Page 14 of Always My Fate

Blackie wiped the blood from his hands, eyes never leaving the man on the floor. “Nah. Drag his sorry ass out. Tell everybody watchin’ this that the next one who comes at me gets a bullet instead of a beatin’. I didn’t fight my way back to this club to watch it die from the inside.”

Oaky, arms crossed near the bar, gave a slow nod. The respect in his eyes was new—and had been hard-won.

Slate, visiting from out of town, let out a low whistle. “Cold son of a bitch. I like it.”

Blackie had felt the weight of every stare from that room so many years in the past. He’d been hella younger then, meaner, carrying the ghosts of being apart from the woman he loved.

That night, after they’d dumped the challenger on the side of the road with a warning, Blackie stood alone at the head of the table. The gavel was heavy in his hand.

“I ain’t your friend,” he told the assembled patches, voice raw. “I’m your goddamn president. We ride together, we bleed together, and we sure as shit don’t turn on each other. Any man here who can’t live with that can hand in his cut right now. Otherwise, shut the fuck up and get in line.”

Silence had fallen. Then, one by one, the brothers slammed fists on the table. Respect wasn’t given—it was taken with blood, sweat, and unrelenting will. He’d earned it the hard way, same as he’d earned his way back to Peaches’ arms.

***

Blackie blinked, pulling himself out of the memory as he stood in the quiet office. His hands were no longer split and bloody, but the same fire still burned in his chest.

Those early days had forged him into the president he was now. The club had grown stronger because he’d refused to bend. And he’d be damned if he let the MDMC ghosts undo any-fuckin’-thing he’d built.

He flexed his scarred knuckles once, then headed back towards the bedroom where Lottie and their growing family waited. The past had taught him how to fight.

The present was just another fight worth winning.

***

Roscoe

The by-the-hour motel on the south side of town smelled like bleach that had lost a fight with stale cum and cigarette smoke. Roscoe sat on the edge of the wobbly table, one boot planted on the threadbare carpet, watching Ruiz lean against the dresser like he owned the place. The man still wore MDMC colors, faded but defiant, and his eyes had the flat, calculating look of someone who’d survived more than one war.

“Pot and guns,” Roscoe said, voice low. “That’s what the Freed Riders have locked down tight. Blackie’s crew moves product clean. No people. Never people. My brother’s got his precious lines in the sand.”

Ruiz snorted, arms crossed. “And you think we can slide in on the edges? Skim a little here, a little there, without him noticing?”

Roscoe’s mouth twisted. “I’m not talking about stepping on his dick. Not yet. We run parallel—small loads, routes that don’t cross his main arteries. Pot runs pay steady. Guns pay better if you’re careful. I know his patterns. I know his scouts. I know when he’s got a soft spot and when he’s looking the other way.”

Ruiz studied him for a long beat, jaw working like he was chewing on a mouthful of sour. “You talk a good game, Roscoe. But Blackie’s built that club into something solid. Men like him don’t let territory bleed easy.” He shrugged, not quite convinced. “Still...you probably know him better than anybody. Blood don’t lie.”

“Blood’s the only thing that don’t lie,” Roscoe muttered. The words tasted like rust. He pushed off the table, already done with the conversation. “Set up a test run. Small. Quiet. I’ll feed you the windows. We make money. Blackie stays happy enough. For now.”

Ruiz gave a noncommittal grunt, pushed off the dresser, and headed for the door. “I’ll consider it. Watch your back, hermano. Your brother’s got eyes everywhere.”

The door clicked shut behind him. Roscoe stood in the shitty yellow light for a moment, then crossed to the nightstand. He shook a cigarette from the pack, lit it with a flick of his lighter, and moved to the window. The glass was streaked with years of neglect. Outside, the parking lot glowed under a flickering sodium lamp—empty except for a couple of rusted-out cars and a hooker arguing with her pimp two doors down.

Behind him, the woman on the bed made a soft, wet sound. Still breathing. Barely. Her face was a ruin of purple and red, one eye swollen shut, lips split. She’d had opinions. Loud ones. Roscoe took a long drag, letting the smoke curl out through his nose as he stared at nothing. He’d eventually convinced her that her thoughts didn’t matter for shit in his world.

Blackie thinks he’s better than this. Believes he’s too good to run with the likes of me. The fury simmered low and constant, all that emotion and hatred banked but never gone. One day he’ll learn different.

He finished the cigarette down to the filter, crushed it out on the windowsill, and turned. His knuckles were raw, blood dried in the deep wrinkles and under the nails in dark crescents. Methodically, he stripped—cut, leather, boots, jeans—each piece folded or dropped with deliberate calm. The woman didn’t stir when the mattress dipped under his weight.

***

Blackie

Blackie’s phone rang again before he even made it back to the bedroom. He answered with a snarl. “What is it now?”

“Prez.” Duane’s voice came through tight. “Got a situation at the edge of town. Local crew—some meth-heads who used to run with MDMC hangarounds—decided to set up shop on our turf. They’re shakin’ down one of the businesses that pays protection. Oaky’s already there with a couple prospects, but it’s gettin’ ugly fast.”

“The fuck they think they’re doing?” Blackie growled, already moving. “I’m on my way. Keep the conflict contained.”