Page 7 of Thug

“We’re roastin’ a hog over an open fire this evening, at sunset,” he said. “You’re more than welcome to stop by. Contrary to what these simpleminded dimwits around here might say, your father was a damned good man. Helped me mend my fence after a truckload of drunken high school kids mashed half a mile of it in ’74. That’s how we met. After that, we became friends. As friendly as two outlaws could be, anyway.”

My father, like me, didn’t have friends in a common sense. The only men he trusted were those in his close-knit group. By definition, and by my father’s own admittance, they were outlaws. I couldn’t help but wonder just who Cactus Jack was. My curiosity, however, wasn’t so great that I wanted to sit down to a meal with him and his friends. Nevertheless, being respectful to an elderly man—especially one who claimed to be an outlaw—was a different matter altogether.

“I appreciate it,” I replied. “I’ll see.”

“I’ll see is a polite way of saying no.” He chuckled. “I won’t bother making room for you at the table.”

Cactus Jack was nobody’s fool.

“I’ve got plans,” I explained. “The fellas and I are going out for a few beers.”

He climbed into the truck and draped his frail left arm out the window. “If you’re like your father, I’m guessing a few beers with the fellas is a normal night.”

“It’ll be far from normal,” I explained. “We’re headed to a new bar up north. It’s not part of my normal Thursday routine. I’m a creature of habit. I don’t like making changes.”

He chuckled. “If nobody’s told you, you act just like your father, too. Getting him to change was like pullin’ teeth.”

I patted the palm of my hand against the cab of the old truck. “You better get those donuts home before your friends wake up and call the cops.”

“Fit me into your routine some night,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I’ll tell you some stories.”

I grinned a shallow smile. “I might just do that.”

I turned toward the clubhouse knowing that would likely be the last time I’d ever see Cactus Jack.

3

Gray

The light fixtures shook so violently I feared they’d come crashing to the floor. Beer bottles in the storage room rattled. The floor beneath me quaked.

My muscles tensed. Living close to the US-Mexico border, I’d seen many news segments of the DEA converging on the drug cartel with massive helicopters and house-crushing personnel carriers filled with gun-toting government agents. Fearing some sort of tactical mission was underway, I cautiously crept toward the front door.

The thundering noise worsened. Beyond the bar’s confines, muffled voices barked indiscernible commands. Filled with equal parts fear and curiosity, I stood within inches of the door, wondering what was on the other side of the windowless wall. My throat tightened.

I drew a breath, paused, and reached for the handle.

The door burst open without warning, nearly knocking me over in the process. Stumbling to maintain my footing, I gazed through the sunlit opening.

My squinting eyes struggled to process what I was seeing. In no way was it what I expected.

Motorcycles—and the men who rode them—were everywhere. Not one or two, or even a dozen. An entire ocean of chrome, glistening paint, black leather, tanned skin, and tattoos went beyond the limit of my parking lot, spilling out to within inches of the access road that paralleled the highway.

Some men were dismounting their iron steeds, while others grinned and revved their engines in a voiceless argument to find out whose eardrum-rupturing exhaust was the loudest.

The throaty sound from the numerous V-Twin engines caused the air to pulse. The hair on my neck stood on end. I scanned the horizon. It was an all-you-can-eat buffet of my favorite meal.

My hungry heart faltered.

The man in the doorway stepped out of the sunlight and into the bar. Slightly shorter than average and rather muscular, his skin was bronze and glowed like gold. A slight growth of beard covered his strong jawline. He pulled off his sunglasses and commenced to undress me with his eyes. “How’s it goin’?”

My lips parted, but I couldn’t formulate a response. Instead, I offered him a mental curtsy and a surprised look. Feeling like a tongue-tied fool, I stood with my mouth open and my mind racing.

While the handsome biker admired me with lustful eyes, a large silhouette stepped through the blinding sun and into the bar.

“Step aside, Carp,” the muscular giant growled. He nudged the handsome biker to the side. “Age before beauty.”

It was Brisco. He peeled off his sunglasses, scanned the area, and then looked right at me. “You ready to be invaded?”