  When he got to the interchange, he had to make a decision, east or west.  He chose east, away from Louisiana, and away from the charter in Texas.

As he approached the state line with Mississippi, he passed the spot where Dean, Samuel’s son, had died.  He missed Dean.  That boy had known how to party, how to enjoy every moment simply for what it was.  If someone had come along and told Chiz that he could have taken Dean’s place on that miserable day, he would have agreed in a heartbeat.  It seemed to him that Samuel’s boy had had a lot more to live for, but that was all a moot point now. 

The cooler temperatures that were a result of his speed made his right leg ache.  He’d broken it in the spring, trying to do Dolly a favor with some home furnishings.  Now, whenever it got cold or wet, it ached like a motherfucker.  That was what he got for being well-behaved.  Between the cold, the aching and the sadness, Chiz felt fucking wretched, but he kept going, trying desperately to outrun his demons.

After riding for a few hours, tired and sore, but in no way ready to head home, Chiz pulled off the highway.  He’d ridden clear across Mississippi and had just crossed into Alabama.  He took a spur that led off the interstate to a spot that he knew well from his runs with the Priests.  A couple of miles down the side road, not visible to the highway, was a wide spot in the road with a motel on one side and a bar
cum
diner on the other.  Chiz didn’t know if he wanted a room there yet, but he sure as fuck wanted a drink somewhere where that he wouldn’t be looked at sideways by the staff, or the patrons, and where he’d be left the fuck alone.

Chiz parked his bike, double checked that his saddlebags were locked tight and took himself inside to get a drink.  He hitched onto a stool at the bar.  He needed to take the weight off his leg, but he wanted the solitude of a stool, not the companionship of a table.  He ordered a Jameson.  He wanted something smooth that he could enjoy slowly. Chiz scanned the clientele in the room, picking out the hustlers and the degenerates.  It was a meager and miserable crowd, but, of course, it was Christmas night.  Most people were at home with their families.  He was beyond relieved that they were playing something with a guitar heavy riff and absolutely no lyrics about snow, stables or saviors. 

He sat up a little straighter when a woman walked in and came straight up to the counter, right next to him.  She had truly black hair that hung several inches below her shoulders, and average brown eyes.  There was nothing particularly strikingly beautiful about her face, her mouth was full, and even at rest was twisted almost into a sardonic expression, but still he felt a pull.  Perhaps it was the fact that she, too, ordered Jameson, straight, and took the empty stool by his side without even once glancing his way.  He turned his eyes to the room, but kept his attention on her. 

Half an hour later, she was still on her own.  If she was waiting for a date, he wasn’t showing up.  If she’d been stood up, she wasn’t leaving.  She wasn’t really dressed for a date; jeans, a top that hid everything interesting, low heeled boots.  Chiz guessed that she was probably single, and he decided that drinking alone on Christmas Day was as good as an invitation as any to strike up conversation.

Chiz signaled for another drink for himself, and one for her. She looked at him when the bartender put the drink down in front of her.  He could see that she was assessing him.  He was wearing dark blue jeans and black button-down shirt under his broken-in leather jacket.  Even unzipped, the weight of the jacket hid the gun under his arm.  He knew he did not look at all out of the ordinary, but he knew that his muscular physique was obvious despite his outfit.  He worked hard for his body, and he liked that the musculature was obvious.  He knew, as well, that his expression tended towards stern unless he was smiling.  The club girls had told him often enough that he could be a scary motherfucker when he wasn’t happy.  Overall, though, he was happy with the package he presented.

Chiz saluted her with his glass.  “Merry Christmas.”

She froze with her glass almost to her lips, but dropped it fractionally to speak.  “And a happy fucking new year.”  Chiz thought maybe he saw the merest hint of the beginnings of a smile.

“I’m Chiz,” he offered, before taking a sip of his drink.

“That’s your name?  Really?”

Chiz simply nodded.

“Well, in that case, you better call me Elmo.”

She had a sense of humor, score one. “Y’know, I always wanted to diddle Elmo.  There’s just something about all that cuddly red fur.”  Chiz grinned and shook himself a little, enjoying the vibe that was building, since she hadn’t told him to go to hell as soon as he’d opened his mouth.

“The freak show let you out for the holidays, huh?”  When she smiled Chiz knew he was in. 

“So, you on your own tonight?”

“No, I’m with my imaginary friend Bert.  He’s in the john at the moment, but he’ll be back soon,” Elmo deadpanned.

“Do you and Bert have plans for tonight?”

“Nope.” 

Chiz felt a tingle shiver over his skin at her answer.  If she wanted him gone, that had been her chance to cut him dead.

“How about you ditch Bert and we find somewhere more private where we can get to know each other better, and,”  Chiz leaned back from the bar so he could run his eyes appreciatively over Elmo’s form, “I wanna see where you’re hidin’ that fur.”  Given the opportunity to look at her figure without being accused of perving, he could see that the long sleeve, high neck top she was wearing played down a fantastic rack.