A Biker Saga: The Novel

~BOOK ONE~

A

Biker Saga

GGS

The Unthinkable

Chapter 1

Stax was confused. Unable to wrap her mind around the act of making a simple choice, she struggled to stay focused. What was she was trying to accomplish and why did she feel she was running out of time? Oh yeah, clothes! Why couldn't she make a decision on how to dress herself this morning? Horrific images and heart-rending memories bubbled up again as she mentally fought against this new, unacceptable reality.

Today was not supposed to be happening, this was not part of their plans for the future. Feeling as if her heart would implode from the immense weight of unbearable pain, she stared blindly at the two tops laid out on the bed, her mind refusing to cooperate. Blinking back tears, she willed herself to focus.

The first top, a black t-shirt she had cut into a round-neck offered its message on the back, 'Arch Your Back, It Won't Hurt So Much' and the second top, a black spaghetti strap, bore its message on the front, 'I May Be A Bitch, But I'm Not Your Bitch'. In a daze, she took a deep breath and shook herself out of the moment.

For fuck's sake, woman. she muttered, Grab something and move on.

Realizing she was talking to herself, she pushed back at the pain in her heart and pulled the spaghetti-strap over her head. Immediately pulling it off, she allowed it slide to the floor. Back in the closet, she flipped through hangers until she found a sleeveless, black leather lace-up top and put it on.

Whatever. she mumbled ignoring the mirror, Where is my Faith?

Willing herself to focus, she scanned the room for her riding boots, spotting one half-hidden under the bed. She bent down to grab it, but as she stood upright, boot in hand, the excruciating image of a black and chrome '68 Shovelhead stuffed under the tires of an eighteen wheeler popped into her head.

Before fresh tears could wet flushed cheeks, she steeled herself, determined to find the other boot before she lost control of her emotions again. Using her foot, she moved the dirty clothes pile around until she spotted the evasive orange and black sole, peeking out from underneath yesterday's jeans. Grumbling she snatched it up.

There you are! she growled, making her way to the dresser for a pair of socks. Pulling them on, uncharacteristically failing to keep herself in check, she quipped at the boot. Can't ride without you!

As she pulled the first boot on, a fleeting but relative thought flashed through her over-burdened mind. Absently, she pulled her foot back and sat the boot down.

Probably work better if I put my jeans on first!

Back in the closet she grabbed her tightest pair of black jeans from their hanger and pulled them over curvy hips. Zipping up, she threaded a braided leather belt through the loops and clipped on the leash for her lighter. This was one accessory she would go nowhere without, not even a funeral.

Pulling on the second boot she heard a low rumble, the all too familiar sound of thunder in the distance. All her life this sound had excited her, called to her, promised the secrets of life to her. But on this day she would rather have heard anything other than this mournful and rapidly approaching emotional storm.

Grabbing a solid black bandanna, she tied it around her head and slid one silver peace-sign earring and one silver sword into her lobes. Opposite earrings, an extension of her personality as well as her outlook on life. Peace and war, black and white, circle and square. Nothing was ever what one could call even, she had learned that little life-lesson early.

Closing her jewelry box she wondered how she was going to make it through the condolences, the funeral service, and more importantly, the Last Ride.

The thunder was closer now, and so audibly overwhelming it broke into her thoughts. Feeling the vibration as the bikes rolled up, she squared her shoulders, cleared her throat and pasted a half-ass smile on her face. Seconds later the doorbell chimed the tune to her father's favorite biker song. Today that song held more meaning than ever. It would be heard throughout the funeral service and again later, during the private clubhouse ceremony. There was nothing left to do now except force herself to move in the direction of the thunder.

Grabbing her leather jacket off of the bed, she slipped it on as she walked down the hallway and into the foyer. Silently dreading the appearance of what she knew would be a sea of solemn faces etched with disbelief and loss. It was important she appear as her normal, strong self, despite the circumstances that brought them all together this day.

She shivered as she turned the door knob, consciously allowing time to move forward. But as quickly as the door opened an overwhelming urge to slam it shut and delay the inevitable engulfed her. Instinct followed urge and she temporarily lost the battle against reality. Like a scene from a movie, grief forced her mind to shut down as her body collapsed in doorway.

Cradled in the arms of the club's Vice President, Stax came to as he was gently placing her on the sofa.

Strangler? she moaned, disoriented and confused.

I got you. answered the VP, who despite the unique moniker awarded him by the club, was not quite the monster his alias implied.

Water! he bellowed to Tank, the club's Sergeant at Arms. Immediately the SA turned towards the kitchen, obeying the command without question. Turning a concerned face and gentle voice to Stax, the VP did his best to comfort her.

You're fine, my angel. Relax, we blocked their view, your reputation remains intact.

"Thank you.''

You look like hammered shit. he mumbled, bestowing a grateful look on the man who brought what he ordered, Strangler took the glass of water and held it up to pale, quivering lips.

Drink, and I'll take you to the bathroom so you can put some water on your face, and maybe a wee bit of color. Turning to Tank, he ordered, Tell 'em to  dismount, it'll be a minute.

Done. Tank answered, heading towards the door, Whistle if you need me.

A short-tempered, hard-hearted, self-proclaimed asshole, (which no one would dispute) Strangler wore a full back tattoo,,his ancestral castle in Ireland. And he wore with the same pride a soldier would wear his uniform. As for his road name, he not only embraced it, he lived it. More than one man had been snatched by the throat as the snarling biker barked detailed instructions on the proper way to police ones own ignorance. Eventually, he would release his hold, abruptly allowing the startled offender to draw breath. Yet, even as the shamed soul cowered in fear, the outraged biker would expound on how one conducts a conversation while respecting another man's personal space.

Respect and loyalty hadn't always been his way. Raising himself on the streets of Phoenix without benefit of a father had taught him how to survive his youth, and later, the prison time that followed. Now mature, having learned the art of self-control while cultivating something akin to a conscience (with most of the credit going to Stax's father) he had become a man-of-his-word, earning the respect of the club, her father, and Stax herself.

Far-away-look blue eyes, auburn hair, and a full goatee framed the emotion flicking across his face, as she read the grief staring back at her. 

Stay strong, damn you!

Inwardly, she shivered again, wondering how long their combined strength could hold on this most horrid of days. She was about to find out. Even as the thought formed in her mind the inevitable happened. Reality set in.

The jolt was undeniable.

Her response uncharacteristic.

The reality of her loss, unbearable.

Slider is gone... forever... gone!

And it was at that moment she broke. She couldn't regain her composure, couldn't locate her inner strength. It was as if Stax herself just disappeared.

For the first time in his sordid life, the big Irish biker felt helpless. Although he had expected the numbness would eventually wear off, and she would fall apart at some point this day, he was unprepared to witness such absolute agony.

I... want... my... daddy. she bellowed, through hot tears.

Strangler cocked his head. Never once, had he heard her refer to Slider as 'daddy'. Since the day they met she had called him Da, or Slider... but daddy... never! His concern for her emotional stability increased.

Over and over she sobbed those childish words, weeping from a place deep within, a place he could not fathom, a place he could not reach. She cried so long, so hard, that she began to heave, unable to catch her breath, and when she did... when she finally breathed in, the silence was brief.

Suddenly, she emitted such a piercing wail it sent a chill through his heart.

Coming from the woman he shared his life with, this shrill, disconcerting wail was beyond all doubt the most mournful, soul-shattering sound he had ever heard. The octave so shrill... as if... as if... she were somehow channeling... a banshee spirit.

He had no words, lost his wits. Fear for her well-being rose exponentially. Rocking her back and forth, he stroked her back as she continued to wail. He couldn't think, couldn't grasp what was happening. He had only one clear thought... I hope to never want to hear this sound again

She wailed... His chest felt tight, his thoughts were jumbled, confusion set in, and he began to ramble.

They can't start without... hit me if you need... stop... can't do this... Yet the wailing intensified, despite his muttering He could feel her slipping... no... hurling towards some dark emotional abyss.

Mentally and physically weakened now, he tightened his hold, pulling her closer in a desperate attempt to share his strength. He was losing her, angst rising as he fervently rocked her like a child, smoothing her hair, kissing her forehead. Her wails were having a physical affect on him, as if the icy hands of death were squeezing his heart. Breathing became cumbersome, thoughts turned cloudy, he fought to stay coherent, refusing to let her go.

You can't... don't leave me... damn you. Gathering waning strength, he took her face in his hands searching red, empty eyes, Stax,... I... I...  Failing in both strength and the ability to utter words he had never spoken, he pulled her head to his chest and succumbed. Lost in grief, she couldn't hear, nor recognize, his utter desperation as he tried to pull her back from the brink as he slid into darkness.

Unclear as to when her brain first registered the paralyzing fear suddenly gripping her soul, a surreal moment in time seemed to literally be passing through her. She felt sluggish, like she had been drugged.

The clock stopped ticking. A bell rang out.

She felt dazed, absent...  unnatural. In her minds eye, what appeared to be letters formed of flames suddenly flashed a single word.

She could not only see it, she heard it.Macushla!

Alert to the sharp tone of her father's voice, her head snapped upward. Swollen eyes searched Strangler's face. He was ashen, eyes glazed, mouth open. Her hand brushed his. So cold, like a psychic in a trance, she felt his physical distress, his erratic heart rate.

A bell rang out.

She shut her mouth.  

The clock ticked.

Ever so slightly, he gripped her hand. 

Did you feel that? she whispered.

Feel what? he sluggishly moaned.

Something...

You okay? he muttered, eyes still shut.

I... feel...weird.

Are you sure you're okay?

I'm find, are you... okay?

Aye. he replied, slowly opening his eyes, Weary, but I'm good, didn't realize how tired I was.

This never happened.

It's okay to cry, angel.

Not that,... never mind.

What didn't happen?

I've no idea.

What the fuck, Stax? he muttered, sitting up, in control again, Cover your ears, I'll call for Tank, we need to roll out.

Before he could emit his infamously shrill whistle, she covered her ears, turning her head away only to find herself facing an old photograph on the end-table. 

Within the frame, Slider sat on his beloved Shovelhead, boots planted firmly on the ground, one hand on the throttle, the other holding a bottle of expensive Irish whiskey. His impish grin offered her a fleeting moment of relief, a moment she used to gather the strength she would need to move forward.

Forever Family

Chapter 2

Reflecting on the events which totaled up to be the hardest day of her life, Stax sat at the clubhouse bar, bracing herself for what came next. As Tank prepared a double shot of Irish whiskey with a splash of soda (dubbed 'a whiskey-pop' by Slider) inwardly, she winced as he slid the straw into her glass. The fact she used a straw had always irritated her father, he didn't consider it a proper way to drink good whiskey. Normally, she would have felt a wee bit defiant, but not this day, she couldn't even remember getting dressed or leaving the house.

Clubhouse to Stax... you in there, sister?

Interrupted from her thoughts for the umpteenth time today, she looked up to see Tank placing the drink in front of her, concern etched into his features.

Aye brother, I'm here, just feeling... lost.

He nodded, oblivious to what had happened back at the house after he stepped outside. He searched her face for any indication she had reached her limit. If she had one, today would be the day it would show.

It will begin soon, sister. he said softly, You either have to speak again, or you can pass the speech over to Strangler. It's tradition, it has to be done tonight.

After pouring her heart out at the end of the Last Ride, she knew better than to tempt fate with another emotional round. She sucked down her drink, lit a cigarette and waited for him to fetch a shot. Once devoured, she slid off her bar-stool and made her way towards the officer's table.

Sitting with several others, offering another toast to their fallen brother, Strangler slammed down yet another shot. Catching his eye as he surveyed the room, she motioned him over to a quiet corner near the last pool table.

Instinctively, he knew what she needed. It would be hard on his own heart, but he was more than willing to carry this burden for his woman.

I got this. he whispered as he approached, Go to your room, I left a little something on the dresser to help you get through the next few hours. Just tell me where you put the cube, so I can get things moving.

Griff , he's cube-bearer today.

Alone in the her room, standing at the dresser her father had crafted, she shook her head at her unrecognizable reflection. A small, round mirror on top of the dresser waited for her to notice the 'little something' the VP had spoke of. Two fluffy white lines basking in their own reflection beckoned her. Willingly, she picked up the short straw beside them and complied.

The familiar, bitter taste of the drip sliding down the back of her throat produced a comforting, numbing sensation. She dipped her finger in the glass of water beside the mirror and snorted a single drop of water. Clearing her throat, she picked up the hairbrush, numbly wrestling it through thick locks as she stared at the mirror. Her pupils were dilating as the thought formed in her mind.

For an asshole, Strangler can be a very thoughtful man

In the bathroom, she relieved herself of several drinks, washed her hands and reached for the make-up bag. Taking out a blush-brush she went over her eyes and cheeks, added a pat of powder, a fresh coat of lipstick and called it good.

Fucking freckles. she scolded her reflection.

After watching Slider deal with skin cancer for two thirds of her thirty years, she had developed a love-hate relationship with her own freckled, ivory skin. She knew not everyone could grow up to be a model.

Hell, without a beauty crew, special lighting and expensive cameras, models don't look like models either

Consoling herself with a dose of reality, she opened the door of her private room, stepping into the hallway where quiet laughter and Irish music could be heard.

Da should be out there making an arse of himself with his drunken attempts at the River Dance

Stop it! she said aloud, Damn it woman, just put one foot in front of the other and get back in there!

Annoyed with herself, she turned back toward the bar. Slowly scanning the room, she was blindsided by an overwhelming sense of being abandoned. The emotion  intensified causing her heart to skip beats before giving way to several other emotions battling for her attention, all them combined came down to one... concern. Where's Faith

Countless souls arrived early to pay homage to the man who had been much to many. Civilians, never before allowed beyond the front parlor of the clubhouse, if they were allowed inside at all, now found themselves rubbing shoulders with those whom they secretly revered. This night was an unprecedented exception, from the moment the doors opened it was standing room only.

The front parking lot and the back yard were full as well, locals stood on the sidewalk and even across the street, holding their candles in a show of respect and community support. Local clubs had arrived in force. A few club president's who were unable to attend sent their highest officers. Trusted friends and friendly clubs were ushered into the private bar. They wouldn't stop anyone from paying their respects, they just needed more room.

You 'anging in there, lass? Griff asked in a rich brogue, as he walked behind the bar hugging the cube close to his broad chest.

Barely, how about you and Cat?

Taking its toll on us all, macushla. he answered, gently placing the cube on the shelf, The children are devastated.

Stax sat in a unfamiliar daze as he sadly walked away. It was so hard to believe Da wouldn't be here when they moved into their new clubhouse. The two of them had spent so much of her lifetime planning and working on his dream of building a unique, multi-functional clubhouse and living compound.

***Slider***

Slider had served both his homeland and the United States. Eventually, he had turned his back on the wars of men and chosen to enjoy the remainder of his life. He refused to work for the prosperity of others ever again. He wanted no part of government, organized religion, or big business. He recognized the plight of the general population. People allowed themselves to be influenced, controlled, used as cash-cows for the powerful few, and he refused to take part. Years of wars culminating in the unnecessary loss of countless young lives had taken it's toll. Like the other three club originals, he had buried it deep within, changed his direction and started a new life.

I'll not be told what to think, nor will they take another cent of me hard-earned money. Slider would say, I could cook me books 'til they smell like me ol' mum's lamb stew, but I'll not live in such fashion. If they come for me, they come. Of course, they have to find me first, you understand. 'Tis with good reason they call me Slider!

Remaining free to ride, Slider was more than a biker. Riding was his passion, and like many bikers he could be confrontational, but never without good cause. Some called him old school, among other things, but no matter what you thought of him, it was obvious something about Slider was unique. He seemed to have an uncanny way of drawing people into his orbit. People who were able to use the other side of their brain, repelling those who tend to follow blindly. 

He was also a master wood worker, a skill his uncle had taught him in his youth back across the pond. Like so many who come home from war, he had found himself in desperate need of what society could neither offer nor understand. The camaraderie of like minded souls.

It wasn't too long before he formed the motorcycle club. Slider, along with his three military brothers, Griff, Rage and Moby, pooled their resources and purchased a four bedroom fixer-upper on a few acres in sunny Florida. It was there they began their motorcycle club, the GGS MC.

Good Gaelic Souls Motorcycle Club. For them, it was a cash only operation, else they bartered for whatever they needed. Utilizing alternative power sources and fresh spring well water, courtesy of the Florida Aquifer, they grew their gardens and hunted to fill the freezers.

You okay Stax? Tank asked, worried she was too quiet and distant. It was unlike her to be docile and reflective.

Just thinking. I'm good.

It's almost time.

Yes, I know. she mumbled, slipping back into her thoughts.

***Slider's Dream ***

Years later, on a run to Vegas, Slider hit the jackpot on a slot machine. It was only his second day on the strip, but aware of his own gambling issues he wasn't about to give it all back and screw himself out of an opportunity of a lifetime. Mere minutes after receiving his winnings he caught a plane back to Florida, leaving  bike and brothers to await his return.

For years he had wanted a particular piece of land and now it was within his grasp. Although the parcel he fancied had never actually been placed on the market, he had made several attempts to work out a bargain with the stubborn land owner. Taking a cab straight from the airport to the property owners house, cash in hand, he didn't stop negotiating until he had formulated an Irishman's deal. Walking away with a notarized deed for ninety-five acres conveniently connected to the land he already owned, he climbed back into the cab and headed to the airport. 

No time to lose. Slider told his brothers as they rolled out of Vegas, The future will be decided by our dedication to our goal. Think on what plans we've laid and any final revisions we might include. Time is of the essence, I feel it in me soul.

Twice a year the original four would repeat their run to Vegas. And though Slider would never hit a jackpot of such magnitude again, between the four of them they usually managed to return with a fat little bankroll.

Their next big purchase added more real estate, another fifty acres located directly across the county road bordering their land. Building a sawmill, followed by a small cement plant, they soon began construction on a very unique clubhouse. A modernized replica of Slider's ancestral castle back in Ireland.

Hidden deep in biker owned woods, Slider's fortress gradually became reality. The entire club supported his vision and gave one hundred percent of themselves to see it come to fruition. However, there were some who believed the idea of building such a fortress was born of Slider's war-demons. A desperate need to feel secure, to keep his family safely hidden from a world gripped by dark souls. Not one member had ever mustered the balls to question his true motive. It wouldn't have changed anything anyway, they all believed in family, the many virtues of living off the grid, and above all, the need to live free, surrounded by unconditional loyalty and love.

The top floor of the castle was mostly bedrooms, with the exception of the 'Ball Room' (explained much later) complete with a full bar and staging kitchen. Slider  felt it would be the perfect place to hold their club cruinniú (Irish word for meeting, pronounced 'crin-u')  and though he built a magnificent staircase, he had also added a service elevator to connect the kitchens. Knowing it would also be near impossible for an inebriated biker to climb the castle stairs, he had killed two birds with one stone and eliminated the issue with a bit of foresight and modern technology.

Working night and day on a self-sufficient safe haven, designed to keep them prosperous for generations to come, they added buildings and farming necessities. Today, the compound looked like a small farming town, complete with rows of double-wide trailers for those whose only job was developing the property and building the castle. Once completed they would build their individual homes, each taking their leave of this self-absorbed society blinded by distractions and debt.

Snapping back to the present, Stax realized the clubhouse must now be cleared of all non-members in order to get the ceremony under way. Waving across the room she caught the attention of Griff, Moby and Rage, the three remaining Originals. As they began the task of ushering people to the door, Tank walked over to the jukebox and lowered the volume. Selecting an old western tune which advised the listener it was time to hit the trail, he turned and headed for the stage.

That ought to give 'em a clue. he said, winking at Stax as he passed by.

Picking up the microphone, he thanked them all for coming, respectfully requesting all non-family members make their way to the door. This ceremony was for club members only, Slider's family. True family. Those that lived like he lived, thought like he thought, fought like he fought.

Where's Strangler? Stax asked of Moby, as he headed towards the pool room to round up those who sought to stay.

Dunno, lass. Moby replied, in a thick, Irish accent, Wrangling strays would be me first guess.  patting the bulge under his vest he offered a devious smile, Would go much quicker if we were to start a wee stampede.

Several guests were attempting to take advantage of their past dealings with Slider in order to linger, more out of curiosity than love or respect. Stax left it to the guys to sort them out and headed back to her sanctuary.

Back soon, brother. she told Tank, I'll be ready by the time they're all gone.

Opening the door to her room, she solved the mystery as to where Strangler had got off to. He was bent over the little mirror lining up several more reasons for her to go on. Motioning her to join him as he snorted the first line, he offered the straw. Picking up his glass, holding it out for a toast, she took a line and clinked her glass to his.

To Slider! they said, downing their drinks.

He would be pleased to see who came tonight. she murmured.

He would be more pleased to be out riding. Strangler countered, wondering how much more she could take. Although not at all used to handling her with kid-gloves, he would support her in every way until he saw the fire return to those hazel-green eyes and the edge return to her words. His two favorite traits... well, that and her smell, he cherished her scent more than anything.

I can make it quick. he softly offered, We don't have to go by the book tonight.

Stax sighed and looked up, misty eyes filled with brief, but fierce, determination. He knew her answer before she spoke the words.

Da wrote that book. she said quietly, voice breaking into a slight tremble, We will do it right. Slider will get no less than he gave his brothers before him.

Visibly relieved and secretly impressed, a surge of wonder swept through him. She was still in there, somewhere. And he would still be here when she returned, however long it took.

So be it. Anything you need before we go back out?

All good. she squeaked. It was time, it had to be done. Solemnly walking to the closet, she lovingly removed her father's cut from its hanger for the last time.

Strangler followed Stax as she made her way to the bar, hugging Slider's leather vest to her chest. As he took the microphone, she slid onto a stool at the end of the bar. He began speaking of Slider's vision, and why he founded of the club. An Irishman to the core, Slider had been wise, strong, and loved. He had accomplished much in his life and was the cornerstone of all they were. The entire room remained silent, eyes and ears focused on his words. Their grief was palpable, their future uncertain.

Stax was pleased with the respectful, lighthearted way he spoke of her father. On the bagpipes, an age-old Irish tune softly began as he ended his speech. This was was her cue. Standing up she prepared herself for her final part in the ceremony as the tune ended.

Bartender! she cried out as the last note was heard, Slider's glass, full and ready, if you will.

Choking back emotions, Tank reached up on the shelf and pulled down Slider's personally embossed whiskey glass.

One last whiskey-pop for Slider... coming up! he replied, voice wavering, as every soul in the room silently turned to observe the preparation of Slider's last drink.

Who here, believes they have the right to drink from this honorable man's cup? Stax cried out, as Tank set the drink on the bar in front of her.

No soul on earth has earned that right, no matter how much we love them! the club members yelled in unison, Yet still, it is agreed, of such good whiskey there shall be no waste. Give it to his heir!

Stax took her father's last drink off the bar, heart heavy with grief. Slowly, she poured the drink into her own embossed glass and raised it high into the air. With much sorrow, each member raised a glass with hers as they all cried out together.

Know that you are loved my brother, know that you are loved! that being said, they downed their drinks without hesitation.

Bartender! Stax ordered, Seal Slider's glass in the acrylic cube. Set it in a place of honour behind the very bar he built with skillful hands.

Realizing her own hands were shaking she set down the empty glass before anyone had a chance to notice. She needn't have worried though, all eyes were back on Tank as he carefully placed the glass inside the cube which bore a gold name plate. Slider, GGS Founder & President

As he placed it on the center of the shelf directly under the portrait of her father, Stax walked to the officer's table.

VP! she cried out, Which is Slider's chair?

Strangler walked over to the big mahogany chair Slider had made for himself when he first built the clubhouse. Placing his big hands on the backrest, gripping hard to steady emotions within, he answered the call.

Here, this is our founder's chair!

Who here believes they have the right to sit in this honorable man's chair? Stax demanded.

No soul on earth has earned that right, no matter how much we love them! they responded, Yet still, we cannot bare to stare at the empty chair which no longer seats our Slider!

VP! Stax exclaimed, Carry Slider's chair to the fire. None among us can fill his seat.

With Tank's assistance, the heavy chair was hoisted up and slowly carried down the hall, out the back door to the fire pit waiting in the backyard. The entourage followed, watching solemnly as Slider's chair went into the fire. They gathered close, reflecting on their lost loved one as flames licked wood, slowly devouring the sacred seat of their beloved Prez. For long, silent minutes they watched the fire do its work.

Tank, still following tradition, went inside and returned with a fresh drink for Stax and Strangler and a noticeable bulge in his left pocket. Stax briefly allowed him the honour of holding her father's leather while they quickly downed their drinks.

Fighting a personal battle against an instinctive urge to snatch the cut and run, Tank stood his ground. Slider had been like a grandfather to him, he wanted nothing more than to hold on to this precious piece of love and history. Forcing himself to be the man Slider taught him to be, with much love, much respect, and much honor, he handed the treasure back to Slider's true heir.

Choking back the lump rising in her throat, Stax moved closer to the fire, Slider's colors cradled in her arms. Rubbing the leather against her cheek, one last smell and she willed her lips to form the unfathomable words which fate itself dictated must now be spoken.

Who here... believes they have... the right... to wear such an honorable man's colors? she yelled, silence greeting her question. Sniffles were heard and tears were flowing from every eye, but none were capable of verbal response.

Who here believes they have the right to wear this honorable man's colors? she all but screamed, emotions raw and frayed. As several seconds ticked by the cracking of the fire was the only sound heard, until suddenly, the crowd answered as one.

No soul who walks this earth has earned the right to wear our Slider's cut, no matter how much we love them!

I love you real hard, Da. Stax whispered into the leather. And with that, her tears flowed freely as she threw her father's colors into the raging fire.

Tank pulled a bottle of rare Irish Whiskey from his pocket and silently stepped up, pouring liquid amber onto the flames, completing the ceremony.

They gave Stax the space they knew she needed. Not one of those good souls would ever be so disrespectful as to placate her with ignorance. No words would be spoken about Slider being in a better place, or he was watching from above, no childish stories, no outrageous religious offerings would be uttered. Each knew and accepted the truth. Death will come, how or when matters not. What matters is how you live, death is merely the final act of living and the agonizing price of loving.

Wading through a sea of strength and love she knew whatever came next they would all be there for her. Glancing back as she entered the clubhouse she was reminded of the club's motto, taking comfort in the words which explained the very essence of Slider's chosen family.

If you surround yourself with good souls,

You will never be alone,

You will always be loved,

And you can get through anything.

Making her way to her room, Stax sat in the chair by the window and watched the flames lick the darkness. Loving Irish hands had built this chair for her. Trying to light a cigarette, the tears began to flow and she had no choice but to lay it down in the ashtray. Crying until she lost her breath, heaving in grief, the tears flowed on.

Drawing comfort in the knowledge that although her father's colors had been reduced to ashes, she still had possession of his kilt. This she would cherish, and if ever she had a son it would be passed to him.

He isn't coming back, you're alone now

The words ricocheted in her head before exploding into mental anguish as the last several days came crashing down in an emotional avalanche. She couldn't stop the pain, she couldn't stop the mental images and she couldn't possibly see what lay ahead.

Eventually as they always do, the tears slowly subsided. She wasn't scared and she wasn't weak, she was numb. Simply numb. And even though she hadn't slept more than five hours in the last three days, she was wide awake. Craving the mental peace which comes with sleep, she knew she wasn't going to get it.

For fuck's sake. she swore aloud, I don't want to be alone, but I don't want to be around anyone either. What the hell am I supposed to do now? standing up, she began to pace the room, rubbing her hands together, stomping booted feet in anger and frustration.

What comes next? she screamed at the innocent alarm clock on the nightstand, ticking away as if this was an ordinary minute of ordinary day, How do I fill these fucking minutes you keep ticking off? still pacing, she shouted at the relentless rhythm, Unless you can turn back time you worthless piece of shit, shut-the-fuck-up!

And with that, she grabbed the clock and hurled it against the wall. Smashed into several smaller pieces which scattered and fell to the floor, its broken face staring  up at her as if taunting her to do it again. And so she did. She picked up the table lamp and flung it against the wall, followed by the glass ashtray and her empty whiskey glass, all of which fell in shards near the wall from whence they bounced. As a subtle sense of relief spread over her, she felt a strong  need to cleanse herself of the day's events. Rushing to the bathroom she entered the shower with indescribable urgency. 

The back door was locked after she entered the clubhouse, a club prospect posted at the end of the hall. No one would try to get to her, this she knew to be fact. What she didn't know, was that Strangler had posted himself right outside her door, listening for any indication that her ability to cope had suddenly went south.

Once he heard the shower running he went in and cleaned up the mess on the floor. Pouring a fresh drink he set it on the table. Next, he left a joint in an ashtray taken from the dresser, giving it a new home on the bedside table. Lighting the big lavender candle sitting in the middle of the dresser, he pulled clean clothes from the closet and placed them on the bed. Leaving the room with a waste basket full of casualties, he closed the door behind him and went back to the bar, relieved she had made it through this day. She would need time. Burdened with loss, fighting to keep his own emotions under control, he sat down on a stool to wait.

Opening the bathroom door she immediately noticed the burning candle. Glancing around the room she smiled at what Strangler had done. Of course it was Strangler. No one else would have made it down the hall for one, and only someone who knew you intimately would know how to make a smile cross your face at a time like this. Feeling grateful and loved, she realized at that moment she could still feel something other than pain.

Baby steps. she whispered, Heartbeat by heartbeat, minute by minute, hour by hour... I will get through this.

Strangler continued to wait until well after midnight. Most had either dispersed, was in quiet conversation, or wistfully staring at Slider's portrait. His attention was on the three remaining Originals.

Rage, club road captain, was a long legged six-foot-seven Scotsman. In his youth he sported long, shiny black braids. He still wore the same style, but in a distinguished blend of black and gray. His war-chiseled face bore a full mustache and dark green eyes which flickered with an anger from deep within.

Fully sleeved in pin-ups, a Scottish thistle inked on either side of his neck, like most Gales, Rage was a huge flirt. He loved his ol' lady, Dimples, deeply and without question or shame. However, women of all ages openly fought for his attention despite her presence. He enjoyed the attention just as much as Dimples enjoyed publicly poking fun at their efforts.

Moby, club secretary, stood five-eleven and couldn't be more Irish if he tried. His naturally spiraled brown hair also revealed its age. Quite the ladies man himself, he could be a total dick, hence his road-name. To him, every women was a treasure to behold, and he spent his spare time holding as many as would allow. A jovial face with laughing gray eyes and a trickster's smile, showcased both  charm and twisted humour.

His chosen attire was flannel shirts and blue jeans, held up by leather suspenders which read 'Moby' on one strap and 'GGS' on the other. His trademark piece of apparel however, was  a pair of hand-tooled, Kelley-green riding boots. Unless he was sleeping in his own bed, you could put money on the fact those boots were on Moby's feet. His woman, Della, routinely swore he didn't even take them off for sleep or sex.

Griff, club treasurer, stood an even six foot with a grizzly beard and wild, dark hair. Unlike his brother's, he seemed to resist the passing of time at a much slower pace. Although he appeared younger than he was, he had the look of a caged animal, like he might very well just try to eat you alive.

The truth was, generally speaking, one had to push hard before Griff lost his temper, however, once this occurred, there was no turning back... for either of you. Unable to reign himself in once he lost control, his brothers kept a constant vigil to steer trouble away. In fact, the entire club had laid down protocol in the event it ever happened again.

Despite this emotional flaw, Griff was a good man, proud of his duel Scottish/Irish ancestry. His back-piece was of a large griffin, surrounded by Celtic knots. Griff and Cat had no children, but made up for that by being second parents to every child in the club. Their house, basically a day care center for the GGS, was nearly always full, active and loud. It was rare for them to be found alone in their own home, but that's exactly how they liked it.

As Strangler sat listening to the trio reminisce, offering toasts to their fallen brother, he lifted a shot glass just as he spotted Stax coming down the hall. Freshly dressed, towel-dried auburn hair spiraling down her shoulders, he always thought she looked most beautiful at the very times she felt she looked like shit. The relaxed, peaceful look on her face told him she was pleasantly stoned.

Acutely aware of her willful independence, he worried the sudden loss of her father might throw her over the edge. Secretly, but without malice, he had envied the relationship between father and child. She was unique. Intelligent, self-assured, and so much more than any other 'daddy's girl' he had ever known. Wincing inwardly as his own experience in that particular arena came to mind, he knew she would always be Slider's baby girl. Loved, cherished and protected by all, including himself.

Honored to carry on tradition and fulfill his duty as SA, Tank removed himself as temporary bartender after the ceremony. Passing the pleasure of serving over to Slacker, the club's lone prospect. Whose one job was to do whatever was asked of him, at any given time, under any circumstance.

Twenty three year old Slacker, nothing short of a hot mess, became a blubbering idiot when it came to women. He simply didn't know what to say to a female, or worse, how to say it. Needless to say, it wasn't unusual to watch him receive a quick slap in the face, several times in the same week. Long blonde hair and his tattooed forehead seemed to attract women, but then he would open his mouth and interest would dissolve into contempt every time.

For the most part, 'Prospect Slacker' was able to project an even temper. But when the older bikers got bored, they would pick on him for cheap fun and Slacker would explode knowing the raucous laughter which always followed his outburst would shame him into silence.

Not yet in a firm position within the club, he continued to hope someone younger would call him out and give him a chance to prove himself. All things considered, the club could see he had potential, so they kept him on, patiently schooling him in biker protocol, cutting him as much slack as was permissible. Which is how he earned the name Slacker.

Stax walked to the bar and Tank scooted one stool to the left, offering her a seat between the two men who had been her rock for the last several days. Slacker silently mixed her drink and for several moments they sat in silence. Quietly she turned to them one at a time assuring each she was fine.

I'm too awake to go to sleep. she told them, I have no desire to sit here and drink, and no one is in shape to ride. How about we walk out the door and keep walking until we hit water?

Yes! Let's do this. Tank responded, as Strangler pushed his glass away and stood up in support.

Agreed. the big VP added, We'll walk it off.

Mother Ocean

Chapter 3

Two days later Stax woke up.

Disoriented and groggy she tried to focus on where she was and how she got there. It was rather dark but she could tell she was in a motel room. She could smell the salt from the ocean, hear waves breaking and Seagulls crying as they circled the beach in search for their next meal. Still trying to gather her wits, she heard the muffled voices of Tank and Strangler. They were on the other side of the partially open sliding glass door which was hidden by heavy floral curtains made specifically to block out the sunlight. On her way to the bathroom she tried to remember how she got there.

They had walked until she was physically exhausted. Strangler had phoned Rage to come pick them up, and she recalled Tank helping her into the backseat of the pickup. That was all that she could remember. As her new reality came into focus the pain in her heart resurfaced and she understood why Strangler brought her here. He knew what the ocean was to her, it wasn't just a place on the map, it was a frame of mind.

The ocean was both medicinal and spiritual for Stax. Maybe it was because she was a Pisces, born and raised near the sea, or maybe it was her Irish bloodline, either way she was drawn to the water. If she couldn't get to the ocean, a river or lake would do. But it was the ocean where she could work out her issues, regain her strength and heal her soul. Running to the ocean like other women would run to their mother. She told Mother Ocean everything, and then quietly sat down to listen. Never quite sure if her inner-self was working out the issue, or if it was the sea bestowing its age old wisdom, she was always able to work out a way forward. 

Hearing the words to her favorite song clearly in her head, she felt a bit lighthearted. This was her personal anthem, and each time she came here she would walk to the water and sing. Tank and Faith had picked up the tradition years ago and would join her in song whenever they were at the shore together.

Eyes now adjusted, she spotted an empty pizza box and a half empty bottle of Irish whiskey and realized she was ravenous. Fresh clothes laid out on the table made her wonder how they could have gotten there overnight. Stepping out to the patio she was accosted by bright sunlight. Instinctively her eyes squinted as she placed her hand over her brow as if she was giving a sloppy salute to the sun. Bright rays caught red highlights, painting a sensual picture which instantly brought a smile to each man's face.

You know sister...just because I hold the title Sergeant doesn't mean you have to salute me. Tank teased, A simple good morning will suffice. She favored him with a smirk and the good-morning-finger. Strangler watched, gauging her mood.

Morning, baby. she greeted, taking the empty chair.

Rest well?

I think I did. she replied, Last thing I remember was Tank helping me climb into Rage's big-ass truck last night. Did you carry me in?

Not last night, Strangler responded, taking her hand, you've been sleeping for nearly two days.

Oh!...damn. she mumbled, I guess my body needed rest as much as my mind. I don't think I even had one dream. Observing the flash of relief crossing over their faces. she was unwilling to let them off the hook just yet, But there is one issue we have to address right now! she said firmly, before flashing a facetious grin. I'm starving!

In less than ten minutes they were ready and out the door, walking across the street to a breakfast restaurant. I want the buffet. Stax announced, unconcerned with the offerings on the menu. The guys agreed.

Several minutes later, the table was laden with everything they could carry. Bacon, eggs, grits, hash browns, pancakes, biscuits, sausage, waffles, muffins, mushrooms and all kinds of goodies to top it off.

I think I've developed a tapeworm! Stax exclaimed, shoving a mushroom in her mouth, reaching for more bacon.

It's been a minute since you've eaten, I get that, but slow it down woman. Tank  advised, You'll make yourself sick.

Can't! she replied, hand on a fresh biscuit.

A feast for the famished, they ate until they couldn't take in another bite. For the first time in many hard days, they laughed. It started when Stax went to pass the syrup and knocked over what was left of the cheese for her grits. They laughed when Strangler spewed coffee after Tank made a crude remark about the server's big boobs, even harder when they realized she had overheard his lewd comment and was silently giving him the evil eye. Leaving a generous tip, they gathered themselves and walked back out into the salty air.

Beach! Stax declared, and both men quickly nodded their agreement,

We'll stop by the room and grab towels. she added.

Tank would hit the water with her, but Strangler wouldn't. He didn't care for the beach. She was the beach-brat, he was a desert-rat. His geographical passion was the Grand Canyon. His personal pleasure, other than his chopper and matching wits with her, was racing stock cars.

Having never been to the canyon herself, she had listened intently as he described it to her as the most beautiful, awe inspiring place imaginable. She just didn't get it... until he took her to see it.

Understood. she had whispered, staring out at the vast beauty of the canyon, I get it now... this is your ocean.

A long hot walk and a cool dip later, they sat quietly watching sparkling water methodically crash the shore only to be sucked back out to sea. Soaking in the sights, sounds and smells, Stax and Tank bathed in the sun while Strangler tried his utmost to be patient.

Any word from Faith? Stax asked.

Moby has left several messages at every number we have. Tank informed her, He sent out emails, and even sent a telegram to the last address we sent money to, but no response.

I don't want to be the one to tell her. Stax quietly advised, Da meant everything  to her. I just don't think I could take it when she finds out he's gone, and she missed his funeral as well.

Strangler made a mental note to make sure she was not placed in that position. It concerned him to see her submissive and complacent. She should be snarling about Faith's absence. Her road back to normal was going to be long and twisted. She was such a passionate soul. Already, he missed her pushy, flamboyant ways.

I wish she was here. she whispered, I need to see her face.

Faith was her best friend. Most women found Stax to be intimidating, hard to figure out. Like Stax, Faith wasn't your typical female. Not that she didn't have a slight, tendency for the dramatic. Possibly, a flash of over-animation. She was however, a wee bit self-focused, but certainly not selfish, Faith would give you everything she owned, and find a way to give you more, if she thought you needed it or knew it would bring you pleasure.

She never stayed still long enough to become bored, and everyone who knew her was acutely aware that boredom was Faith's Achilles heel.

Let's go shopping! she often, impatiently implored of Stax.

For what? Stax would reply, We don't need anything.

Think of it as a treasure hunt, we could come back with something shiny and new. Something we didn't even know existed!

You're such a magpie, Faith! You know I hate the mall.

Fine. We can hit the antique shops, take a trip back in time.

Stax would usually give in, knowing Faith would turn it into a fun-packed afternoon.

Faith was on the short side of the measuring stick as well. At five-foot-four she was always and often, too happy to remind Stax she was the taller of two. Flipping dark, wavy hair which curled around her butt cheeks, she would stand back-to-back with Stax and brag.

Still taller...always will be.

Eat shit and die. Stax would retort, ticked-off at a fact of life she would never be able to rectify, And please Faith, you have to do something with those knockers damn it. You're gonna put somebody's eye out with those things!

Faith's cleavage would lure men in like a worm baits a fish. Her pretty face, hazel-brown eyes and ever-so-slightly crooked teeth, exuded personality and charm. Sporting wide hips and a nicely rounded ass, she had a quick wit and a quicker temper. Too sweet for words one minute, she could cut you in half with an angry tongue the next.

You need to check that tongue before you go out in public. Stax would tell her, after one of Faith's outbursts.

I've tried, but since it doesn't work for you, what makes you think it'll work for me?

The biggest attraction for Stax was that Faith understood Stax was and what she was about. Stax wasn't a beauty queen, shit, she was barley five-foot-three with perky boobs and a lightly freckled face. A perfect backdrop for bright expressive eyes and pouty lips. Naturally sensual yet not the feminine type, she was automatically accepted by males and usually treated as one of the boys.

Faith had went off to Graphics School, but after her second semester decided to take time off to travel with a friend from her dorm. Strangler's cell phone went off again interrupting her thoughts.

Club business. he explained, I've been summoned.

Is Rage coming to pick us up, right now? she asked as they returned to their room, Or do I have time for a quick shower before I pack?

Rage is coming to pick us up. Strangler answered, pointing to himself and Tank, The room is ours for a few more days and we would like for you to stay and relax, if you're good with that.

I like the thought of staying a minute. I'm just not sure I want to be alone.

Not an issue.. Strangler advised, happy she was going along with their therapy plan, We'll take care of business and be back tomorrow afternoon. Oh yeah, you left the clubhouse without anything, so I had Rage swing by with some personals from your room in the clubhouse. Tank and I picked up a few things while you were sleeping, too. The one thing I didn't think about was cash. Don't give me any shit Stax, just take some money and if you feel you have to you can pay me back when you get home.

Stax watched as he opened the fat leather wallet, involuntarily shaking her head as he counted out three one hundred dollar bills. Tank noticed her reaction and tried to stifle her protests.

Damn it Stax, you have to eat and you're definitely going to run out of cigarettes so take it! You can't come to the beach without hitting the shell shops and the liquor store doesn't hand out free fucking whiskey just because your Irish!

You're right. she conceded, as the SA pointed to the dwindling bottle, Thanks for having my back. I love you both, real hard.

Rage honked his horn outside and Tank excused himself to  the head on the way out. Shortly after they left, she went to shower off the sand only to discover the garden tub had been surrounded by candles waiting to be lit. A joint lay in the ashtray on the back of the toilet, a small disc player was loaded with tropical music and a bottle of lavender bubble bath sat in the middle of the dry tub. The note on the bottle read, 'Just add water' written in Tank's hand writing.

Damn, they're good, now all I need is a drink and a soak

She grabbed the little bucket left by housekeeping, grateful for the small complimentary cups, and made a dash to the ice machine. Several minutes later, the tub was filling with the hottest water she could stand. When the bubbles lurked dangerously towards the edge she refilled her cup and shed her still damp clothing. Relaxed beyond measure she recalled how gentle Strangler had been these last days. It was out of character and she smiled recalling their last heated conversation before he rolled out on a run up north at Slider's insistence.

Keep it warm baby, I'll be back in a few days.

Tell Da to get someone else, we're fishing this weekend.

Can't, pressing club business.

Can't or won't, asshole?

No choice. Why the attitude, you on the rag?

If you had come over last night you wouldn't have to ask.

Fucking bitch. he snarled.

Bitch fucker. she retorted.

Who pissed in your ale this morning?

You! We've been planning this for weeks. I've already paid for the charter, damn it, just tell him no.

I can't fix this one Stax. Slider needs me out front on this run. It's that important, and as far as last night goes you know I was dealing with him all night.

Whatever!

I don't know what your problem is but get over it.

Over what, trying to have a life?

I thought the club was your life.

Of course it is, but it won't fall down if we go fishing! What is it that's so damn important all of the sudden?

Ask your father.

I'm asking you.

I'm not at liberty to say.

Since when?

Since now. Just let it go, I'll make it up to you.

I don't do errand boys.

Stop this shit now damn it, before I lose it and fuck you up.

Start fucking, asshole!

What in the name of Satan's palace are you two pissing and moaning about out here? Slider had demanded, as he walked outside