Spike’s Perdition (Saints Purgatory MC #7)

Prologue

SPIKE

Twenty-one years old…

“You ‘bout done here, Hunter?”

I continue to turn the wrench I’m using to tighten the engine mount on the 1953 Indian Chief Roadmaster in front of me. My shift ended hours ago, but when I’m working on a bike, I tend to lose track of time. Lonnie Jacks, my mentor and owner of Jack’s Restoration and Repair, tries to keep my enthusiasm reigned in, but in the eight years I’ve known him, he’s rarely succeeded at that. If anything, he’s fueled it.

“Gimme ten minutes.”

“I swear, kid, you’ve gotta learn that life isn’t all about work.”

I’ve heard this same argument many times from him, but work is all I’ve got. Well, work and Lonnie.

“The bars ain’t closin’ anytime soon,” I remind him. “It ain’t gonna kill ya to wait a little longer for your beer.”

The familiar sound of a can being cracked open fills the shop. “Who said anything ‘bout waiting?”

Shaking my head, I chuckle. “How the fuck is your liver still functioning, old man?”

“Good genes, I guess,” he comments after gulping down a fair amount of Bud Light.

I wouldn’t know anything about that. My genetic makeup is as much a mystery as the identity of Jack the Ripper. All I know is that the people who gave me life didn’t care enough about me to quit whatever bullshit made them unfit to parent me.

“Hand me that rag, would ya?” I ask, nodding to the one I left sitting on the workbench.

And so it goes for the next twenty minutes. Lonnie drinks a few beers while I finish what I’m doing and clean up.

“Benny’s gonna be really happy with the finished product,” he says as we walk out of the shop and down the street toward the bar a few blocks away.

“I hope so.”

Lonnie throws his arm around my shoulders, ignoring the spikes adorning my worn-out leather jacket. “Kid, you’re the best motorcycle mechanic and restorer I know. Be proud of what you can do.”

“I had a good teacher.”

“Damn straight, you did.”

Humble as always.

Lonnie caught me stealing a bag of chips at a local gas station when I was thirteen, and rather than turn me in, he followed me to the park where I’d made my camp and gave me an ultimatum: go with him to his shop and learn his trade or he’d call the cops.

I chose the former. It helped that it came with a warm bed in his spare room as well as food and clothing. I wasn’t exactly thrilled when he made me enroll in school, but we compromised, and I finished my education online.

If it weren’t for Lonnie, I’d either be dead or behind bars. I owe him everything.

“Would ya lookie there?” he says and whistles.

I follow his line of sight, and excitement buzzes through me at the line of Harleys parked in front of the bar. Based on the paint jobs and after-market parts, each one has had custom work done, and the closer we get, the more impressed I become.

“Recognize any of ‘em?” I ask.

Lonnie shakes his head. “Not a one.”

I make my way around each bike, taking in all the details, and when I reach the last one, something metallic in the front tire catches my eye. Kneeling down, I run my hands over the rubber and narrow my eyes when I recognize the shine as a nail head.

“Lonnie, run back to the shop and grab me a pair of pliers, would ya?”

While I wait for him to return, I try to work the nail out with my fingers, but progress eludes me. Heavy footsteps fall behind me, but I don’t bother looking to see who it is, fully believing it’s Lonnie.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doin’?”

Before I can glance over my shoulder, large hands grip the back of my jacket and lift me enough to shove me back down to the pavement. I scramble to my feet so I can defend myself but freeze when I see a biker and several of his pals.

“I was trying to work a nail outta the tire,” I say, raising my hands to show them I mean no harm.

One of the guys steps around me and squats near the front tire. When he glances over his shoulder, his face is hard as he communicates in sign language.

What the hell is he saying?

“How do I know you didn’t put the nail there?”

I dart my eyes from one guy to the next, fear settling in my gut. I’m no slouch and can hold my own, but against these four, I wouldn’t stand a chance.

Squaring my shoulder, feigning a confidence I don’t feel, I level my gaze on the man who pushed me to the ground. “Because I’d never disrespect a bike like that.”

“What do you know about bikes like this?” one of his friends asks.

Finally comfortable with where this interaction is headed, I relax slightly. “Everything.”

“Everything?”

I nod.

“What year was the Harley Fat Boy introduced?”

“Nineteen ninety,” I reply easily. He opens his mouth to speak, but I continue. “It was designed by Netz and Davidson and originally featured a Softail frame, shotgun exhaust, solid disc wheels, a 1340cc V twin engine, and a hand-laced leather seat.” I take a deep breath. “Oh, and it was gunmetal gray with yellow trim.”

“What year did Harley introduce the Chief?”

“They didn’t. The Chief is an Indian motorcycle.” I grin. “And it was introduced in 1922.”

He glances to his friend on his left, a guy a bit older than him. “He’s right, Soul,” the guy says. “Dude knows his info.”

Soul stares at me for a moment before relaxing his stance. “What’s your name?”

“Hunter.”

“Soul,” he says, thrusting his hand out for me to shake. “These are my brothers, Grim, Frenzy, and Malice.”

Before I can reply, movement catches my attention, and I look to see Lonnie walking toward us.

“Friend of yours?” Frenzy, the older guy, asks.

“Yeah,” I confirm. “Lonnie Jacks. He owns?—”

“Jack’s Restoration and Repair,” Frenzy says, with admiration. “Does some great work.”

“Yes, sir, he does. Taught me everything I know.”

“Everything okay here, Hunter?” Lonnie asks when he reaches us, a set of pliers gripped tightly in his hand.

I nod. “All good.”

“I was just about to invite Hunter to have a beer with us,” Soul says. “Care to join?”

Lonnie grins. “Sure.”

“Lemme just get this nail out for ya real quick,” I say, reaching for the pliers. “Then we can take the bike to the shop, and I’ll patch up the hole before you head home.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, man,” Soul replies. “I’ll have a prospect take care of it.”

“A prospect?” I ask.

Two hours later, I’m three sheets to the wind and need carried back to the shop. The big guy, Grim, does the honors, treating me like a sack of potatoes. Lonnie fixes up the tire, free of charge since we didn’t pay for a single drink.

“Here, man,” Soul says, handing me a card. “Gimme a call once your hangover wears off tomorrow. I think you’d make a great Saint, and if you’re interested, we can talk prospecting more seriously.”

I don’t have time to formulate a response in my alcohol-addled brain before Lonnie and I are alone.

“C’mon, kid,” he says. “You can pick up your bike tomorrow. I’m driving home.”

As I follow him out to his 1957 Chevy Impala, my lips tilt into a smile.

You’d make a good Saint.

Soul is only the second person in my life to tell me I’d make a good anything.