CHAPTER FOUR ROAD TRIP

Brayden—

We lie under the stars, and there are a ton of them. The sky is like a sparkling blanket of glittering diamonds. Awe-inspiring. The hard ground beneath us, not so much. I’m glad I at least brought the one-inch rubber mat rolled up with my sleeping bag.

We’re at a campground just outside Flagstaff, Arizona, having already hooked up with the Temecula chapter in Bakersfield and the Nevada chapter in Kingman. We rode seven-hundred miles today, and I’m beat. I haven’t been this exhausted in a long time.

With my arm under my head, and the fire burning four feet from my boots, my eyes slide closed. I know I’m just moments away from drifting off when someone kicks my boot.

“You got first watch.”

I crack an eye open and stare up at my father. “Aw, shit,” I groan.

“You got a problem with that?” he growls.

“No, sir.” I throw off my bedroll cover, and he holds a hand out. I clasp it, and he pulls me to my feet. I can’t stifle the sound I make when my weight lands on my right leg.

He frowns. “You okay?”

“Just stiff.”

His gaze drifts down to my boots, but he doesn’t say another word about it. He lifts his chin to my brother. “TJ, you’re up in two hours. Make sure Marcus relieves you, then Billy relieves him. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” TJ replies, stacking his hands under his head and watching my father retreat to the lone cabin the place had left. It’s got four sets of bunks, and the officers are taking it.

The rest of us are out here on the ground. I move closer to the fire and take a seat. The desert is a funny place—hot as hell during the day and cold as shit at night. But this isn’t really the desert anymore. We left the last of that behind when we climbed the elevation to reach Flagstaff. Up this high, tall pines grow, and there’s definitely a bite in the air.

Green strolls over and tosses a cigarette butt into the flames, then he looks at me and digs in his pocket. A plastic bottle of pills flies through the air toward my head. I reach up and snag them. “Those will help with joint pain. It’s just a supplement, but they really help.”

“Thanks.” I nod, wondering what he knows. “TJ tell you?”

Green shakes his head. “I noticed the limp when you climbed off your bike.”

“Did my father see it?”

“Don’t think so. I take it you don’t want him knowing about that?” He lifts his chin toward my leg. “Is it your knee?”

“More my hip.”

“There a reason you don’t want your father knowing?”

“I don’t want him to think I’m a pussy. If I start complaining, that’s what he’ll think.”

Green nods. “It’s tough being the president’s son, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“It gets too bad, you can switch places with me in the chase van.”

I nod, but I have no intention of doing that.

“Your father rides at the front. If we’re careful, he’ll never notice.”

“Maybe.”

“Offer stands.”

“Thanks, Green.”

He goes off to bed.

I pop a couple more aspirin and one of the pills Green gave me, chase it with a hit off my flask of whiskey, then keep watch over our campsite and bikes for the next two hours until it’s my brother’s turn. Shaking him awake, I return to my bedroll and fall asleep almost immediately, so tired even the discomfort doesn’t keep me awake.

“Wake up, sleeping beauty.” My brother nudges me.

It seems like I’ve only been asleep for fifteen minutes when I crack my eye open. We mount up early and roll out, heading into the rising sun.

About forty miles outside of Flagstaff, Green talks my father into taking an exit to a Meteor Crater Landmark, so we make a six-mile detour to see a hole in the ground. Everyone gives Green shit, but I have to admit, it is kind of cool and awe-inspiring. We get back on the road and ride another thirty miles to Winslow where we stop and take a picture on the famous corner with the flatbed Ford, then grab a beer and get back on the road again.

We ride on to Gallup, New Mexico, then Albuquerque and Tucumcari. Crossing into Texas, we pass through Amarillo, headed straight across the shortest most northern portion of the state toward Elk City, Oklahoma. Texas is Death Heads territory, and even though we’ll only in the state for about two and a half hours, our club has contacted the Death Heads and let them know we’re crossing on our way to a club funeral.

Clubs will usually allow it as long as they’re notified in advance and respect is paid. Even enemy clubs will honor another MC’s funeral by not causing trouble.

We only spot two Death Heads sitting off an exit at a gas station, probably posted there to make sure we keep going, heading out of their state without stopping.

They’re the only ones we see, but I don’t rest easy until we cross into Oklahoma. Green carries a five-gallon plastic gas can just in case we run out in the middle of nowhere. We get off at the first exit across the state line and fill our tanks at the truck stop. Hours later, we finally make it to Oklahoma City.

Red Dog is able to secure us rooms at a dive motel that needs the money more than they care about a couple dozen one-percenters. The Western Elegance Motel hardly lives up to its name, but at least the mattresses have recently been upgraded, and there’s plenty of hot water. I stand in the shower until the tiny room fills with steam, letting the water stream over my tight muscles until the heat penetrates deep. When I’m clean, I towel off, slip on a pair of sweats, and sink into the pillow top mattress like I’m falling into a cloud.

The next morning, we’re up at dawn and hit the interstate heading toward Fort Smith, Arkansas.

We stop in Little Rock for lunch at a roadside diner, grabbing booths along the window overlooking the parking lot.

Billy, Marcus, TJ, and I claim one booth.

The menus are plastic coated, and country music blares from a jukebox.

I order a chicken fried steak, Billy gets a burger plate, and TJ and Marcus both order the meatloaf.

The food comes, and we eat, and just as we’re all finishing, an old guy who must ride the only other Harley out in the parking lot comes over to my father’s booth.

“You boys aren’t headed through Tennessee, are you?” he asks.

My father pulls the toothpick from his mouth. “What’s it to ya?”

“Just thought I’d give you a heads up. There’s a new club there now. Just took over last month.”

My father’s eyes shift to Crash, who shakes his head, apparently knowing nothing about it.

“How about you pull up a chair and tell us all about it?” my father says.

The man does, and my father extends his hand. “Cole, President of the Evil Dead San José chapter.”

“Marty Kovac. Honored to meet you.”

“So, what’s the deal with this new club?”

“My brother lives in Tennessee. He rides with a Christian club, but he told me it was all over the grapevine. You’re not going through Memphis, are you?”

“Yeah. Why? West Tennessee is Head Bashers’ territory.”

“This new crew drove the Head Bashers out last month.”

“Drove them out?” My father’s brows lift.

“Who is this new crew?” Crash asks.

“Call themselves the Sin Squad. Way I heard it, they hassle every rider who comes across the border.”

“Thanks, Marty.” My father stands and shakes his hand, a sure sign for the man to move along.

“No problem. Safe travels.” Marty ambles out the door, and we watch him pull out.

“You want to have some fun with these Sin Squad assholes? Give ‘em hell?” Wolf asks. “I’m up for it.”

My father exchanges a glance with Crash, and then the rest of our crew. “We don’t have time for that shit. We’ve got a funeral to get to.”

Red Dog takes out his phone and pulls up his map app. “We can swing south and avoid Memphis and Tennessee altogether. With the interstate construction, it might even be quicker, though it’s backroads all the way.”

“How long?” Cole asks.

“We can be in Birmingham in about six hours,” Red Dog replies.

“Then that’s the plan. Wolf, call and give them a heads up on our ETA.” Cole grabs the check. “Let’s move out, boys. Crash, take care of the tip.”

“I’m on it.” Our VP stands, digging in his hip pocket and dropping three twenties on the table as the rest of us move toward the door.