The Biker's Doctor

Avery POV: I was running my fingers over my gold chain necklace, which had a single pendant of Saint Michael, the patron saint of protection. It was far too long around my neck, but that allowed me to pull it out and twist it around my fingers whenever I felt like it, most often when I was uncomfortable. It was a pleasant subconscious distraction from stressful situations. More than that, it was an heirloom from my mother, Eliza, who had received it from her own parents. My grandparents had both been religious, but my mother, Eliza, was not, and I don’t ever remember her wearing the pendant. That did not change its symbolic heritage to me. I found it several years ago among the boxes that my father was throwing out in our apartment’s basement in San Francisco. It’s not like he was the sentimental type to keep something like this. For me, this necklace was all that I really had left of my mother. I constantly fidgeted with the gold oval circle that enclosed the rough, worn edges of the Saint. The embossed lines of the sword, the angel’s wing, and the thin rays of the sun were all completely memorized under my fingertips. I ran over them like a Braille book when I was nervous. Dad and I were walking into the bar I didn't like coming to, so yes, I was nervous. I was always anxious when my dad brought me here. But he made it clear that the Red Gate Bar was like his second home. Second or first? I never raised that question with him. "This will not take long, Avery." My father, Dean Levi, attempted to comfort me, knowing exactly how I felt about this bar. "Just wait at the bar. I have to speak to Uncle Jackson, OK?" I nodded as he swung the double doors open for both of us to enter. You would think on a lovely San Francisco summer afternoon like this, people would want to be outside enjoying the warm weather. I would surely prefer to be walking through the gardens that were the Palace of Fine Arts, not far from here. It was not the case with the Red Gate Bar. It was always full. Its interior attractions were more appealing than anything, such as the simple, nice weather, to those who came here. The immediate fog of smoke from the multitude of cigarettes in the bar filled my lungs with displeasure. I hated the smell of cigarette smoke. I also hated that both my parents smoked. Even my mother's death from cancer was not enough to convince my father to quit the disgusting habit. I had to admire the way my father commanded the bar’s immediate attention by just stepping one foot into it. The room went silent, and nods of greeting were given. They were salutes of respect and of fear. My father's daunting, significant, muscular 6"7 frame was not inherited. I was a thin and meager 5'3. His height fit perfectly along with his boxer-like body and his well-groomed red beard streaked with grey, making him look like someone out of a nineteenth-century gentleman’s club. It was not just his size that was intimidating; it was his presence that commanded a kind of dangerous charisma. He held a silent power that had more than been earned from these other men and their hazardous reputations. Few, if any, men could hold such a presence. As his entrance became noticed by the multitude of bar spectators, I left his side to my usual designation at the bar, easily falling into the background. He walked forward, a clear path made for him like the separation of water, with his focus on the stairs that led to the upstairs office where Jackson would be. Jackson was not actually my uncle. He was my father's best friend and the President of the Devil's Protégés biker club. My father, Dean, was the club's General and second-in-command. The title 'Uncle', which Jackson had held for as long as I could remember from my childhood, made him sound like family. My father certainly treated him like family, but we were not blood relatives. I made my way to sit at the far end of the bar, where there was no one else standing. The seat was as safe a location as I could find, away from the multiple tables and the threat of being spoken to by any of the men in here. I knew that none of them would hurt me because of who my father was. Nonetheless, they all scared the heck out of me. My father definitely belonged here, amongst these men. I did not, and I don't think that I ever would. I ran my hand over the pendant with a sigh, letting it fall back down to the lowest part of my neckline. I have no idea how long the meeting with Uncle Jackson was going to take. Based on previous experiences, it could be as short as 5 minutes or as long as 1 hour. The bartender was serving beer with a laugh to a club member. Neither of them seemed to recognise me. I was not really interested in ordering a drink like soda. I was not a fan of sugary drinks. Water or a hot chocolate was more than enough to bide the time until my dad returned down the lofty stairs. I was going to wait for my father to finish whatever he had to do with the club's President, Jackson Detroit. Then, we could stay and play a game of pool before going back home. I liked playing pool with him, even if it had to be here at the bar. I would dull out the surroundings like I always did when we were here. I looked up to the office's indoor balcony, where the President could look down on the members enjoying their games and drinks. Jackson was atop that balcony, speaking rather seriously with my father. I had no idea what the conversation was about, and I knew never to ask. Jackson was tall, though not as tall as my father. He was just as intimidating in his build. Unlike most of the members, Jackson did not have a beard but stood out as clean-shaven. A defined jawline, dusty blond-grey hair, and a large, muscular frame beneath a leather jacket all stood out to visually accent his role as President. While every other guy in this bar scared me, I actually liked Jackson. He was kind to me. He even treated me a bit like his own daughter, often doting on me with small presents and an occasional light joke. My father told me, one Christmas, when Jackson surprised me with a pair of roller skates, that he wanted a daughter like me, not tainted by the club and not wanting to be a part of it. I was, after all, separate from this world, offering a certain innocent escape for both my father and Jackson. To that end, I was a far cry from his eighteen-year-old son, Blake Detroit. His son was a troublemaker, as Jackson aptly described him. I had made my own assumptions about him. I am sure that Blake was lucky to have graduated from high school earlier this year. I don’t know how he managed it, but his grades were high. What a waste of intelligence that he did not use his brain. He was constantly skipping school or getting thrown out of it for fighting with another student. And, from what I heard, he never lost one of those fights. He was a skilled boxer, whom I am sure every man in the club had taught their own life lessons of bar fighting, too, no doubt. This was not the same skill as a professional boxer. The goal of the men now surrounding me was to put the other man on the ground by whatever means necessary during a fight. Fair rules did not apply. While I had heard about these fights and the congratulations given to the winners, I had never actually been a spectator. I did not want to be. That kind of fortitude was not something that I wanted or needed to see. I did not appreciate it as much as the others did. Encouraging bar fights for the stupidest of reasons was something I didn’t understand. It was easy to conclude that Blake’s education was over at High School. He had nothing on the horizon, such as a university, and I don’t think he wanted anything other than his standout Harley CVO bike and the club. I found it hard to believe that both my father and Blake had similar Harleys. I would have thought that Blake would have chosen a bike closer to his father, Jackson’s old Chopper, not the polished, expensive piece of machinery that my father treated like his second child. I spotted Blake on the far side of the room playing pool with a grizzly bear named Joe Croche. Joe was a good friend of my father's. There was no bigger biker than Joe. He was at least 150 pounds of solid force, which would probably still be standing even if a truck hit him. A broken nose gave him character and made him even more unapproachable. He had seen a lot; his face told the story. Blake was just as tall as his father and had the same muscular build. I am sure Jackson would have enjoyed such a build more in his youth. Blake’s waves of blond hair were cut back loosely and unkept, and a pair of sunglasses was placed on his head. A few strands still managed to fall free against his light blue eyes as he leaned over to take a shot of his cue. Blake laughed as he took that strike of the cue and carelessly missed. Even though he was eighteen, he was sipping a beer with Joe. It is not like being under twenty-one, and the legal drinking age really matters in a club like this. Just like smoking was illegal in club. The club had its own laws, and drinking or smoking freely was highly encouraged. As Blake missed his shot and laughed over it, his immaturity was showing. I bet that every girl in his High School loved the rebel side of him. He was the most attractive guy in that school and the most popular by association. Sure, I could see their attraction to his good looks, but that kind of rebel outlook did not appeal to me at all. I am sure that those girls wanted an adventure that Blake could provide, but a future with stability was the opposite of what he was all about. Blake lived life without a care. He lacked ambition. It was not hard to imagine the club would gobble him up, and his life would be spent in a bar like this. Sad, really.