True North: A Wordsmith Chronicles MC Standalone

by Harlan, Christopher

  “North, help me.”

  The sound of her cries energizes me once again. The sight of her hurt, bleeding on the floor, is all I need. This time I lunge, running at Travis like a man who’s about to take revenge—not just for what he did to me, or what he was about to do to Delilah, but for what he did to Joaquin all those years ago, along with all of the other victims of his insanity. We collide—our bodies crashing into one another, like two alpha males engaged in a struggle for survival. Only one of us is walking out of here tonight, and it’s going to be me.

  We lock arms, struggling for control. Travis is strong, and he’s crazy, and that spells danger. I fight for position and so does he. He’s strong, but I’m stronger. “This is it for you, you son of a bitch.”

  “Keep telling yourself that, North. When we’re done I’m gonna make you watch me rape your wife.”

  His words do the opposite of what he wants. They fill me with strength. They fill me with the energy I need to gain an advantage and, just as he reaches for the knife he keeps in his back pocket, I use his weight against him and throw him to the ground. He falls to his back and I get on top of him. He swipes upwards with his knife out of desperation and slices my forearm open. The blood pours down my arm and onto his face. I don’t even feel the pain. I can suffer later, but right now he needs to be stopped, once and for all.

  I knock the knife from his hand and it rolls across the floor, the stain of my blood still on the metal. I start to rain down punches as hard and as fast as my fists will descend. Some of them hit, some of them don’t, but it doesn’t matter. The feeling of my knuckles smashing into his flesh is satisfying enough, and I know that eventually they’ll break through his defenses. I feel one slip through, smashing into his nose, shattering it with a single shot. The blood starts to flow out of his his nose, mixed with the spraying blood from my wound.

  Every blow that lands is harder than the last. My rage knows no boundaries but the feeling of beating him gets so addictive that I lose my balance, and before I can drop another blow he bucks me off with all of his might, and I fall to the floor. He jumps on me, moving faster than he looks capable of, and in an instant our positions have completely shifted. Now I’m the one underneath, using my arms to block my face and looking for opportunities to break free. None come. He hits me again and again, his weight holding me in place as I try to defend myself and just survive. A clean shot breaks through my guard, and I feel dazed. I’m lost underneath but I’m aware enough to see him reach for his knife and hold it over my head. This is it, I think. I failed. I’ve failed her.

  But just as he’s about to drop the knife down and end me forever, I hear her scream. She’s behind Travis, swinging the metal lamp that we keep in the kitchen at Travis’ head. He falls to the side, bleeding, and Delilah steps forward. “No,” I yell. “Get back.” She does as I tell her. Travis dropped his knife as he fell, and I grab it and get to my feet.

  “This ends here,” I tell him. “No more. You come any closer to me and I’m going to kill you. Last warning.”

  “Fuck you!” he yells, before charging me like a crazed bull. I don’t side step, and I don’t run, I just lift my knife—his knife—as he runs, chest first, into the blade. I feel it go inside as the force of his run knocks me down, and on the ground, I feel the blood pouring out of him. I hit him in the heart, and, in a few seconds, he’ll be dead. “North. . .” he says, struggling for breath. And then nothing but the silence of his death.

  He said my name. He said it, and now he’s dead. A fitting end for scum like him. I turn to Delilah, who’s crying on the floor. I wipe the blood from my hands and run to her. “I thought I was going to lose you forever.”

  “Me, too,” she cries. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

  We sit, crying in each other’s arms for I don’t know how long, and I don’t care, either. I’m a proud man, but I’m not afraid to shed a tear when a tear needs shedding, and right now all of my fears and anxieties are pouring out through my tear ducts, bathing the love of my life, who’s still alive and in my arms. It sounds ironic to say this, but I’ve never been so happy.

  “Delilah,” I say, pulling back. “You think you’re ever getting rid of me? It would take a hell of a lot more than this crazy bastard to separate me from the woman I love. You’ll never be rid of me.”

  “Thank God,” she says. “Thank God. I love you so much, North.”

  “I love you, too, baby. More than the waking world. More than anything else that’s ever been.”

  We hold each other a little longer, before I call the cops to tell them the truth—that I killed a man in self defense who was trying to kill me and my wife. Once they find out who he is they won’t ask too many questions. The local, state, and federal cops have been looking for Travis for some time. Now they have his body. Eventually the sounds of sirens can be heard in the distance, approaching us with every passing second.

  The nightmare is over.

  Our future is just beginning.

  Forty Seven—North—Way Back When

  “. . .honesty, even when it hurts.”

  I never thought that I’d be standing at my best friend’s funeral, about to throw dirt onto his casket, but I guess that life throws us unexpected curveballs. That knowledge doesn’t make this any easier, and I was just his best friend, I can only imagine what Ana is going through. Her sobbing is so loud that it’s making me want to cry. It’s the sort of visceral noise that reminds you that real loss isn’t just a feeling, it creates a sound all its own.

  I do my best to comfort her, holding her in my arms as the preacher says his piece—some rehearsed thing about how Joaquin’s in a better place now, or some bullshit. I suppose those words are comforting to some, but to me they just sound like a script. They’re certainly not going to do anything for the grieving widow by my side. Only time will heal that wound—and even that, just barely.

  It ends as quickly as it began. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Joaquin’s injuries were too severe, and it was his time to go. After the funeral we meet up with the boys at the bar, to toast our lost brother one last time.

  “To Joaquin!” I yell, holding up my drink. Delilah’s by my side. She’s worried about my state of mind. I love this girl—after all she’s been through with me in such a short time, she’s still not worried about herself. Only me.

  “To Joaquin!” The cacophony of everyone yelling his name all at once is heartwarming, yet bittersweet at the same time. I love that we’re screaming his name. I hate that we have to do it at all. I don’t drink too much—one beer is all I need to pay tribute. I’ve never been one to drown my sorrows, and as bad as I’m hurting I won’t be starting tonight.

  As the evening winds down Delilah tells me that she’s going to pull the car up. She didn’t want to take the bike. I think she thought I’d be hammered by the time we left, and that she’d be my designated driver. When she walks out I take a moment to talk some last business with the boys. “Any word on Travis?”

  “Nothing,” Jon Boy says. “Not a whisper. There’s no way he’s alive, she shot him right in the chest.”

  “There’s nothing unsound about that logic, Jon, but I also can’t just assume.”

  “Why not?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, why not assume? He’s gone. Whether he’s actually dead or not, it’s over. Joaquin is dead. Travis is most likely dead. You’re leaving for a normal life. In all likelihood we’re doing the same, man. Who cares if he’s dead or alive? He’s gone, and you should start concerning yourself with your future, not your past.”

  The man speaks the truth, and when people speak the truth you have no choice but to listen. I don’t know why, with me and Delilah almost dying, Joaquin getting killed, and everything else that’s just happened, but I can’t stop thinking about Travis. That bastard is in my head. I wish I’d killed him myself, but that was Ana’s shot all day. It was her who deserved vengeance, not me. But, still, I wish I’d been the on
e who ended his miserable life.

  “Thank you,” I say to Jon Boy.

  “For what?”

  “For telling the truth. There’s nothing better in this world. You’re right, and I’ll be leaving now. Just one last question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Travis was working his way up to club president. I know he was. He was ambitious and evil, and men like that reach the top eventually, one way or another. Word is that their current president is being indicted by the FBI on a RICO drug case. So, who’s stepping up?”

  “Well, I haven’t heard this directly, but the word is that Rollins is next in line. It makes sense.”

  “I’m happy to be leaving this behind. Not you or the guys, but what it’s become. It’s not the same anymore.”

  “No,” he says solemnly. “It isn’t. To quote an amazing author, ‘. . . this ain’t no country for old men.’, is it?”

  “You calling me old, you fuck?” I laugh. “We’re the same age.”

  “That’s right, but this outlaw biker shit is for young guys looking to make a name for themselves. This ain’t for us anymore.”

  “Agreed, brother. We’ll talk soon. Be well.”

  “You too, North.”

  <><><>

  “So, what’s it going to be about?” Delilah asks.

  “What is what going to be about?”

  “Your first book. I know you don’t have a title or anything like that, but what is it going to be about?”

  “Am I writing a book now?”

  “If you don’t, I may never talk to you again. You still want to, right? It’s still a dream of yours to be a successful author?”

  I nod. “It is.”

  “Then let’s go. Start writing.”

  “I wish it were that simple, Delilah, but it isn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “How are we going to live? Where are we going to live? And even if I had a finished manuscript in front of me, it costs money to release and promote books. Where is that coming from? I think I need to hang up my jacket and get a real job to save some money first. Then, once we’re more comfortable with our finances I can start writing that book—almost like a side project.”

  “Do you trust me, North?”

  “How’s that?”

  “It’s simple. Do you trust me?”

  “With my life, baby.”

  “Then listen to me now, really carefully. Everything you just said is bullshit.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “If you wait for your dreams to be convenient, or if you hold out on them until you have all this magical extra money, you’ll never pursue them. Don’t lie to yourself. If you follow that plan you just laid out, you’ll never write a single book, and you sure as fuck won’t be successful.”

  Her words sting a little. Here I am, trying to do the responsible thing—trying to do right by us and our situation, and she’s saying it’s a terrible idea. “But. . .”

  “No ‘but’,” she interrupts. “You’re right about the bills. I get that. But there’s something you need to know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You just trusted me to be honest with you, and now I need to extend that trust and be totally honest with you.”

  “Okay, I’m ready.”

  “I have money,” she blurts out. “Like, a lot of it. Enough to support us for a very long time, even if neither of us ever worked a job again.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask. “You never said. . .”

  “I know,” she interrupts. “It’s not the kind of thing I lead with. You never know who’ll want you just for the money you have. I mean, I’m not rich or anything, at least not compared to like, Bill Gates or anything. But I got a very large settlement after that bastard left me high and dry—lump sum and monthly payments. I have more than enough to support you while you start your new career.”

  At first, my male pride starts to scream ‘NO’ inside my head, but then I realize that’s just what it is. For good or bad, I have some old-fashioned beliefs when it comes to men and women. Now, that doesn’t mean that I’m some chauvinist asshole who believes that women need to be barefoot and pregnant. That’s old-fashioned bullshit. But I was raised with a strong sense of being a provider, and the idea of living off someone else’s money, especially the woman I love, while I try to become some romance writer, is something I’m not so keen on when I first hear the idea.

  “I don’t know, Delilah. I’m not sure that I feel comfortable with it.”

  “Why?” she asks. “Because your woman will be supporting you?”

  “Damn. If my writing doesn’t work out we can get a side business of you reading minds. I know, it’s stupid, right?”

  “Yes. Stupid. Old fashioned. Dumb. Pick your favorite way of saying it.”

  “You don’t pull any punches, do you?”

  “Hell no,” she answers. “And neither do you. Let’s make a promise right here and now that it’ll always be that way. Honesty, even when it hurts.”

  I like that. I like it a lot. “Honesty, even when it hurts. And are you sure about the money thing?”

  She looks at me and smiles. She takes my hand in hers and kisses me gently on the lips. “I haven’t been this sure of anything in a long time. Just go with it. You’re my man, and one day, when you’re rich and successful, you’ll support us all?”

  “Us?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she answers. “You, me, whoever else.”

  I know what she’s referring to, and any other man who isn’t me would run at the suggestion of having a family with a woman he met not that long ago. Those men are cowards. I’m not ready for a family—hell, Delilah and I aren’t even married, but we know that we’re meant for one another, and when you know that, all the rest works itself out.

  “Alright then,” I answer, kissing her. “Thank you. You’re amazing in ways I’m going to struggle for years to tell you. Maybe I’ll write it all down one day.”

  “So I’ll ask you again, what’s it going to be about?”

  I think for second. It doesn’t take much consideration. “It’ll be about this badass dude. He’s a protector. He’s a warrior. Someone who fights hard and loves harder. A man who runs an MC. He’ll meet the woman of his dreams and they’ll go into business together. They’ll have passionate sex, some crazy adventures, and the book will make the readers understand what it means for a man to sacrifice for the woman he loves.”

  “I see,” she says, grinning. “So, basically, it’ll be about you.”

  “No,” I correct her. “It’ll be about Joaquin.”

  She wells up when I say this. I can tell she didn’t expect it. I wasn’t planning on writing about him as a main character, but I wasn’t expecting to lose him either.

  “I love you so much, North. You’re the best man I’ve ever met.”

  “I love you, too, Delilah. But that’s been true since the first minute I saw you. Guess it’s about time to say the words, huh?”

  We kiss.

  We hug.

  We love one another.

  I’ve never been so happy.

  Forty Eight—North—Now

  “. . .sometimes I’m too hard for my own good.”

  There are certain words in a man’s life that, when heard in combination, can change the course of things forever. There are numerous examples, but none of them are as impactful as the ones Delilah just said to me.

  “You’re pregnant?”

  It’s a dumb question to ask after she already told me this very thing as I was sitting here on the couch, but her affirmative nod focuses her statement and makes the whole thing very real. I don’t say anything back. Even though I’m a bit of a wordsmith, this isn’t the time for words. Nothing I could say would reflect the joy I’m feeling, so I won’t ruin the moment by trying. I just grab my wife and hold her close—tighter than I’ve ever held her before.

  I’m a hard man. Sometimes I’m too hard for my own good. I have trouble showin
g how I really feel. I say the wrong things. I let my anger get the best of me from time to time. But, right now, I have no trouble expressing how I feel, and it happens through a single tear that forces its way out of my eyes, and falls gently onto Delilah’s shoulders. It’s followed by another, and then another after that. It’s the ultimate intimacy for me to be able to cry in front of the woman I love, and although doing so was once unimaginable to me, right now it’s the only thing to do.

  “Are you crying?” she asks.

  I don’t answer. She can see my eyes turning red. I have to admit, I never understood what the expression ‘tears of joy’ meant. It was something I heard people say, but never fully understood. Now I do. The water falling out of my tear ducts and soaking my pregnant wife’s shoulder reflect my relief at her being okay, my gratitude that someone like her exists in my life, and my absolute joy that I’m going to be a father one day soon.

  “Wait,” I say, pulling back and returning to my normal self. “Does this mean I’m going to have to sell the Pussy Wagon?”

  It’s odd that the announcement of my first child has me thinking of my replicated car from the movie Kill Bill. In that film Uma Thurman’s character, the Bride, drives around in a giant stolen yellow car with the words “Pussy Wagon” on the side, seeking revenge for those who wronged her. I had one made just like it, and I drive it to signings just to make people laugh.

  She thinks on this a minute before answering. “It might be a bad look to roll up to a daddy-and-me class with the word ‘Pussy’ in giant letters on your car. Maybe I’m being a prude, but we might want to invest in a normal car also.”

  “I agree,” I tell her. “It would be a hard sell anyhow. Who’s gonna buy that thing? I’ll make it my official signing car. We’ll go next weekend and get a normal car, as much as it hurts me to say that word.”

  “Which?” she asks.

  “Normal. It feels like acid rolling off of my lips.”

  “I hate to tell you, James, but it’s not a big yellow car that makes you different or badass. You’re always that guy, whether you’re on a Harley or holding a baby. The badass is inside of you. The rest is window dressing.”