Reaper's Claim: The Finale

Roach

When I stepped down as the president of Satan’s Sons a year ago, it was supposed to mean less stress. No more stopping brawls in my clubhouse-turned-restaurant. No more mediation between other biker gangs or worrying about the cops busting down my doors.

I was supposed to take it easy. Doc’s orders after my heart attack.

With Kimmie's help, I ate better. Quit drinking and even gave up cigarettes.

I should be cruising on my bike along the open road with the sun at my back and the wind in my hair, despite how gray and sparse it’s become. Maybe I could take a page from Abby’s book and just shave the entire mess off.

Yet here I sat, in the manager’s office of Harrison’s Restaurant (my restaurant), going over the employee schedule, inventory, and invoices, all crying for my attention at the same time.

I swear this was more stressful and ~less~ fun.

“Look at me,” I sighed heavily. “Complaining cus’ the restaurant’s a success. All thanks to you, baby girl.”

I looked at the framed photo on my desk.

It's an old photo of my girls, back when their hair was long and free. Kim’s freshly dyed red because of a row she’d had with Abby. It looked good on her, and she kept it for a while, but it was nice to see her blond grow back in. It was a silent, meaningful way to show she’d changed her colors.

She quit partying and took care of my health.

She even got serious about going to school to become a doctor.

Kim went from wild to mild, to use her words.

The photo became blurry as there was a gentle knock at the door.

“Boss?”

“What?” I angrily swiped at my face.

Gitz popped his head in, either choosing not to see my red-rimmed eyes or pointedly ignoring them he said, “Want me to set up the circle? The floor will be filled with bikers soon.”

“Nah,” I grunted as I pushed myself away from the desk. “I’ll do it. I need the exercise, according to my doc.”

Gitz nodded and stepped back, leaving the door cracked.

Now there was another original Satan’s Son that’s changed too. Used to think he was nothing but an idiot, but it turned out he’s got some brains in that skull of his. Good with numbers and… what did Kim call it? Oh yeah, great for creating a vibe in the restaurant.

This place and its members have changed more than I could’ve imagined in one year.

The old clubhouse had been paneled in wood from ceiling to floor. Covered in neon signs and TVs, it stank to high heaven of spilled beer and cigarettes. Sometimes, I can still smell smoke when it gets hot and humid in the summer.

Disgusting smell, but I loved it.

Originally, we’d only taken down the offensive posters, removed a pool table or two, and slapped a coat of paint on the walls. It was a good start… until some of the mates started acting like pork chops and busted a wall, revealing the brickwork underneath.

Kim liked it so much that we tore out all the paneling, including the wood flooring, exposing the concrete and brickwork.

That’s when Gitz stepped in, talking bout an industrial but homey feel, with an open floor plan and other things I didn’t understand, and, well, we had the newly renovated Harrison’s. We knocked down the doors and walls between the club bunks, giving us more space for tables and little lounges.

I left my office, walking along the bar. It was nice to see all the glasses twinkle in the morning sunlight. It was Abby’s suggestion to put real glass in the hanging racks and Kim’s rule never to use it.

For looks only.

Smart one that Kimmie, because no matter how reformed the Satan’s Sons had become, we’re still a bunch of thick-headed bikers with no grace.

But we’re trying goddamn it. We’re trying real hard, Kimmie.

Gitz prepped the front house of Harrisons for the lunch crowd this afternoon while I made my way to the members-only lounge. Now, this was Abby and Reaper's idea; to have a place to conduct Satan’s Sons business away from prying eyes.

Like the debriefing we’ll have tonight about yesterday’s raid in Avoca.

The raid went well, but both Reaper and Abby came home in a huff.

Either way, as much as we loved the restaurant and all it brings, at the root of it all, we’re still a biker gang, if much, much different from when I started it all those years ago. Kimmie may have saved the compound, er— ranch, but it was Abby who saved Satan’s Sons and, in turn, Snake Valley.

I made my way behind the bar of the MOL and saw that Gitz had already brought in and stacked up the chairs. All I needed to do was set them out.

Wanker, I ain’t that old.

I smiled anyway.

Pulling out the folding chairs, I set them up in a circle. Rena, one of our club girls-turned waitress, brought in the crafts of coffee and assorted biscuits.

I finished placing our printed affirmation on the last chair when bikers in their biker vests ambled in. The regulars like Ox and Brad strutted by. Confident as Toms, they went straight to the snacks, thanking Rena on her way out. Newer faces, pledges, and initiates walked in timidly, wondering if this was the biker club they wanted to join.

Sometimes it wasn’t.

That’s why Fuckin’ G’day was such a great support and hazing group.

“Fuckin’ G’day!” I hollered.

“Fuckin’ G’day,” the room of bikers hollered back.

This was their cue to sit, and the regulars did, with the newbies quick to follow.

At the head of the circle, I picked up the affirmation and began to read out loud, quickly joined by the other members:

“One fuck, two fuck, three fuck, four.

Here’s an affirmation I didn’t ask for.

I’m no longer a pissing fool.

Or a walkin', talkin’ tool.

Ain’t trapped by drugs or rootin’ fools.

I don’t believe in those nay-sayin’ fellas.

‘Cuz despite my vest or what they say,

I’ll make it a fuckin’ g’day!”

Abby

It is what it is.

I’ve always hated that saying.

What does it even mean?

If a dog was a dog and could be nothing else… then it is what it is. Nothing you do can change that fact. From its DNA to its undeniable love for eating its vomit, a dog was a dog.

It is. What. It is.

Fine.

I get it.

Using that phrase situationally? Say it started to rain, but your umbrella had a massive hole in it, or you drop the last cookie in the toilet; well, it is what it is.

You can’t patch your brolly.

That cookie was nothing but a floating bog now.

You were shit out of luck. Too bad, so sad.

It is. What. It is.

You couldn’t change it. You couldn’t fix it. You couldn’t pull it out of the toilet and still eat it.

You know what I say to that?

Get stuffed.

I’ll embrace the rain and walk naked in it. I’ll bake my own fucking cookies.

I can change it.

I can change anything.

Paint splattered on my face, finally bringing me back to what I was doing.

I’m in my studio, next to the gun range on our biker compound-turned legit ranch. Some might’ve called the rapid succession of gunfire unsettling, but I found it calming. Relaxing even. Kim would have called it unnecessarily aggressive, but I disagree.

It's not like she was here to argue the point anyway.

I dipped my palette knife back into the viscous neon pink paint, flinging the excess across the canvas, inspecting the pattern and arc it created. It looked like blood splatter.

Perfect.

The surface was a mass of black strokes and layered textures. Dizzying lines in pink, yellow, and turquoise shouted at me in a cacophony of anger and confusion.

At the center of this mess?

A familiar pale face.

His features were strong and sly, while his eyes were flat black pools of nothing.

A scratchy form of crosshairs sat right on his forehead between two long black devil horns.

“You know you’re only letting him win by obsessing like this,” Reaper commented from behind.

I ignored him, wiping the palette knife across my apron and dipping it into the turquoise next. These flecks were softer, adding a dab here and there.

“Is this what you were working on a few nights ago?” He changed the subject.

“No.” I pointed to a smaller canvas further into the studio. “It’s a self-portrait.”

Reaper walked over, studying the figure. Her round, soft features. The big blue eyes and full lip smile as she leaned over a sleek black chopper.

“That’s not you,” he accused. “It's Kim.”

“Same thing,” I shrugged.

“Not the same thing at all,” Reaper turned to look at me. “Who do you think I am? Trigger?”

I scoffed at the memory that the name evoked.

The once too handsy vice president of Satan’s Sons, Trigger used to be Kim’s on and off again old lover. If twenty-four could be considered too old.

Maybe it was, for a sixteen-year-old.

I looked at Reaper, but he’d already turned away from me, reinspecting the painting. I shook my head, like I was any better, letting another equally “too old” biker finger me on a lonely hilltop. Pot meet kettle.

“Well, we were twins, after all,” I muttered.

Reaper’s shoulders tensed, “Why do you do that?”

“What?” I asked innocently. “Paint? My therapist says it's good for me. Joanna says to use it as a medium for all the negative thoughts in my messed-up head.”

“You aren’t messed up.” Reaper faced me again.

I raised my eyebrow at him, and he shrugged.

“No more messed up than the rest of us anyway.”

He flashed that smile of his, and I felt my insides quiver. I stamped it out. I hate that his smile, slate-gray eyes, and sweet words did that to me. They always have, and probably always will. Those broad shoulders and slim hips didn’t hurt, either.

Then I remembered what those sweet words didn’t tell me last night.

“You know what was messed up?” I spat out.

“Abby, not this again—”

“Not telling me,” I argued, “that Blake wouldn’t be there is messed up. No, it's fucked up. You lied to me. You only wanted to use me for the raid.”

“Where we saved six girls from sex slavery.” Reaper shook his head. “How is that not a win, Abby? It’s all going according to The Plan.”

I rolled my eyes, “Yes, yes. Kim’s Great Plan.” My finger quotes made Reaper wince. “Fat lot a good it did her.”

“We all worked hard on that plan, Abby. Can’t you see it's working?”

I turned away from him.

“You’re Da’s healthier than ever,” Reaper pointed out. “We’ve turned the compound into a thriving ranch bringing in more money than we ever got as an outlaw biker gang.”

He stepped closer. “We’ve got the distillery, the farm. We’ve even cleaned up Snake Valley.”

I stared hard at the canvas, at Blake's face.

“No one dares sell drugs or smuggle guns across our territory,” Reaper continued, “The cops look the other way when we conduct raids like last night. Why? Because of Kim’s Plan.”

Reaper was right behind me now, but I wrapped my hands around myself tight, like armor against his words of reason.

“And where is Kim now?” I whispered.

He’s silent.

He doesn’t have a rebuttal.

Why would he? There’s nothing he could do that would change what Blake did to my twin. There was nothing he could say to stop my obsession to find him.

Why?

Because it is what it is.