Last Mile

She wrinkled her nose. “Considering that you’ll have indoor plumbing, I don’t think it’s really roughing it.”

“Sorry. Just some of the perks of being an officer . . . or being an officer’s brother.”

“Just please tell me there’s a communal bathroom where we can shower?”

Kim appeared at our side. She patted Sam on the back. “Oh, honey, do you think I would be going anywhere there wasn’t a shower?”

“I would hope not,” Samantha replied.

With a grin, Kim said, “Just stick with me. I’ll show you the ropes.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that. Especially since I doubt I’ll be seeing much of Marley this weekend.”

“Yep. Your boy is going to be ridden hard. The only thing you can do to make it easier on him is stay out of the way, get him food and water when he’s allowed, and give him a blow job for moral support.”

While Samantha gave a nervous laugh at Kim’s remark, I didn’t find the images running through my mind very funny. Wanting to put distance between myself and them, I said, “I’ll see you, ladies.”

Kim leaned over to plant a kiss on my cheek. “Bye, sweet thing. If I see any available ass, I’ll send it your way.”

“Thanks, Kim. You know me too well.” When I dared to look at Samantha, I found she was staring down at the ground. I couldn’t help wondering if the idea of me with another woman bothered her. No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than I wanted to kick myself in the balls for being such a bastard. Inwardly, I groaned because I knew it was going to be a long, long weekend.

SEVEN

BISHOP

At the party in the field, I managed not to be alone with Samantha. Although she was on her own with Marley running around for all the guys, she stuck close with Kim and the other women. She seemed to get along well with all the girls, which if Marley did patch in would be in his favor. No man wanted a woman who was trouble with the other club women, because in the end, it caused him too much grief.

I shot the shit with the guys and drank way too much, but I didn’t end up searching out a piece of ass. Instead, I crashed, or maybe passed out, on the floor around five a.m. The next morning had us rising early. I wasn’t sure whose bright idea it was to have the meeting at ten after a night of drinking and partying. Although we were usually quiet when we were hungover, we were especially quiet that morning. I think we all felt the heaviness of the situation pressing down on us. So we slurped down black coffee and tried eating some from the buffet. When it was almost ten, we headed over to the boardroom. Since only presidents and vice presidents were allowed in on the meeting, Rev and Deacon slipped inside while we were to wait to be called in when it came time for our motion to be heard.

As we stood outside the meeting room door, a nervous energy popped and crackled around us. Of course, none of us would have admitted to being nervous. That would have meant we were nothing but a bunch of pussies. Raiders would rather die than show fear. Each of us tried in our own way to mask our anxiety—Boone shuffled the coins in his pocket to the tune of Bonanza while Mac chain-smoked so fast he lit one cigarette off the other. As for me, I walked around the cramped hallway.

“Would you stop pacing?” Mac grunted.

Boone chuckled. “Forget it. B always paces before a fight.”

I gave the two of them a sheepish grin. “I didn’t even realize I was doing it.”

Mac stubbed out another cigarette. “I sure as hell wish this was just a fistfight. Somehow I think we would have better odds than waiting around to chitchat.”

“With you smoking like a fucking chimney, you’d be passed out in the first round,” Boone quipped.

“Shut up, fucker,” Mac snapped before taking another long drag on his cigarette.

As I chuckled, I felt some welcome relief from the tension. Unfortunately, the feeling didn’t last long, because just then one of the Virginia Raiders stuck his head out the door. “All right, boys, you’re up.”

Mac cursed under his breath as he threw his half-smoked cigarette to the floor. After stomping it out, he made the sign of the cross and muttered, “Amen.”

After exchanging a surprised look with me, Boone reached out to stop Mac as he started for the door. “Seriously?” Boone questioned.

“Frankly, we need all the help we can get,” Mac replied matter-of-factly.

“Good to know we’ve got such a good Catholic boy on our side,” Boone mused.

The moment we stepped inside the room, the door closed and locked behind us. Smoke hung heavy along with the smell of stale alcohol and sweaty road-worn men. Around the massive mahogany table sat the presidents and vice presidents for the Southeast states. While we represented the north Georgia chapter, there were also chapters from central and south Georgia as well. Boone, Mac, and I squeezed in to stand behind the chairs where Rev and Deacon sat.

At the head of the table sat the Southeast president, Rory “Rambo” Smithwick. With his long white hair and beard, he could almost pass for Santa Claus—if it weren’t for multicolored ink all over his neck, arms, and chest. We’d never had any issues with Rambo. Back in the day, he and Preacher Man had gotten along really well. Their bond was cemented over the fact that they had both been in the army during Vietnam. Although they were in different units, there was something to be said for a shared experience of being in combat. It made strangers into a band of brothers.

Rambo let his gaze flicker around the table for a moment before clearing his throat. “The next item to discuss is a request by the north Georgia chapter.” He paused almost dramatically. “It is their wish to go legitimate.”