Page 4 of Axle's Angel
Axle
Iwas twenty-four and working construction in North Dakota when I met Solomon Zucca. He was the same age as me, but we were total opposites. I was quiet, blonde, around six foot with blue eyes. Often referred to as the boy next door in looks.
He was dark. Dark hair, beard, eyes, covered in tattoos, and the life and soul of a party. He was also a huge nerd, and a massive Star Wars fan.
The day that changed our lives began the night he burst excitedly into the apartment we were subletting with a few other guys and persuaded me to prospect with him for the Saint’s Outlaws Motorcycle Club.
I’d been sceptical at first, but what did I have to lose? The girl I wanted to spend my life with was in the wind, and I had no wayof finding her. I had no family left to speak of, and I was tired of travelling around the country working odd jobs. I wanted to settle somewhere, and the Dakotas was as good a place as any.
Turned out to be the best decision I’d ever made. I loved being a brother, and that’s where I made my home.
I got the club name Axle when I was a prospect, working in the garage. It wasn’t for any particular reason—I just had an affinity for anything with an engine. Cars, bikes, trucks—it didn’t matter. If it ran, I was happy to tear it apart and put it back together.
I was twenty-eight when I was made manager of the garage, and that’s where I stayed. I was considered one of the older members of the club, even though at forty-six I didn’t feel all that old. But when your president is still in his thirties, I guess anyone over forty is considered ‘old.’
I was never one who wanted to climb the ranks. I was content being a member, surrounded by my brothers and their families. The club wasn’t just a patch on my back—it was my life, my home. I had nothing else.
Out of all my brothers, I was still closest to Solomon, who as a prospect had been given the name Roman. His mother was from the Philippines and his father was Italian. His name used to bother him and he’d never said why. Not that the name bothered him anymore—hell, I think he’d grown into it and even liked it now.
When the club offered us the chance to build on their land, we took it without hesitation. Having a house on club property just made sense. It kept us close to the people who mattered most, and for guys like us with no families or the prospect of one, that kind of closeness was something we needed. It kept us sane.
Our club wasn’t like many of the other clubs. We had money, and by that I meant we had a lot. Legal money that is.
Maverick, our Pres’s family owned a fair amount of land that they’d used to ranch, but his grandfather had found oil on it. This meant that his family was wealthy.
That being said, his family was also wild, and owning legitimate businesses didn’t cut it for them. I guess once an outlaw, always an outlaw.
His grandfather had been part of a small motorcycle club that he’d started with a few of his military brothers after Vietnam.
They’d been a small one percent club, and when Maverick's father had taken over as President, he’d been the one to patch us over to the Saint’s Outlaws. We’d grown over the years, and while we still had our finger in many legitimate businesses in Stonepoint including the garage I ran, it was our less than legal businesses that kept the brothers flush with cash.
A gnat couldn’t fart in Stonepoint without us knowing about it. It was our town. Owned by us and run by us.
On the outskirts of the town, we’d built a casino and hotel. While on the surface this was a legitimate business, we used it to launder money for a fee. We'd funded the casino to get it built on tribal land, but on paper, it was owned by Carnage, our Sergeant at Arms, who was also a member of the reservation.
The only business that we had that nobody but brothers knew about was run by Spook, our VP.
Ex-CIA, although that was kept under the radar. Only brothers knew what he’d been doing when he wasn’t home. He was a local boy and best friend to our president, Maverick.
Guns for hire wasn’t something we advertised, and we didn’t take all the jobs that came our way, only the ones that we knew needed to be done. Mostly the brothers were kept out of it unless there was a danger to the club. Since that had only happened once when a cartel boss had been taken out, we sometimes forgot about that particular business.
Spook had prospected with the club and been a full brother when he’d been headhunted. It always surprised me that the alphabet agencies didn’t seem to care that he was part of a one-percenter motorcycle club.
We were used to him disappearing for months at a time and hadn’t known he was seeing anyone. Not until a woman had arrived at our clubhouse one day and handed over two car seats to Maverick with a note for Luca Read and forms signing over his sons to him. They’d been six weeks old.
Hats off to him, he’d done what he’d had to and somehow extracted himself from the CIA and come home to be a father. Taking his place as VP. The boys were now two, and hell on wheels running around the clubhouse. I guess being brought up by a bunch of men that didn’t know any better would do that.
***
I’m broken from my memories when Roman connects with me over our Bluetooth. “Are you ready to stop for something to eat?”
Now that he’s mentioned stopping, I realise I’m starving. “Yeah, the diner’s up ahead. We’ll stop there.”
The two of us had taken a day off to go for a ride. It was something we did every now and then. If there was anything I loved more than dismantling a bike, it was riding it. It gave me time to think, or as today went… take a trip down memory lane.
We slow down as we enter the town an hour from Stonepoint, and park in front of the diner. Removing our helmets, we look around. We’ve been to this town a few times and never had any problems, but that didn’t mean we wouldn’t keep an eye out.
“Looks okay,” Roman mutters, swinging a leg over his ride. He stretches, and I grimace when I hear his back crack.
