Road Tripped (Satan's Devils MC Utah #1) - Manda Mellett Page 0,8
all around have stayed firmly on me. I resist the urge to squirm like a bug under a microscope.
“Now why are you here?” Prez demands again. “Drummer sent you, I presume?”
“Not exactly.” I wasn’t supposed to admit the mother chapter prez has concerns, and if I’m honest, wouldn’t now that I’m here. With suspicious glances heading my way from all sides, I offer a version of the truth which I hope will work. “If you’ve got all the info on me, then you know I can’t race anymore.” I spare a nod to the woman who must be a personal assistant or something, probably here to take notes of the meeting. “Drummer suggested I go away to get my head on straight, and if I passed by a clubhouse, that I’d be made welcome there.” I can’t help a touch of accusation coming into my voice, that the welcome mat is very much lacking here.
“Drummer didn’t warn me you were coming.” The prez seems unrelenting.
“I didn’t give him my exact plans.” I shrug. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure how far I could ride, and whether I’d get many miles under my belt.”
“You came via Vegas?”
I shake my head. “Headed my bike in this direction. Vegas, is, well, Vegas. Had myself a yearning for somewhere quieter, somewhere I’d not been before.”
The brothers here seem to be a different species from any biker club I’ve ever met. More disciplined, that’s for certain. Apart from the woman’s recital about my injuries, the prez is the only man who’s spoken. There’s no joking around or tomfoolery that I’d become used to, or even raises of chins to request permission to speak. Neither Snatcher, Thor, nor Piston have offered a word of support, apart from confirming I am who I said. There’s no sense of brotherhood here, and something warns me it’s not just because I’ve barged in on their sacrosanct meeting.
Had I walked into Red’s clubhouse in Vegas, or Demon’s in Pueblo, I’d have been greeted with open arms and probably have a beer in my hand by now. The prospect would have grovelled to help me, but here? I could have entered a rival club and not one which shares a brotherhood with ours.
It’s unnerving. I can’t wait to retrieve my phone if only to hear a friendly voice at the other end. It’s not often I yearn for the sound of Drummer’s gruff tones. I’ll need to update him, this situation is beyond me.
The silence is so complete in the room, I’m hard pressed to tell anyone’s breathing. It stretches out until it’s their prez who again breaks it.
He’s not removed his eyes from me, but now they narrow. “You can ask three questions. Use them wisely.”
Three questions?
My eyes must signal my lack of comprehension.
He shrugs and clearly isn’t going to revise or clarify his instruction.
It’s a test of some sort. I’ll have to pass it, but it’s hard not knowing the rules. How do I select what I best need answering? Are they measuring my intelligence, perhaps? Drummer should have sent someone different.
Three questions.
Use them wisely.
Christ. It sounds like the genie offering to fulfil three wishes, and I’m just as lost wondering which to ask first. Talking about mythical creatures, I’ve certainly popped the cork and let one out of the bottle here. Drummer’s gut instinct was right. There is something very wrong in Utah, but I can’t pinpoint what, except this is no normal Satan’s Devils chapter.
Here is my chance to find out what’s going on, but without a clue, I don’t know what the most important queries are to shape.
From the way the prez is regarding me, I know he’s not joking. I can ask three things, but no more. I’d told Drummer I wasn’t the brightest, and I hadn’t been wrong. Mouse? Well, he’d know exactly how to frame his quest for information.
Someone coughs, and it’s now I notice people fidgeting, but still no one talks, or tells me to hurry up. Their attitude is unnerving.
I don’t know where to start, but know I must when the prez simply raises an eyebrow.
I clear my throat. “Who are you, and how long have you been prez?”
He raises both eyebrows now. “Seems that’s two questions, but I’ll give you one as a freebie. My name is Pip, and I’ve been sitting in this chair going on almost ten years.”
So all those times Snatcher came to Tucson, he was acting out a lie? But, why?