I laughed as he stumbled a little as he tried to back away from me. That was the thing about bad men like Vulture, all talk, bullies to the core, but when a real man called them out, they wet their pants and run. I knew guys like him, had known them my whole life. All bark, no bite. Sadistic when violent, but the victim was always someone smaller and weaker. They didn’t like to lose so they preyed on the vulnerable. "What's the matter, Vulture? You can’t back up the mouth? Tell me my business again and I’ll take your eyes out and feed them to the fucking vultures."
From the corner of my eye, I saw his hand form into a fist and twitch. That was the beauty of losing my hearing, all my other senses were intensified. I could see a punch coming before an arm moved; I could smell danger before it stepped into the room. "You raise that fist to me, and it'll be the last thing you do."
"Fuck you, Patriot." Vulture spat on the floor.
"That's what I thought," I said. "Keep your nose out of my business. You’ve got to earn your respect around here. Membership doesn’t mean I fuck with you. That’s never going to happen. You do what we say and you don’t have the ranking to ask any questions. Put in the work and maybe you’ll make it. But with the attitude you brought, I doubt you can cut it. Being a prospect takes humility, the trust and loyalty come later. You certainly do not have my fucking trust, so your only job is to bust your ass working for it. You don’t talk about my life or the people in it—ever. Go that?"
I was usually light on the prospects. Maybe because I remembered what it was like to be one not so long ago. But this fucker thought that being part of the club meant power, which wasn't what we were about. It never was. Power was earned, it didn’t come cheap and it didn’t come easy. The vulture would have to learn that the hard way. I grabbed my jacket and walked out of the club into the sunlight leaving the angry man with his fists still balled and a look of rage settling into his already ugly face.
I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket, took it out and glanced at the screen. A text from Rough.
Don’t forget about Sky.
As if I ever could. That girl was branded into my heart and I’d tried to do the right thing and forget her, but the affliction only got worse each time I saw her. I’d more easily forget to eat or breathe than I’d forget my assignment to pick up Rough’s daughter.
Still don’t trust me, Rough? I sent in a text.
Nah, you’re patched in now. But when it comes to my kids, I don’t play.
I wouldn’t fuck it up. Not for Rough, not for Claire, and most of all, not for Skylar.
The traffic was heavy. I weaved my way through, desperate to outrun the rows of cars bottlenecking the highway. I always loved bikes for that reason, the ability to shortcut around the crowd, take the path less traveled and get there in half the time. A few cars honked their horns or gave me the finger, which made me laugh. When I wore my cut, people were more reactive, especially those who didn’t know what the club was about. Lay people saw a gangster and couldn’t imagine that I might be on the same side. My whole life, people had looked at me with fear in their eyes, so joining the club wasn’t all that different. When I got out of the merge and hit open road, I stepped on the gas and the bike shot forward like a bullet. Part of why I loved to ride was the vibration itself. Even without my hearing aids in, the rumble of the bike beneath me was the closest I could come to “hearing” without any assistance. The only other sound I could pick up clearly without any device was a scream, and I’d heard enough of those in my lifetime to never want to hear one again. But the bike was a different kind of hearing, a sound that I could feel from the tips of my fingers all the way down to my feet. I could feel how the road changed and read the speed of the bike. I could feel who was coming up behind me and how fast they were going. The wind made noise too as it touched my face and flapped through my cut, the pressure giving me indications of what I needed to know. I heard everything that my bike said, and could interpret the world easily in the way that she told me. On my Harley I wasn’t deaf, just heard things differently than others. Before I’d started riding, the silence had gotten to me, made me feel like I might go insane, isolated in my own head. But the bike gave me a new way to capture sound, so I rode and I listened to the music she made that only I could hear.