Page 86 of Road to Absolution

I huffed. “Talk about barking up the wrong tree.”

I guess I ordered a round of laughter because that’s what I got.

Not surprised at my reaction, Tucker thumbed over to the bar. “Have you met these creepy old bikers?’

“Hey!” they all complained.

Waltzing over to them, Tuck grabbed one’s shoulders from behind and shook him. “These bastards are retired members. Still part of the club, but not required to do shit other than drink all the whiskey.”

Seeming mighty pleased with the arrangement of ‘honorary’ members, they lifted shots into the air and swallowed them down.

Somehow, through their wrinkles and knowing eyes, I felt some comfort. Now learning how ugly life could be at times, I just knew these men had to have had glimpses of Hell. “Nice to meet you, guys.”

The one who looked to be the eldest of them all—and days away from a retirement home, told me, “We loved watchin’ ya in the ring, Pup.”

My heart pinged. “Thank you, sir.”

A different old coot snickered. “You sure made us lots of money.”

The one whose shoulder Tuck was still holding said, “I used to box back in the Navy.”

“Really?” I asked. Sad, but I was actually slightly enthused. Deep down, I was hoping he had a tragic tale as to why he had to stop boxing. Just maybe I could relate to him. Maybe I had found someone who could understand my anguish over being robbed of my passion.

“That’s right,” the boxer added. “Once I got too old—”

“That was a hundred years ago,” teased Tuck.

The old man backhanded him from over his shoulder. “As I was sayin’, once I got too old, I started coaching. Ever think of doing that?”

“Oh.” I was now facing a man who had lived a full boxing career. He wasn’t bitter. He had accepted his next stage in the sport because he hadn’t been robbed of a damn thing. Not sure how to handle the quiver of loneliness, I scratched at my short beard. “Uhhhh.”

“Meh,” he casually said, “maybe a conversation for a different day.”

Or never. Never would be good for me. “Yeah, sure.”

My stomach turned and the ants under my skin began to stir. I was just about to excuse myself for some fresh air, but from his barstool, Chains quietly warned, “Incoming.” He was studying a bunch of monitors on the wall behind the bar that encased all the liquor bottles. On the screens, there was a Ryder member entering the building.

I assumed he was bringing bad news because Diesel quietly replied, “Unavoidable,” then told someone, “Sugar, can you get us another round of whiskey?”

A young woman I hadn’t even noticed said, “Sure thing, Prez.”

Observing Tuck, staring at the end of the hallway from which this man would soon appear, clapping and rubbing his hands together, I asked, “What the Hell you so giddy about?”

“Just that someone who actually deserves your shitty mood is about to get a truck load.”

Diesel warned, “Little Man, stay out of it.”

The man on the monitor now rounded the corner, took one glance at me, and stopped dead in his tracks.

Mother-fucking-Art.

Needing someone to explain what I was seeing, I bitched at Scorch, “He ain’t no creepy old biker.”

“Hey!” again bitched the old bikers at the bar.

Scorch took a shot. “I didn’t say it was true.”

I grumbled, “Noted, assmunch.”