Page 23 of Diesel's Perseverance
“Is this fucker still in Denver?”
“I’m not sure. So far, I’m not getting shit on Cano’s whereabouts. I’ll keep digging.”
“I’m coming to Denver in a couple of days. I’ll let you know when I hit the city. I’ll bring you some good stash and some dough. I appreciate your help.”
“No worries, bro. I know you’d do the same for me. Have you heard from Freddy?”
“No, but his girlfriend did. Seems like he’s doing okay, but I still don’t know where the hell he is. He could be in Denver hiding out.”
“Or in Hayes.”
“Nah, he wouldn’t go there. That’d be the first place they’d look for him.”
“You’re right. I’ll keep sending out feelers. I hope to know more when you get here.”
“Thanks, man. I owe you.”
“Hang tight, dude.”
Diesel stared at the blank screen long after their phone call finished. A multitude of emotions churned inside him: rage, unease, guilt, and confusion.Why didn’t Freddy come to me for help?Maybe it was because Diesel pushed him away for most of their lives. When Freddy wanted to follow in his footsteps and prospect for the Insurgents, he talked his brother out of it. It wasn’t out of malice but because he knew Freddy wouldn’t make it through a week as a prospect. The thought that Freddy was trying to show Diesel he could make it big on his own and be a badass kept looping through his mind.I should’ve talked to him more, told him what was up in the world.
“Ah hell,” he muttered under his breath. He pushed away from the counter and walked out of the bathroom.
Diesel pulled out a blanket, sheets, and a pillow from the closet’s top shelf and placed them on the couch. He grabbed a pair of sweatpants from the dresser drawer. After stripping down to his boxers, he slipped on the sweats and lay on the sofa. He punched the pillow a few times, then glanced over at the bed. Even with the covers over her, Diesel still saw the shapely outline of her figure. Memories of their letter-writing days ribboned through his head as he watched her chest rise and fall with her soft breathing.
When Myla first wrote to him, he thought it was a joke, so he ignored the letters. Then, when he’d spoken to Freddy, his brother told him Myla had read that the two worst things about prison life were boredom and loneliness. Diesel agreed with the boredom and figured that was why he kept starting fights, but he never thought he was lonely. His brother urged him to respond to Myla as a favor to him, so Diesel answered back. At first, he sent back two or three short sentences, but the replies got longer as the letters kept coming. Before he knew it, Diesel was looking forward to the mail. Whenever he’d see a lavender or yellow envelope, a sliver of excitement ran through him. Of course, he’d never admit that toanyone. Over many months and tons of letters, Myla held a special spot in his life. After serving his full prison term—since all good behavior credits had been eaten up by his fighting, stubbornness to authority, and “general bad attitude,” as the warden had stated on Diesel’s prison papers—he ended up doing a year of parole, which had ended three months ago.
At first, Diesel missed the connection he’d made with Myla during his prison stint. Still, as he got back into the swing of club business and running the car wash with Wheelie, his letter-writing relationship had been relegated to a distant memory.
Freddy had begun to call him less frequently, and whenever Diesel asked about Myla, his brother seemed to resent it, so he stopped asking.
A pang of guilt twisted his gut. He should’ve called Freddy more, especially when his little brother stopped reaching out to him. If he was being honest, he’d sensed that something wasn’t right with Freddy, but he’d been too busy with the club and his car business to deal with it. And now Freddy had killed someone and was in hiding.Fuck.
Myla’s soft moans interrupted the thoughts swirling in his head. The blanket and sheet had slipped down her left shoulder to the top swell of her breasts. The image of her hit him right in the groin, and his dick twitched. Punching the pillow, he turned away and faced the back of the couch. He told his body to stand the hell down, then began listing Harley Davidson models from 1948 onward in his mind. When he hit 1961, sleep overtook him.
***
Diesel gave theMC president a chin lift, then slid into a folding chair. Throttle took the seat to his right, and Smokey plopped down on his left.
“Any news on your brother?” Smokey asked.
“Some, but nothing that tells me where he’s at.”
“Hawk talked to Banger about the club helping out. I’m down with going to Denver with—”
Banger’s gavel hitting the wood block stopped all conversations and marked the beginning of church. Hawk sat at the front of the massive table with Hubcap, the treasurer, and Buffalo, the secretary. Rock, the sergeant-at-arms, stood at the back of the room. As road captain, Throttle only sat up front if a rally, road trip, or run was planned. A couple of Insurgents from the San Diego Chapter—Demon and Iceman—were also at church, which piqued the curiosity of Diesel and his fellow brothers.
“Our San Diego brothers, Panther and Jagged, are asking for our help.” Banger jerked his head in the direction of Demon and Iceman. “Two brothers are here to tell us what’s been happening with their club. We’ll hear them out, then”—he sat down in a wooden chair—“they’ll leave the room while we discuss the situation.”
Demon stood up and cleared his throat. “As your prez said, our prez and VP reached out because we got some shit going down back home. We’re being undercut in the distribution of weed and metal. We’ve been aced out on some major deals in the last eight months. Panther and Jagged thought it was a random thing at first. They had Termite, Iceman, and me put the feelers out.” Demon paused and took a big gulp of water.
“And it wasn’t,” Diesel said.
Nodding his head, Demon said, “No fucking way. We found out the local East Bay Dogs are helping the fucking Grim Henchman to undermine our deals. It goes beyond the clubs, though. Some gangsters out of LA are involved too.”
Diesel’s ear pricked up when he heard the word “gangsters.”
“Have you reached out to the Angry Disciples?” Throttle asked.
