Page 26 of Pride

He leaned over the handrail. “Write up a contract for a million three-fifty,” he said. “I won’t accept a counter offer, and they’ll pay one hundred percent of closing. If they’ll do it, I’ll pay cash. If they won’t, I’ll go elsewhere.”

She looked up. “That’s going to be close. It’s a foreclosure, so they might--”

In mid-sentence, she paused. A thunderous roar from outside grew louder and louder. In a few seconds, the walls began to shake.

“What is that?” I asked.

“That,” she said in an elevated voice. “Is precisely why this home hasn’t sold. I’m sorry, I should have said something.”

“What is it?” I asked.

Fisher tugged on my hand. “Motorcycles.”

We rushed down the stairs and to the front door. Upon opening it, the source of the commotion was apparent. The street was now lined with motorcycles, side-by-side, for as far as I could see.

The rumble from the exhaust was breathtaking. I could see where many would find it repulsive, but I wasn’t one of them. I saw it as a reminder of the freedom I felt on the open road.

One by one, the motorcycles pulled up to he home next door.

We stepped off the porch and stared in awe of what we saw. Each of the men wore a leather vest. As they came to a stop at the end of the driveway, I noticed their vests were marked with the name of their club, and I grinned.

“Filthy Fuckers,” I whispered. “Look. It says it on the back of their vests.”

Fisher nodded. “Filthy Fuckers MC. They were here when I left for Iraq. Rumor has it that a Navy SEAL is the president.”

“Really? You know these guys?”

“Don’t know them. Know of them.”

“Oh.”

One of the men took off his helmet, hung it one his handlebars, and then began to saunter in our direction. He was covered in tattoos from his fingertips to his neck, and his chest was just as broad as Fisher’s.

I swallowed heavily. “He’s coming this way,” I whispered.

Fisher tugged on my hand. “Come on.”

We walked toward him and met in the center of the lawn.

“Sorry for the commotion,” the man said. “We’re having a barbeque. Do it once a week.”

“No problem,” Fisher said. “We were just looking at buying this place.”

The man extended his hand. “Name’s Crip. I’m the president of this rag tag bunch.”

Fisher shook his hand. “I used to see you guys here and there when I was in infantry training.”

“Marine?”

Fisher nodded. “Not any longer. Long story.”

Crip chuckled. “I was a SEAL. It’s probably a longer story.” He gestured toward Fisher’s motorcycle. “That your sled?”

“Bought it a few weeks ago. As soon as I got out of the joint.”

Crip crossed his arms and looked Fisher up and down. “So, you don’t play well with others?”

“Depends,” Fisher said.