Last Mile Page 9

After another two hours, we stopped to gas up. I guessed Samantha was still unsure around us, because she stuck like glue to me at the station. The only time she left my side was when I went to the bathroom. When I came out, she was waiting on me. “You up for the rest of the trip?”

  “I am if you are.”

  I sure as hell am, I thought. I grinned. “Sure.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

  The rest of the trip to Virginia was uneventful. Well, as long as you considered having the legs of a smoking-hot chick clamped against your thighs uneventful. I tried hard not to think about that fact. Of course, it didn’t help to get a whiff of her perfume or to feel her tits pressed against my back. I sure as hell hoped there were some fresh sweet butts at the party tonight. While I hadn’t had a hard time hooking up at the meetings before, I hadn’t needed them as badly as I did now.

  Between all the stops, we pulled into Remington at a little before five. It was outside Richmond, and just like where we lived, it was a small town. Because the Virginia chapter was the original one in the Southeast, they had chosen the location for the meetings. They had set up their headquarters in a somewhat run-down motel. It was owned by one of the Virginia brothers, so there was no worry of its being bugged by the FBI or ATF. Even though there wasn’t that fear, we were still expected to be patted down at any time. Whenever officers went into the meeting room, their cell phones were taken and checked for wires. The Raiders took security very seriously.

  Officers and their families were afforded the small number of rooms, while the other members camped out in the field down below the motel. All meals were provided and served in the dining hall.

  When I turned off the engine, Samantha hopped off. “I guess I better go see what Marley is up to.”

  “Most likely he’s already been made someone’s errand bitch.”

  Samantha laughed. “I figured as much.” As she handed me her helmet, she said, “Thanks again for the ride.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  “You’re not roughing it?” Sam asked.

  I chuckled. “If you consider sleeping on the floor of Rev and Deacon’s room roughing it, then yes, I am.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Considering that you’ll have indoor plumbing, I don’t think it’s really roughing it.”

  “Sorry. Just some of the perks of being an officer . . . or being an officer’s brother.”

  “Just please tell me there’s a communal bathroom where we can shower?”

  Kim appeared at our side. She patted Sam on the back. “Oh, honey, do you think I would be going anywhere there wasn’t a shower?”

  “I would hope not,” Samantha replied.

  With a grin, Kim said, “Just stick with me. I’ll show you the ropes.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that. Especially since I doubt I’ll be seeing much of Marley this weekend.”

  “Yep. Your boy is going to be ridden hard. The only thing you can do to make it easier on him is stay out of the way, get him food and water when he’s allowed, and give him a blow job for moral support.”

  While Samantha gave a nervous laugh at Kim’s remark, I didn’t find the images running through my mind very funny. Wanting to put distance between myself and them, I said, “I’ll see you, ladies.”

  Kim leaned over to plant a kiss on my cheek. “Bye, sweet thing. If I see any available ass, I’ll send it your way.”

  “Thanks, Kim. You know me too well.” When I dared to look at Samantha, I found she was staring down at the ground. I couldn’t help wondering if the idea of me with another woman bothered her. No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than I wanted to kick myself in the balls for being such a bastard. Inwardly, I groaned because I knew it was going to be a long, long weekend.

  SEVEN

  BISHOP

  At the party in the field, I managed not to be alone with Samantha. Although she was on her own with Marley running around for all the guys, she stuck close with Kim and the other women. She seemed to get along well with all the girls, which if Marley did patch in would be in his favor. No man wanted a woman who was trouble with the other club women, because in the end, it caused him too much grief.

  I shot the shit with the guys and drank way too much, but I didn’t end up searching out a piece of ass. Instead, I crashed, or maybe passed out, on the floor around five a.m. The next morning had us rising early. I wasn’t sure whose bright idea it was to have the meeting at ten after a night of drinking and partying. Although we were usually quiet when we were hungover, we were especially quiet that morning. I think we all felt the heaviness of the situation pressing down on us. So we slurped down black coffee and tried eating some from the buffet. When it was almost ten, we headed over to the boardroom. Since only presidents and vice presidents were allowed in on the meeting, Rev and Deacon slipped inside while we were to wait to be called in when it came time for our motion to be heard.

  As we stood outside the meeting room door, a nervous energy popped and crackled around us. Of course, none of us would have admitted to being nervous. That would have meant we were nothing but a bunch of pussies. Raiders would rather die than show fear. Each of us tried in our own way to mask our anxiety—Boone shuffled the coins in his pocket to the tune of Bonanza while Mac chain-smoked so fast he lit one cigarette off the other. As for me, I walked around the cramped hallway.

  “Would you stop pacing?” Mac grunted.

  Boone chuckled. “Forget it. B always paces before a fight.”

  I gave the two of them a sheepish grin. “I didn’t even realize I was doing it.”

  Mac stubbed out another cigarette. “I sure as hell wish this was just a fistfight. Somehow I think we would have better odds than waiting around to chitchat.”

  “With you smoking like a fucking chimney, you’d be passed out in the first round,” Boone quipped.

  “Shut up, fucker,” Mac snapped before taking another long drag on his cigarette.

  As I chuckled, I felt some welcome relief from the tension. Unfortunately, the feeling didn’t last long, because just then one of the Virginia Raiders stuck his head out the door. “All right, boys, you’re up.”

  Mac cursed under his breath as he threw his half-smoked cigarette to the floor. After stomping it out, he made the sign of the cross and muttered, “Amen.”

  After exchanging a surprised look with me, Boone reached out to stop Mac as he started for the door. “Seriously?” Boone questioned.

  “Frankly, we need all the help we can get,” Mac replied matter-of-factly.

  “Good to know we’ve got such a good Catholic boy on our side,” Boone mused.

  The moment we stepped inside the room, the door closed and locked behind us. Smoke hung heavy along with the smell of stale alcohol and sweaty road-worn men. Around the massive mahogany table sat the presidents and vice presidents for the Southeast states. While we represented the north Georgia chapter, there were also chapters from central and south Georgia as well. Boone, Mac, and I squeezed in to stand behind the chairs where Rev and Deacon sat.

  At the head of the table sat the Southeast president, Rory “Rambo” Smithwick. With his long white hair and beard, he could almost pass for Santa Claus—if it weren’t for multicolored ink all over his neck, arms, and chest. We’d never had any issues with Rambo. Back in the day, he and Preacher Man had gotten along really well. Their bond was cemented over the fact that they had both been in the army during Vietnam. Although they were in different units, there was something to be said for a shared experience of being in combat. It made strangers into a band of brothers.

  Rambo let his gaze flicker around the table for a moment before clearing his throat. “The next item to discuss is a request by the north Georgia chapter.” He paused almost dramatically. “It is their wish to go legitimate.”

  At the word “legitimate,” you could have heard a pin drop in the room. I certainly had anticipated an uproar, but the silence that echoed around us took me by surprise. R
ambo peered around the table. “This isn’t the first time a charter has requested to be identified as legitimate.”

  “Just the first one in the Southeast, right?” Rev said with a smile.

  Rambo nodded. “There’s two northern California chapters, one Utah, and one Oklahoma.” He eyed the men around the table again. “It’s certainly not something unprecedented.”

  As a sergeant at arms, I wasn’t used to being in on the meeting, so I didn’t know any of the officers well. The only way I could identify them was by the patch on the front of their cut or the rocker on the back.

  North Carolina’s president raised a finger to speak. After Rambo had acknowledged him, he asked, “I assume you will still wear your Raiders patch and attend Raiders events?”

  “Of course. We’re not asking to disband, and trust me, we sure as hell don’t intend to give up our patches,” Rev replied.

  “You intend to be present even at events where there are gun or drug deals?” east Tennessee’s president asked.

  Rev leaned forward in his chair. “Look, we would never judge our brothers. What your chapters choose to do is your business. For us, the heat we received is no longer worth the risk. We’ve lost too many good men to keep going at this pace. We love the Raiders brotherhood, and we’ll always defend the patch. We just want to earn our living in a different way.”

  Deacon rapped his knuckles on the table. “I’m sure a lot of you think we’re a bunch of pussies for doing this. While our business ventures will change, nothing will change who we are. Just because we’re not dealing guns, we won’t come off as weak to the other clubs out there.”

  “And you intend to keep your stake in the gym?” Rambo asked.

  “Yes,” Rev replied.

  “Will there still be gambling?”

  Rev and Deacon exchanged a glance. I knew this was a sore spot between the two of them, as well as many of the other guys. Since guns brought the most heat from the feds, it was only logical to give them up. The gym, on the other hand, was able to fly under the radar. Deacon had argued that we needed to keep the gambling going to pad our bank accounts in case we needed protection money. Rev, however, wanted to be completely squeaky clean. It was an issue that had yet to be decided, but if I were to put money on it, I would wager Deacon would win. You couldn’t go legit overnight. It took time, but most of all, it took money.

  “For now we will be keeping the gym,” Rev said.

  “Then you won’t be completely legit,” south Georgia’s vice president said. His tone implied that he was glad we were still going to have some dirty dealings. I was sure what we were doing was rattling a lot of the old guard—the ones who had no idea how to make a living if it wasn’t illegal.

  “That is true. But where it counts the most, with guns, we will be legit.”

  While many of the men were nodding in agreement, a lone voice of dissent spoke up. “I have an issue with the way you disposed of your gun trade.”

  All eyes turned toward a scraggly looking man with a wiry salt-and-pepper beard. Although I had never met him, I knew who he was. Easy Eddy Catcherside was the east Louisiana president. Throughout the years, he’d spent more time on the inside of a prison cell than he had on the outside. His club could be considered ragtag at best, with many choosing to patch over to the Diablos when they started sweeping through the Southeast on a forceful membership drive.

  After taking a sip of water, Rev calmly questioned, “What is your issue, Eddy?”

  “Before riding off into the legitimate sunset, you boys made a pretty sweet deal with the Rodriguez cartel.”

  My breath hitched as I cut my eyes over to Rev’s profile. He clenched and unclenched his jaw several times before replying. I knew he was thinking about the reasons behind aligning ourselves with one of the Mexican drug cartels. It had ensured Annabel’s safety from Mendoza, the psychopath who had held her as a sex slave.

  Rev stared Eddy down for a few seconds to collect himself. “Yeah, Rodriguez and I made a deal. Considering the parameters, I wouldn’t exactly call it a sweet one. It’s not like we pocketed any money from it.”

  “You want to explain why you didn’t offer your gun business to your brothers first?”

  “I don’t see how the deals we make are any of your business,” Deacon growled before Rev could respond.

  Eddy smirked at Deacon. “I wasn’t addressing you.”

  “I’m a patch-wearing member and officer, cocksucker, so anytime you question my chapter’s judgment, I have the right to answer.”

  Rev put a hand on Deacon’s shoulder to both calm and quiet him. He then turned his attention to Eddy. “I haven’t tried to hide the reasons behind why I made the deal with Rodriguez. Nor do I think anyone could in good faith try to say that I have.” Rev narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps if you spent less time trying to ingratiate yourself with the Diablos and more time on the business of your Raider brothers, you would know that.”

  Eddy’s face turned purple as the veins in his neck bulged. He slammed his hand down on the table, the crack echoing through the room. “Don’t you dare fucking accuse me of being disloyal to the Raiders! I was a patch member before you were even born!”

  With a calm, level stare, Rev said, “While that is true, I don’t believe there is a brother around this table who doesn’t know about your friendship with them.”

  Eddy shot so fast out of his chair that it went slamming back against the wall. “This isn’t about me and the Diablos. This is about you running guns to wetbacks across my territory without giving me and my boys any compensation.”

  “We’re not running guns. The Rodriguez cartel is,” Deacon said with a smirk.

  “But you let it happen.”

  Rambo banged his gavel on the table. “Enough! Pipe the fuck down, Eddy.”

  “But I—”

  Jabbing his finger in the air, Rambo growled, “I don’t give two shits about what else you have to say! Take a fucking seat and respect the members of this table, or you’ll be going home without a patch!”

  Eddy’s beady eyes widened at the suggestion of his cut being taken. After heaving out several frustrated breaths and shooting a death glare at us, he finally retrieved his chair and had a seat.

  Rambo reached into his patch for a pack of cigarettes. After lighting one up and taking a drag, he said, “I would caution all of you to remember that what is done in your territory is your business. When it affects the territory of other brothers, then it becomes an issue. Right now I see nothing wrong with the Rodriguez cartel running guns across Louisiana. At the very least, other clubs will assume all of the Raiders chapters have an alliance with the cartel, which makes us look powerful.”

  Rev and Deacon exchanged a glance. I was sure neither of them had thought that the Rodriguez deal would actually have some benefit for the other Raiders.

  Mississippi’s president nodded. “I agree with Rambo. I also don’t see any reason for Rev to owe anything to Eddy. We’re along the same route, and he don’t owe me a damn thing.”

  Rev grinned as the other states chimed in their agreement. “I appreciate that sentiment, boys.”

  “Total bullshit,” Eddy muttered under his breath.

  If Rambo heard him, he chose to ignore him. “Since we’re in agreement on that, I make a motion to vote on whether to recognize the legitimacy of the north Georgia chapter.”

  When I found myself leaning forward on my feet, I couldn’t help holding my breath in anticipation. One by one, the men around the table began to vote. Once the “yeas” started ringing out, the breath I’d been holding whooshed out of me.

  Not too surprisingly, the only nay came from Eddy and his vice president. “Motion carried. Meeting adjourned until next year,” Rambo said. He brought his gavel down hard to make it official.

  As the men rose to their feet, we started shaking hands and thumping backs. When we were the only ones left in the room, we did some hugging of our own. “After all that fucking worry, I can’t believe it al
l went down so easy,” Deacon remarked as he lit up a cigarette.

  “Considering what happened with Eddy, I wouldn’t say it went down easy,” Rev argued.

  Deacon rolled his eyes. “Screw Eddy. His days as a Raider are numbered after he pulled that stunt.”

  Boone nodded. “Deacon’s right. You don’t go after your brothers or run your mouth like a fucking fool, especially not in a closed-door meeting with all the chapters present. You might as well be signing your fucking death warrant in the club.”

  “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m hungry as hell. Let’s head down to the dining hall and get some grub,” Deacon suggested.

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said.

  After Rev nodded, we fell in line with him down the hallway. Just as we rounded the corner to the dining room, Eddy stepped out in front of us. He gave Rev a menacing glare. “This ain’t over.”

  Rev held up his hand. “Look, Eddy, I don’t want any trouble—”

  “It’s too late for all that. I ain’t gonna sit by and let this pass. I don’t care what Rambo and the others think.”

  Standing toe-to-toe with Eddy, Rev towered over him. “Are you threatening me?”

  Eddy’s lips curled into a smirk. “And what if I am? You gonna sic your cartel boys on me?”

  “Take your threats and get out of my fucking face before I hunt down Rambo and have him drag your ass in to take your patch.”

  “Pussy,” Eddy taunted.

  Rev shook his head. “I won’t fight you, old man. No matter what bullshit you throw at me.” After giving Eddy one final “fuck you” look, he sidestepped away from him and started down the hall.

  “What a prick,” Deacon muttered as we entered the dining room.

  “Has he always been that way at meetings?” I asked as I grabbed a tray.

  Rev shrugged. “I’m not sure, since I’ve only been president at the last two. I can’t remember if Preacher Man or Case ever mentioned him.”

  “He probably had someone proxy for him at the meetings when he was in jail,” Deacon said.