HARDCORE: Storm MC(84)

“I'll take that as a yes,” she muttered, switching off the set.



She walked back to the kitchen and put the cigs and lighter on the table in front of Cain. With his good hand, he fished a smoke out of the pack and put it between his lips, then picked up the Zippo and flicked it. He inhaled deeply, then winced at the pain in his sides, exhaling all of the smoke until it hung around his head like a storm cloud.



“So where's your coffee maker?” Missy asked.



Cain shook his head. “Instant,” he said, taking another drag from the cigarette. “In the pantry.”



“Instant?” Missy asked, her lips curling downward in disgust. “Jesus, it's no wonder you walk around in a bad mood all the time, drinking shit like that.”



“It suits me,” he snapped.



“It sure does,” Missy said, removing the jar of instant coffee from the cupboard. “It's bitter and lazy, just like you are.” She found a clean pot under the sink, filled it with water, and put it on the stovetop.



There was a long silence between them, and Missy found herself trying to think of innocent things to say, just to make casual conversation without angering him further. When the water started to boil, she poured it into a pair of mugs she discovered in another cupboard and stirred in the powdered coffee.



Cain poured half the mug down his throat, gulping it eagerly despite the steam pouring from it. Missy took a tentative sip from hers and immediately wished she hadn't. It tasted like diarrhea and potting soil.



“So, how long have you lived here?” she finally asked.



“I don't,” Cain said tersely. “I own this shitbox 'cause my aunt willed it to me, but I mostly live at the fucking Knife. And that's why I intend to finish my coffee, grab a quick shower, and get back there so I can find out what's going on and what our plan for retaliation is.”



Missy wondered whether Cain would be so eager to stomp off in search of vengeance if he knew it was Gaspar's men who'd tuned him up. She was tempted to tell him, but she knew that was Hunter's call, not hers.



Instead, she said, “I don't think that's a very good idea.”



“I didn't ask.”



“The doctor said you need at least a week to recover,” Missy insisted.



“Well, the doctor isn't a Blood Eagle, so what the fuck does he know? For that matter, what do you?”



“For starters,” Missy said, “I know you can barely walk from the couch to the toilet by yourself, so I doubt you'll make the hike from here to the Knife on your own. I know I won't be driving you there, and most of all, I know that your busted arm means you won't be riding your bike there either.”



There was a slight gleam in Cain's eye, and a smile tugged gently at the corners of his mouth. “Not my bike, no,” he conceded. “But I've got a few other bikes in my garage that I like to tinker with, and one of them used to belong to The Great Gooch himself.”



Missy's jaw dropped in disbelief. “You're kidding, right?”



“Nope. So I don't think I'll have much trouble getting there with one arm, do you?”



Missy remembered Greg “Gooch” Garland from her father's days as president of the Eagles. Gooch had worked as a rodeo clown and daredevil motorcyclist before joining the MC. When a gangster in Vegas chopped off his hand over a gambling debt, most of the Eagles assumed he wouldn't be able to ride with them anymore. But instead, Gooch engineered a customized set of handlebars that would allow him to ride one-handed, and soon he was back to cruising down the highways with the rest of the Eagles, doing tricks just like always.



Garland eventually died from cirrhosis of the liver after a long battle with alcoholism, but the legend of “The Great Gooch” endured with each new generation of Eagles.



“Lucky for me it was the same arm,” Cain said smugly.



“You're still an idiot if you think you can make it there on your own,” Missy countered. “With all the meds you're on, you'll wrap Gooch's bike around a tree long before you reach the Knife.”



“Yeah, well, I guess we'll just see, won't we?”



Cain's cell phone began to ring in the next room. He glanced back, then shrugged and took another sip of his coffee.



“I'll get it,” Missy said.



“Ignore it.”



“But it's probably Hunter,” she replied, walking toward the living room.



“Goddamn it, I said ignore it!” Cain bellowed, slamming the kitchen table with his fist. The coffee mugs jumped about two inches.



Missy picked up the cell phone on the coffee table, reading the name on the screen. She carried it back into the kitchen and dropped it on the table in front of Cain as it continued to ring.