ALL THE RAGE (writer: T.M. Frazier)(57)

“Well, it’s not my wife,” Joker said with a laugh.

“Yeah, I got that much, Elton John,” I said, pointing to the white sunglasses he was wearing in the picture. He smacked me on the back of the head.

Joker hadn’t been faithful to his wife Miriam throughout their marriage. It was nothing that anyone, including Miriam herself, hadn’t known. So why he was showing me some ancient picture of a club whore from forty years ago was beyond me. He leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest, his feet at the ankles. “Her name was Grace.”

“And?” I asked, needing him to get to a point and fast.

“And although she wasn’t the one I married. She was…the one.” Joker raised his beer and took a long pull. “I love my kids with Miriam, don’t get me wrong. But Grace and I had a daughter. Sadie. A kid I never got to raise. A kid I never got to see because I was too stuck up my own ass to see straight. I had a lot going on back in those days and I let all the bullshit become more important than my woman and my kid.” Sadness crossed over his face. “By the time I saw my way clear of the bullshit, it was too late.” He looked to his feet. “Way too f*cking late.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” I asked.

Joker’s eyes met mine. “ ’Cause son. I’m an old f*cking man and I see a young kid like you sitting around like the world is going to come to you. Hockey isn’t going to waltz back through that door and drop to its knees to suck your cock just like the club ain’t. The club also ain’t going to move the f*cking armory onto your deck.” Joker paused and tipped his beer to me. “And that girl you’re so hung up on isn’t coming ’round until you decide you’re gonna move hell and earth to go drag the cunt back to where she belongs.”

“You don’t think I want to go to her and drag her back by her f*cking hair?” I said, raising my voice. “I don’t know where she f*cking is!”

“So f*cking find her!” Joker said, even louder still.

“I’m trying! I called Sampson, he’s on it.” I sank back down against the refrigerator.

“Son, Sampson couldn’t find his cock with a pair of tweezers,” Joker said, waving me off. “I tell you what. If you want I can put in a call to my guy. He can find anyone.” He paused. “Well, he can find anyone except the bitch who burnt down my f*cking house.” He snarled at the memory. His house had burnt down a while back while I was away at school. I assumed “the bitch” he was always muttering about was some club whore he’d pissed off one too many times. Joker had also been through his fair share of slashed tires and broken windows.

I was temporarily on board with the idea until I remembered one very loud blaring fact. “I can’t give him much to go by.” I laughed at the ridiculousness of what I was about to say. “I don’t even know her real name.”

Joker was unfazed by this fact. “It’s not what you don’t know, kid. It’s what you do know.”

“Which isn’t much,” I said. How could I know so little about someone but be so certain about them all at the same time?

“You probably know a lot more than you think you do.” Joker said with a tip of his chin. He finished his beer and tossed it in the trash.

“I hope you’re right.”

Joker was about to walk out the back door when I called out, “What’s your guy’s name?”

“You’ve actually met him before. Years ago, when you were a kid. Which is the only reason I’m even telling you this ’cause it’s a name I like to keep in my pocket for a rainy day.” Joker opened his cut and patted his shirt pocket. “He goes by Smoke.” He finally said, before disappearing from view.

I’d already assumed Joker was long gone when he leaned his head back in through the open door and added, “The little bitch who burnt down my house, though? That deadly little blonde cunt calls herself Rage.”

Joker didn’t stick around to see the stunned look on my face.

He also didn’t stick around to see me throw my empty bottle against the wall, yank my cut off the nail, or tear the cover off my bike.

Six months had been way too f*cking long. Not only was Rage out there in the world but she was out there with a mark on her head from none other than my own f*cking club.

Joker was right about one thing, though…it was time to find my girl. I was willing to do more than move heaven and earth. I was willing to walk through hell and back.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR




Nolan


Hansen’s Bar used to be a place for the kids on spring break to slum it. Cheap pitchers and beer pong kept the crowds thick with locals in the off-season, and pouring out into the parking lot during the height of it. As the economy turned, so did the bar, which then became the go-to watering hole catering to every MC from Miami to Savannah.

A giant of a man wearing a blue bandana came tripping out of the bar with a brunette under his arm, knocking me into the sidewall. Immediately, my anger flared. I was about to say something, but he spoke first. “Private party tonight,” he said. That’s when I noticed his colors.

Bastards.

I was in the right place.

He leaned up against a post not three feet from the door, the one holding up the WE ID sign. He lit a cigarette and unzipped his leathers. The brunette snapped down to her knees right there in the cut shell parking lot. He grinned at me while spreading his fingers through her hair, gripping the back of her head and pulling her harshly against him. She yelped and chocked while he laughed, blowing out smoke through his nose. “You can’t go in there,” he said.