Page 55 of Goose

Goose

The ride north along the 5 out of San Diego was the most relaxing forty minutes I’d ridden since Ghost’s death. Clearly on the road to recovery, I gave thanks for Ally and everything she brought into my life.

After taking the exit at Oceanside’s Mission Ave, the four of us rolled to a stop at the light. Cash and Baker led the way, with Reno and I side by side behind them.

“Gorgeous fucking day,” I said, glancing at Reno. “Feels good to ride.”

“Maybe we can get a few of ‘em to go for a ride after we get done,” he replied.

“I’m doing just fine,” I growled. “I’m not looking to go on a ride with a bunch of fuckers I don’t know.”

“They’re good people.”

I glanced over my shoulder and gave him a look.

He shrugged. “I’m just saying…”

When the light turned, Baker accelerated like he was running from the cops. Cash matched his speed. Reno and I followed close behind. When the leader of a group of Harleys rides hard, everyone follows suit. Something in the male bravado required it.

The sound from our exhaust was deafening. Necks craned. Jogger’s eyes widened.

Four bikers grinned.

One loud Harley makes enough noise to turn heads for a few blocks. Four of them, in unison, made an entirely different sound. Similar to what I expected a Category 5 hurricane or F5 tornado sounded like, we came blazing into Oceanside like we owned the town.

A few moments later, we entered an industrial park. Baker didn’t have to tell me where the clubhouse was. After clearing a left turn, I could see it. Above the garage door of a large metal warehouse, the FFMC logo was clear. Beneath the midday sun, just beside the open garage door, two men dressed in jeans and leather kuttes were leaning against the building drinking bottled beer.

One was a jovial-looking clean-cut giant. I guessed his age at thirty. His muscular biceps were the size of my thighs. He wore an ear-to-ear grin. He looked like he invented the word mischief.

Standing beside him was a rough-looking man in his mid-forties. Covered with tattoos from head to toe, and wearing his salt-and-pepper hair cut short, he could have passed for an escapee from the US Penitentiary at Atwater.

We came to a stop alongside where they stood.

“Park ‘em in the shop,” the tattooed man said, his tone gravely. “It’ll keep anyone from knowing you’re here.”

Engines off, we pushed our motorcycles into the shop, parking alongside what I guessed were their motorcycles.

The jovial giant followed us. After we parked our motorcycles, he faced Reno and opened his arms. “What’s shakin’, motherfucker?”

Reno embraced him and patted him on the back. “Same shit, different day Pee Bee,” he replied. “You’ve met Baker. Want you to meet a few more of the fellas.”

“This is Goose,” Reno said, pointing to me.

I shook the giant’s hand. “Goose. Pleasure.”

“Pee Bee,” he said.

“And this,” Reno said, gesturing to Cash. “Is Cash.”

As they shook hands, I studied the two men. Cash stood an easy six foot four. Pee Bee towered over him by half a head. Grateful that we were on the good side of the Filthy Fuckers MC, I hung my helmet on my handlebars.

“I’m guessin’ you’re the muscle, and he’s the brains,” Pee Bee said, gesturing to Cash, and then to me. He slapped Baker on the arm, nearly sending him reeling to keep his balance. “Just fuckin’ around, Baker. I know you’re the brains of the operation. You guys want a cold one?”

It’s a good rule of thumb when offered a beer from a fellow biker to accept the offer. If declined, it’s often perceived as a pretentious gesture. At minimum, it’s rude.

“Sure,” I said. “Appreciate it.”

Reno, Cash, and Baker agreed. After being treated to a cold bottle of Budweiser, we followed Pee Bee through the garage door and gathered outside along the exterior wall of the building.