Chapter 35: OSKE

Chapter Thirty-Five

OSKE

T he white men are very stupid. I have them ranked in order of stupidity. If I didn’t need Wyatt Shaw, I would have stolen his bike months ago and disappeared to Canada. I know they don’t treat us any better there, but nobody knows me in Canada.

Everyone knows me on the rez. Which makes it even more annoying that I have all these stupid white boys hanging around. The hush money they give me is barely enough to cover the problems they bring into my life.

Wyatt forces me to keep the dumbest in my trailer with a prisoner, and then he sends Ethan of all people to watch him. The only thing Ethan cares about is gambling. Wyatt’s older brother is clearly fucked up. Owen is a lot more gentle and kind in comparison. Ethan acts just like a damn bear, which explains his club nickname. The rare moments he isn’t discussing statistics related to gambling, his latest wins and losses, or gamblers that he admires, he tells me all these stories I don’t know if I believe. That story about stealing money from a Jewish man with kids sounds completely fabricated.

Ethan is screwed up, so I wouldn’t put it past him to lie too.

He would bet his own daughter on German pretzel cutting if he got the chance. What the fuck is German pretzel cutting? Something I actually saw that dumbass using his phone to bet on.

These people colonized us to sit around smoking all my weed, torturing white women in my trailer… and gambling. The land and the money kept me from blowing Wyatt’s head off when he showed himself in Indian country again with the same face as his lying ass father. But what keeps me here is much more complicated.

I never knew life could be any different from the rez until the first time I tried to run away. I thought I had a ticket out of a lifetime of shitting in an outhouse and beating the maggots off of meat just to have some. Not like everyone on the rez lives like we did. We were just poor. Because of them. Because of the white men.

It was easy to tell myself that my ancestors wanted me to hold them down and slit their throats. I never thought I could bring myself to care about Wyatt Shaw, his dumbass brother or any of the dumbass friends in his club. Then I met Anna Shaw.

She was the first friend I made in years. Girlfriends are different. The sex thing between whichever girl I’m seeing and myself never makes a relationship easy. But Anna showed up as a part of Wyatt’s family and she was just… warm. Gentle. She felt like the family I never had and she saw that potential for family in the man I wanted to push away.

He’s my family too, even if it’s in the strangest, most fucked up way. We don’t see family the way they do. I should be proud of that.

Juliette connected with me like no one else has yet. She has the type of personality that makes you want to spill your guts out and stand on the bar to shake your ass to rap music. I’m not even that type of person, but Juliette brings it out of me. Tamiya has that ride or die personality that makes me wonder if I’ve ever been loyal before…

Quin and I don’t know each other as well, but I heard through the grapevine – bikers gossip more than you think – that she has been caring for a mysterious red-haired child who appeared on Tanner’s doorstep. My mother taught me that in our culture, motherhood is the most important role, especially because of what happened. I don’t know if I’ll ever be a mother, but I know I’ll do everything to protect the ones in my strange patchwork family.

Wyatt might be a crazy white boy but right now… he’s all I have.

And the black ladies in the club? I love them.

So when Ruger Blackwood calls my phone with horrifying news, only one choice makes sense.

The Group Chat

Oske: SOS.

Juliette: What did Ruger do? Send footage.

I wish it was that simple.

Oske: Darlene shot him and broke out of my trailer with four other bikers. I don’t know when this happened but they’re on their way East and they’re after Ryder. Ruger will survive but… he’s fucked up.

Tamiya: Send location. I’ll call Gideon.

She’ll need to send Gideon to Ruger. I don’t want to be anywhere near that crazy ass white boy when he’s raging out over something and healing from a gunshot wound. He’s even crazier than he was before.

Anna: Wyatt calling Ryder.

Juliette: Why are they after Ryder? Hunter wants to know. He’s leaving now.

Quin: Just got Avery from daycare.

Tamiya: What’s the move?

Oske: He has someone who witnessed a murder.

She sends a cute picture. I love Quin, but maybe this isn’t the time to share adorable baby pictures. My phone vibrates with all the likes. Hey, at least everyone is paying attention.

Juliette: Who? He kidnapped her?

I don’t have that much information. Just Ruger using more racial slurs than one person ought to even have in their vocabulary. I pieced together as much of the story from that as I could, but it’s hardly a journalistic account of what happened.

Oske: I don’t know. But she’s in trouble and if we all move at once… We can have them surrounded.

Tamiya: Coordinates?

Ruger confessed to me that he fed Darlene a tracker the day before because he was “getting suspicious”. I wish he didn’t constantly feel the need to open up to me, but this seems to be the unfortunate position I occupy in Ruger’s life as the only person who can tolerate being around him. Hey, Southpaw pays when I need it.

Stupid asshole. He’s lucky Darlene didn’t take his whole arm off with that gun.

I’m still waiting on Ruger to respond, so I have to pace around with my phone for an uncomfortably long minute while Juliette sends sassy gifs and Quin responds with more baby pictures. Tamiya keeps her replies all business. The last time she blindly trusted me, I got her into a lot of trouble with that infuriating blond boy she keeps around.

But this time, there aren’t any games. Just a woman who witnessed a murder, a club member who needs us, and a bunch of women who are far more likely to be sober and functional than any of the men affiliated with the club.

Ruger sends me the coordinates. It’s an AirTag. He made a pregnant woman swallow an AirTag. I don’t want to blame this on all white people, but the ones I’ve seen so far have not inspired any confidence that they are right in the head. The only bright side to this extension of Ruger’s sociopathy is how easy it is for me to send the location to our group chat.

Tamiya: Where is that AirTag?

Anna: Probably up someone’s ass.

She’s the type of person who rarely responds to the group chat, but when she does, you have to try not to spew liquid out of your nose from laughing your ass off at her sass or her more intentionally hilarious comments.

Oske: I think he had her swallow it. So can we move? Ruger is out of his fucking mind over here.

Juliette: Use deadly force if necessary.

Anna: Be CAREFUL!

Tamiya: I’m in. I’ll get Gideon.

Juliette: I’m in.

Anna: I’ve been driving east since Oske texted us. We were in the camper! Sent using voice to text.

The location dot keeps moving on the map. This new cell phone is a lot fancier than any of the ones I had before meeting Wyatt Shaw. Owen Shaw left a bike parked outside my trailer last time he visited — a gift from the family. I asked for my own cut but Ruger told me that there were “no Jews” allowed in the club.

That boy is about as smart as a pork roast.

Wyatt denied my cut request because I was a woman, which isn’t much better. He told me if I was lucky, a club member would tattoo his name on my ass, but that was about it. Hm. I don’t think so. Once I touch the bike for the first time, I become fully convinced that I can do well enough affiliating with this club without getting my ass tattooed by some asshole biker.

It’s bad enough being related to a pack of them. I put my helmet on and try to get my bearings on a Harley-Davidson bike that’s a lot bigger and newer than any I’ve ever ridden. I send my location to the group chat and hope they all follow suit. From the second I saw that dot, I knew where they were headed.

Don’t know what the hell Ryder Sinclair is doing out there with some woman but… We’ll catch them.

At least we’d better catch them. Otherwise, Wyatt Shaw will skewer me and roast me like a Thanksgiving turkey. This time, he won’t forgive me. I can feel it.

And I need this man’s good graces, as much as I hate to admit it.

We need each other…