Page 85 of Baker

I mustered the energy to stand. As he pulled the door open, I wiped my eyes with the tips of my fingers. “Thanks, Mort.”

“See ya, Kid.”

THIRTY-SIX - Baker

I preferred to be in the know. As the MC spent our scheduled afternoon at the firing range, I was not knowing a hell of a lot more than I wanted to be. Sadly, there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about any of it.

Not knowing who may have planted a wiretap in my house gnawed at my nerves. Not knowing what they were hoping to gain through their surveillance was equally unnerving. The real kick in the nuts, however, was not knowing where I stood with Andy. It only took that sliver of uncertainty for me to realize she meant more to me than I had previously been willing to admit.

I took aim, exhaled half the breath from my lungs, and fired three rounds as fast as I could. Then, three more. Three more. Three more. Three more. After two more, the slide locked open, indicating the weapon was empty. The entire process took roughly five seconds.

I reeled the target in and inspected it. The seventeen rounds I’d fired were all in the silhouette’s chest, and could have been easily covered with the palm of my hand.

Ghost tapped me on the shoulder. I repositioned the left side of my earmuffs away from my ear. “What?”

“Jesus, Bake,” he said. “Pissed off?”

“Nope. Just giving everyone something to strive for.”

I was the second-best shot of the MC. Cash, much to everyone’s surprise, was the most accurate with a handgun. It was surprising considering Reno’s military experience and Goose’s love for weapons.

Cash peered over my shoulder and scoffed. “Looks like One-eyed Pete shot that motherfucker. With his glass eye.”

“Fuck you. Let’s see yours.”

He pulled a target out of the lane beside me and unfolded it. “Have a look at this. I’m keeping it. Gonna put the fucker up in the elevator.”

The silhouette had two bullet holes for eyes, two more nose holes, and a series of holes that formed the mouth. A perfect smiley face if there ever was one.

“A smiley face?”

“I’m gonna start doing characters. Rabbits, snakes, and birds and shit. Maybe dogs and fucking cats. Kind of like that creepy assed clown at Mission Beach, only not with balloons. With bullets.”

“A creepy assed clown and a creepy assed biker,” I said. “You too would make one hell of a team.”

He folded the target and tucked it under his arm. “Fuck you.”

We’d been there for half the day, and still had our weekly meeting to attend. After surveying the lanes, discussing recently purchased weapons, and sharing our targets with one another, we rode to the clubhouse.

The ride was somber, at least for me. Cash could sense that something was off, so he didn’t try to goad me into a street race. By seven o’ clock the meeting was over, and I retired into the comfort of my bed.

I hadn’t been to bed that early since I shot Mister Walzer’s cat with my B.B. gun, and was forced to go to bed without supper as punishment. I rolled to my side and let the music play without taking the time to actually listen to it.

No differently than I had on the two previous nights, I eventually reached for the pillow Andy had used. I pulled it against my face, closed my eyes, and inhaled a slow breath.

Chaunce.

Mentally, I drifted away. My decision to tell Andy that I was an outlaw was the right one, I was sure of it. Believing it didn’t make accepting her absence any easier. If anything, I questioned my reasons behind the justification for the crimes I committed.

As I second-guessed my theories, there was a ticking sound from the living room. A few seconds later, there was another. I rolled off the edge of the bed, grabbed my pistol from the top of the nightstand, and crept into the dimly lit living room.

The metallic tick came again, from the living room window. I lowered myself to my hands and knees, crawled toward the window, and waited. The streetlights cast an eerie glow into the room.

Tick.

I slipped my finger against the trigger guard.

A minute later, another tick.