Reaper's Fall
Page 18
An hour later I took a break, finishing off my beer as I studied the outline of the Reapers symbol I’d started. They’d asked me to do a sort of mural for the chapel. Originally I’d planned to paint it on the wall, but Pic suggested I do it on a board so they could move it around. It was a solid idea—a board like this could last for decades.
Damn, but it felt good to be painting again.
So maybe I didn’t get to have Mel—at least I still had this. I was good at it, too. I’d done some custom design work for guys even inside. Now that I was out again, I’d already talked to a couple of them about hand-painting their bikes. One was a weekend warrior who had too much money and didn’t mind me holding on to his bike for a couple weeks while I did the art.
Guess some of us live to ride more than others.
Not that I cared either way, so long as they brought cash.
Cranking up the music, I leaned toward the board again. Looked good. Real good. Maybe I’d take my brother Bolt’s suggestion and set up a website for my work. See if I could drum up some more business. It occurred to me that a guy with his own business—a commercial artist—might be the kind of guy a girl like Mel could settle down with. Christ, but I needed to stop thinking about her.
Wasn’t gonna happen.
Time to get over it.
• • •
Justin Bieber was singing in my bedroom.
The fuck?
Blinking, I stared at the ceiling, trying to wake up. Maybe figure out who I needed to kill to make the unholy wailing end. After an eternity, the noise died and I rolled over, pulling the pillow over my head, trying to figure out what crime I’d committed to deserve that nightmare.
That’s when it started again.
Fucking hell, it was my phone. I reached for it, a random picture of Puck’s middle finger flashing across the screen . . . And yeah, I recognized the finger because I’d seen it pointed at me at least ten times a day for more than a year. Sort of his morning salute back in prison . . . I frowned, answering.
“Like your new ringtone?” my best friend asked.
“Eat shit and die, fuckwad,” I managed to growl, but the insult wasn’t my best work—brain was still foggy.
“Someone didn’t get laid last night,” he replied, and I could practically smell him gloating. Dick. “Saw you took off with Mel and didn’t come back. Disappointed in you, bro.”
I hung the phone up, dropping it next to me on the bed. Damn, I felt like hell. Staying up all night painting can be worse than drinking, at least in terms of hangover. I’d finally passed out around six that morning—according to the clock it was only nine now. Used to be I’d pop something to wake me up, but I’d stayed clean through prison and I planned to keep it that way, so no joy for me.
Justin started howling again. I grabbed the phone, resigned.
“How the fuck did you break into my phone?” I demanded.
“Guessed the password, dumbass,” Puck said. “Know you too well—you can’t hide shit from me. Got a reason for calling, though, so don’t fucking hang up on me like a butt-hurt teen girl this time, ’kay?”
“You got thirty seconds.”
“We’re having the meet in an hour—all three clubs,” he told me, his voice growing serious.
“Thought that was this afternoon.”
“They changed it. Something came up. Guess Boonie needs to head out early, so we’re talking at ten.”
“Fucking great,” I said, rubbing my eyes. Shit, I was tired. “I’ll see you then.”
Hanging up, I dropped the phone back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The water stains overlapped each other in circular patterns and I had a feeling things might get damp in here once the weather turned. Not that I gave a shit—the garage below made a perfect studio, and that’s all I cared about.
The Biebs burst out singing again, polluting my airspace. I should really kill Puck, I decided. Community service.
“What now?” I asked, answering.
“Just thought you’d like to hear the song again.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
• • •
Once I was awake, the ride out to the Armory wasn’t so bad—fresh air felt good. This was the first big club gathering since I’d gotten out. They’d thrown me a party when I got home, of course, but we’d kept it small. Seemed safer that way, given the drama with Puck down south.
Today we had representatives from the Devil’s Jacks, the Reapers, and the Silver Bastards. Between our clubs we could claim most of Idaho, Montana, Oregon, and Washington. I wasn’t aware of any urgent business, but I’d been out of the loop for a while now.
The Armory was crawling with people, although how the hell they were all up so early after the party last night, I had no fuckin’ idea. I backed my bike into line and walked toward the main door. Standing outside was a group of Silver Bastards, including Puck. He looked ridiculously healthy and well rested. So far as I knew he hadn’t partied at all last night—guy was still fucked in the head over what’d gone down with that girl in Cali.
Couldn’t blame him for that . . . ugly shit.
These last couple weeks since we’d gotten home, I’d missed him, especially at night. Kinda messed up, but it’d been just me and him for the past year. We’d kept each other safe, standing guard, watching each other’s backs. Surviving. That kind of brotherhood doesn’t just end once your time is served.
Damn, but it felt good to be painting again.
So maybe I didn’t get to have Mel—at least I still had this. I was good at it, too. I’d done some custom design work for guys even inside. Now that I was out again, I’d already talked to a couple of them about hand-painting their bikes. One was a weekend warrior who had too much money and didn’t mind me holding on to his bike for a couple weeks while I did the art.
Guess some of us live to ride more than others.
Not that I cared either way, so long as they brought cash.
Cranking up the music, I leaned toward the board again. Looked good. Real good. Maybe I’d take my brother Bolt’s suggestion and set up a website for my work. See if I could drum up some more business. It occurred to me that a guy with his own business—a commercial artist—might be the kind of guy a girl like Mel could settle down with. Christ, but I needed to stop thinking about her.
Wasn’t gonna happen.
Time to get over it.
• • •
Justin Bieber was singing in my bedroom.
The fuck?
Blinking, I stared at the ceiling, trying to wake up. Maybe figure out who I needed to kill to make the unholy wailing end. After an eternity, the noise died and I rolled over, pulling the pillow over my head, trying to figure out what crime I’d committed to deserve that nightmare.
That’s when it started again.
Fucking hell, it was my phone. I reached for it, a random picture of Puck’s middle finger flashing across the screen . . . And yeah, I recognized the finger because I’d seen it pointed at me at least ten times a day for more than a year. Sort of his morning salute back in prison . . . I frowned, answering.
“Like your new ringtone?” my best friend asked.
“Eat shit and die, fuckwad,” I managed to growl, but the insult wasn’t my best work—brain was still foggy.
“Someone didn’t get laid last night,” he replied, and I could practically smell him gloating. Dick. “Saw you took off with Mel and didn’t come back. Disappointed in you, bro.”
I hung the phone up, dropping it next to me on the bed. Damn, I felt like hell. Staying up all night painting can be worse than drinking, at least in terms of hangover. I’d finally passed out around six that morning—according to the clock it was only nine now. Used to be I’d pop something to wake me up, but I’d stayed clean through prison and I planned to keep it that way, so no joy for me.
Justin started howling again. I grabbed the phone, resigned.
“How the fuck did you break into my phone?” I demanded.
“Guessed the password, dumbass,” Puck said. “Know you too well—you can’t hide shit from me. Got a reason for calling, though, so don’t fucking hang up on me like a butt-hurt teen girl this time, ’kay?”
“You got thirty seconds.”
“We’re having the meet in an hour—all three clubs,” he told me, his voice growing serious.
“Thought that was this afternoon.”
“They changed it. Something came up. Guess Boonie needs to head out early, so we’re talking at ten.”
“Fucking great,” I said, rubbing my eyes. Shit, I was tired. “I’ll see you then.”
Hanging up, I dropped the phone back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The water stains overlapped each other in circular patterns and I had a feeling things might get damp in here once the weather turned. Not that I gave a shit—the garage below made a perfect studio, and that’s all I cared about.
The Biebs burst out singing again, polluting my airspace. I should really kill Puck, I decided. Community service.
“What now?” I asked, answering.
“Just thought you’d like to hear the song again.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
• • •
Once I was awake, the ride out to the Armory wasn’t so bad—fresh air felt good. This was the first big club gathering since I’d gotten out. They’d thrown me a party when I got home, of course, but we’d kept it small. Seemed safer that way, given the drama with Puck down south.
Today we had representatives from the Devil’s Jacks, the Reapers, and the Silver Bastards. Between our clubs we could claim most of Idaho, Montana, Oregon, and Washington. I wasn’t aware of any urgent business, but I’d been out of the loop for a while now.
The Armory was crawling with people, although how the hell they were all up so early after the party last night, I had no fuckin’ idea. I backed my bike into line and walked toward the main door. Standing outside was a group of Silver Bastards, including Puck. He looked ridiculously healthy and well rested. So far as I knew he hadn’t partied at all last night—guy was still fucked in the head over what’d gone down with that girl in Cali.
Couldn’t blame him for that . . . ugly shit.
These last couple weeks since we’d gotten home, I’d missed him, especially at night. Kinda messed up, but it’d been just me and him for the past year. We’d kept each other safe, standing guard, watching each other’s backs. Surviving. That kind of brotherhood doesn’t just end once your time is served.
