Road Tripped (Satan's Devils MC Utah #1) - Manda Mellett Page 0,44
sounds high. Even a quick calculation of five thousand feet to a mile means we’re over four miles high.
The warning it won’t be long until we begin coming into land and seeing Preacher start competently flicking switches makes me turn to go back to the cabin. As I reach the seating area, I catch Snatcher’s eye, indicate the empty seat next to him and at his raised chin, sit down.
I lean forward, clasping my hands between my legs. “Why did you step back as the prez?”
He offers a half-smile. “Pip thought you would ask. There’s a long story behind it, but it’s not all mine to tell. Let’s just leave it that the club decided to move in a different direction, and Pip was the man for that.”
“But why not be straight with Drummer?” I narrow my eyes. “Surely he’d accept a club vote?”
Snatcher’s eyes fill with mirth. “Drummer’s the prez of the mother chapter and would have wanted to have his input.”
“Pip seems alright,” I comment, not understanding. “You clearly trust him, and from what little I’ve seen, everyone else does. I can’t see anything Drummer would raise objections about. An ex-criminal wouldn’t be disqualified, unless he was dragging the club into things Drummer wouldn’t put his name to.” Suddenly I frown. “He’s not law enforcement, is he?”
Now the ex-prez barks a loud laugh. “No, he is not. Nah, there’s not much that Drummer would object to, except for one thing.”
He turns to look out the window. My eyes follow his line of sight, and I notice objects on the ground becoming clearer and guess it won’t be long before we land. As for his last comment, he appears content to leave me hanging.
“And that one thing is?” I prompt.
Snatcher shakes his head and chuckles. “Fucker can’t ride a bike, doesn’t own one, and has no inclination in that direction.”
What the fuck? The prez of an MC, the man who wears our cut, can’t ride? Snatcher’s right. That would definitely disqualify him from being prez, fuck, from being a member at all. It also explains why Snatcher takes back the title whenever Utah rides out to meet the other chapters.
“Regulations mean he can’t be a Devil.” I almost spit the words out through gritted teeth, feeling it’s a personal insult that Pip wears the Satan’s Devils MC cut.
Snatcher turns around, his eyes cold. “Don’t like your tone, Road. Man’s due respect even if he doesn’t ride. For reasons you’re yet to discover.”
“But you must see—”
“No. You give him a fuckin’ chance. All will become clear in time.”
Christ. This is explosive information if I get it back to Drummer. Fuck, he’ll disband the Utah chapter altogether for their blatant disrespect of everything we live for. I’ll never transfer now, not when the so-called prez of the chapter isn’t qualified to even prospect for the club.
I wasn’t allowed to join, despite that I already had a bike, because I didn’t ride one that was American built. I’ve heard whispers around the table that that might come to change, as Heart’s wife, Marcia, had built her own rat bike which beat any of ours—a subject that when mentioned causes steam to come out of our sergeant-at-arms, Peg’s, ears. The ability for speed and manoeuvring might change our priorities on what we want from our rides, but never, ever, has it been discussed that a man could join the club without any bike at all. I can’t put it any plainer, our regulations clearly specify that if someone can’t ride, they don’t have a hope in hell of becoming a Satan’s Devil.
“Take your seats for landing.” The speaker makes Preacher’s voice sound tinny.
“Go make sure Swift’s seat belt is fastened.” Snatcher jerks his head toward the woman who’s sitting a couple of rows behind.
I’ve been given information which I need to process and see if I could ever find a way to accept it. No wonder the options given to me are to throw in my lot with Utah and keep my mouth shut, or never go back to the real MC led by a bike riding prez. I do know that if I voice my objections in terms that I want to, I risk landing on the ground a lot sooner than this plane will, and without the aid of a parachute.
The suggestion that Swift may need my assistance, coupled with the necessity of, for now, keeping my mouth shut, gets me rising. Whether or not to fight a battle is not