Page 1 of The Chase

Colt Kincade was pretty fucking pleased with himself. Release day. Finally, after five years, five lonely, tedious years. Watching his back, playing the game, biding his time. And now, he was free.

“Kincade, time to go,” the guard said to him, collecting him from his cell.

Colt stood and walked out of that little concrete box without a backward glance. In truth, he wanted to bolt out, he wanted to scramble out as fast as he could and puke with relief as soon as he made it out. He didn’t do that, though. He kept his cool, just like he’d done over the last five years. He kept his face passive and his body neutral, ever ready, and he strode out as if he couldn’t care less. He cared very much. His muscles strained from the effort of it. But he’d made it, finally.

He was walked to the processing area and given back his old clothes. He shrugged into his leather vest, complete with sewn on tags that denoted his position and the name of his motorcycle club. President. Fuck yes. The weight of it on his shoulders felt instantly better. Like he had found his right arm again. His cut was everything to him.

His jeans felt too heavy, too loose. He wanted them to feel just as good, but they didn’t. He was built now, but that wasn’t solely it. He’d whiled away the long five years by getting trim, getting strong. He’d needed to take care of himself, and ended up in one too many brawls along the way. And that time he got shivved. Yeah, that sucked. But now, he was free. He stood in the room, as the gate buzzed, and a jailer led him out.

As President of the Black Coyotes MC, his release from prison after five years should be a big fucking deal. He expected a party and a half to be waiting for him when he was picked up and taken back to the clubhouse. Sex, drugs and rock and roll. He expected to ball into his clubhouse, be handed a drink, and be welcomed back as a hero. He’d taken one for the club and no mistake. He was the only one who’d ended up doing time after that gun sale gone wrong. That night was a complete shit show. It had been part of the arrangement, Colt did the time, the others got off with no charges. Since he was the President, he’d stepped forward, he’d stepped up, he’d taken it on the chin. Their club wasn’t big, they’d had about forty members, he’d done time so they wouldn’t have to.

Now he expected topless women everywhere, that he could take his pick from. He anticipated whiskey, top drawer stuff, on the rocks. They’d have Cuban cigars and a fat roll of weed and maybe even a few rows of blow. And part of him did want that, part of him did feel that restlessness, that recklessness, to just let loose, live for the buzz, enjoy the night, as he would have before. Yes, part of him did want to party hard and finally live, after five years of feeling half dead inside. However, the other part of him honestly wanted a hot bath and to lie in his own bed, alone, for the night. Clean, crisp sheets. He shivered involuntarily. That half dead feeling trying to follow him out of the prison. He needed to chase those feelings away quickly, get back to the President the club expected, the President they all deserved.

He stepped out of the gate. The California sunlight touched his skin, the same sunlight he’d been under inside, but it felt totally different. Outside. Free. The wind felt different, the very air he breathed felt different. It held possibilities, promises, options. He’d had none of them. And yet, he shivered again. The wind was blowing right through him, he felt like a leaf, trembling, tumbling. He felt like an old man. He knew he wasn’t strong enough. He couldn’t lead them like he had. That self doubt had been planted within him on his first night inside the slammer. And it had grown. And now, standing in the light of day, finally free, he felt it lodged within him. He’d have to keep it choked down, he had to appear brave and strong, hungry for blood. He’d have to appear to be a fucking Rottweiler, while inside he felt like a scrawny Chihuahua. They could still bite, right? Yes, he answered himself, but a Chihuahua didn’t stand a chance against a pack of wolves.

He stood and blinked. Looking back at the doorway to the prison, then looking ahead, to the parking lot. He rolled his shoulders, and forced that thought down. Stand tall and stop yapping like a little bitch. He cleared his throat. He could do this, he’d done it every day inside. He expected a motorcade of bikes to come and greet him. Yeah, the whole fucking club should turn up to get him. He wanted to hear the rumble of the straight pipes of their motorcycles. He wanted a real ‘fuck you’ gesture to the prison, to the authorities, to everything and everyone who’d stood against him. He wanted to ride back in style, larger than life. Hide his insecurities behind all the fanfare.

He basked in these warm thoughts for a moment. Perhaps he could feed off their heat and grow into it all again. The moment swiftly turned into minutes, though. Then he was well aware that it was approaching an hour now. An hour later, he’d been left to stand in the parking lot outside the prison. What the fuck? When he got back, heads would roll for this. Not literally. Unless someone really pissed him off. What were they playing at, leaving their President standing outside?

Finally, he heard something. A car. It approached slowly. In fact, it sounded like the engine was on its last legs. It backfired and spluttered to a halt in front of him. It was a beaten up, rusty old thing. Two guys were in the front. Two teenagers, practically. One was gripping the steering wheel, looking about nervously. The other got out of the car. They had on ‘Prospect’ cuts. They were the lowest ranking, apprentices, they were nobodies. They barely looked old enough to drive. What the actual fuck? Sending snotty nosed prospects to pick him up? Him, Colt, the President of the Black Coyotes.

“Who the fuck are you?” Colt rudely snarled.

The one who’d stepped out of the car answered, not timidly, almost cockily. “I’m Nails. That’s Club. Get in.”

Colt ground his jaw. He’d show these two a piece of his mind. When they got back to the clubhouse, he’d fucking pin them up with nails to the wall and have the boys club them. Nails and Club. He almost thought about lashing out at them now. When they offered him the only ride away, he thought better of it.

That was a product of his last five years, he realized, opening the back door and climbing in. He’d learned to pick his fights, to concede, to regroup, and fight his battles when the time was right. His younger self would have picked a fight right there. Now though, he honestly fancied having a doze on the back seat, watching the countryside roll by while the boys drove him home.

* * *

They drovenorth from San Quentin State Prison and pulled up into the clubhouse about three hours later. There was a bar at the front, their biker hangout at the back, with bedrooms on the top floor for members who lived in the clubhouse. Rows of motorcycles lined the front, and cars were outside the bar, also. Members of the public were allowed in the bar, it was open to everyone, it was just a typical dive of a roadside bar. As they rounded the corner, large black gates swung open on a mechanized device. The gate squawked.

It immediately felt off to Colt. There was no welcome party. There was no barbeque in the courtyard, no banners or balloons, no people gathered in a tight group, clapping or shrieking or looking in any way pleased to see him. Fuck. Maybe everyone was gathered inside and it was a surprise. Yes, he thought, that could be it, maybe this was all part of the act, a bluff, make it look like they didn’t care, and then spring a good time on him. He swallowed bile in his throat. He hoped that was it. He felt in his bones that wasn’t what was going to happen at all.

The prospect driving the car, Club, pulled up outside the entrance and shut off the car engine. Colt stayed where he was.

“Get in there.” The prospect nodded. He was young, not yet twenty, Colt guessed, yet with the confidence of a stallion. Where did he get that from, cocky bastard?

So Colt climbed out of the car, slamming the door behind him. He’d be damned if he didn’t swagger into that clubhouse like he owned the place. He did own the place. He should. He had, before he’d gone inside. He clenched his jaw together, ensured his cut was on straight, and strode toward the front door.

The prospects immediately flanked him. Like they were prison guards. Fuck. Something was wrong. He knew it. He wouldn’t let on, though. He wouldn’t give these two the satisfaction.

He balled through the door, plastered a bombastic smile on his face and braced himself. The first thing that he noticed was that it was dark inside. Dark and smoky. And empty. Fuck. There was no one here. He strode around, his boots thudding on the dusty wooden floor, not letting his smile slip.

A part of him was glad to be back. The smell, the leather chairs, the sound of his feet on the floor. It was home, it had been his home. He’d practically grown up here. He’d been a snotty nosed prospect himself, sleeping on that sorry excuse for a couch in the corner. Colt let his gaze linger on it, the old brown leather thing just sitting there. Hell, this club had taken him in when he had nothing and no one. This had been his home, and a part of him was happy to be back. But it was empty. It was missing everything that made it home. His brothers. Laughter, smiles; love. It was devoid of life entirely. He no longer felt at home.

“Prospect,” Colt snapped. “Whiskey. Ice. Large,” he batted out, as if he expected them to immediately do his bidding. They should, if they were really Prospects and he was really the Prez. He was still going to act like he ruled the roost.

They didn’t. Fuck. They looked at each other. Then the one called Nails, the scrawnier of the two, relented and moped around to the bar, dragging his heels.

“Jesus, what’s up with you two?” He leaned against the bar, appearing casual, while the prospect clattered about getting his drink. They didn’t respond.

“The others in church?” Colt asked, nodding to the large, closed wooden door off to the side.

Through that door was the meeting room, the sacred room containing a large hand crafted wooden table, where all the members would sit, and the President would preside over, and they’d decide what reckless carnage they wanted to get up to next. How to make their money, how to build their kingdom, defend it, seek revenge. How to live as they wanted to live. That was the point of the whole motorcycle club in the first place. They could do what they liked, fuck the rest of society. Paying taxes, getting a mortgage, settling down and sleep-walking through life was not the way they lived. They worked hard, played hard, grafted and outlawed and reaped the rewards of their lucrative, dangerous lifestyles. Fuck yes. A part of him did still feel a thrill in the thought of that. He’d been the one sitting at the head of that table, surrounded by the eager, devoted faces of his brothers. Brothers he would have stood behind, fought for, died for. Brothers he’d done time for. Where were they now?

“Yes. They’re in church,” the prospect replied sullenly.