Shifting Gears (Satan's Knights Prospect Trilogy Book 1)

by Janine Infante Bosco

  “I’m not that drunk.”

  “You fell like five times,” I point out.

  “I tripped over misplaced furniture,” he scoffs, waving a hand around dismissively. He’s awfully animated for someone I pegged as a loner. It’s quite cute.

  “You’re drunk,” I repeat, trying to focus on the negativity. Drunks aren’t attractive.

  “Okay, a little bit,” he agrees, pulling me into the bedroom. “It’s that damn Fireball,” he drawls, looking around the bedroom. “Ah, now, this is familiar.”

  My eyes involuntarily dart towards the bed and I’m immediately consumed by the memories of us tangled between those sheets. I try to shake the images from my mind but it’s no use. Bash drops onto the bed, spreading out across it and sighs contently.

  “Something is missing.”

  “You look situated,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m gonna take off. I’ll leave the key on the coffee table.”

  “Lydia.”

  I shake my head. If I stay another minute, I’m not sure what will happen.

  “No, Bash. I can’t do this,” I tell him. The truth is, I want to climb into bed with him. I want to feel his body next to mine and drift off to sleep knowing he’s the first thing I’ll see when I awake. Maybe Bash isn’t the only one who’s lonely. Maybe I’m lonely too.

  Bash lifts his head from the pillow and eyes me curiously.

  “I have to go. You’re a nice guy and what we had...that night…well, it was—” I take a step back and bump into the door.

  “It was fucking incredible.”

  “It was a mistake.”

  “Because I left?”

  “What? No,” I reply, shaking my head insistently. “I didn’t expect to ever see you again and now here you are looking…well, look like that,” I say, waving a hand at him. His eyebrows knit with confusion as he glances down at himself. I roll my eyes and take another step back and to the side, making my way closer to the threshold. “We can be friends but that’s all. No repeat performances.”

  “Performances…is that what they’re calling it these days…a performance?”

  God, he’s infuriating.

  And sexy.

  Did I mention he’s sexy?

  Or that I’m lonely?

  So incredibly lonely.

  “Goodnight, Bash,” I murmur hoarsely before turning abruptly and running out of the bedroom. Another minute and I’d lose the will to leave. I’d crawl into bed and give into temptation. I’d close my eyes and for one night, I’d allow myself to believe I’m normal, that I’m not hiding in plain sight.

  For one night I’d trust a man with more than just my body.

  I’d trust him with my life.

  -Five-

  Lydia

  Still reeling from my interaction with Bash, I trek across the driveway my landlord shares with the house next door and make my way to the basement apartment. Actually, that’s a stretch. The ad said it was a legal studio, but I don’t think that’s the case. The walls are paper-thin, and all the utilities run off the main house. Upon moving in, Griff, my landlord, told me I couldn’t have my own cable line. If I wanted HBO, I had to tap into his box which further confirms my suspicions that this apartment or whatever you call it isn’t legal at all.

  But I’m not complaining.

  Well, not really. It’s just that I had a different vision for my life. I expected to be happily married at thirty-two, living in a high ranch-style house with two kids and three dogs, running bake sales for the PTA. So, maybe I’m a little bitter and maybe there’s also a tiny piece of me that wishes for my old life.

  The thought is crippling and makes me question my sanity.

  After all, no sane person would ever wish to endure the things I have. But when you’re a victim of any kind of abuse, I think there’s a heavy dose of denial that comes with every beating and verbal lashing. As foolish as it sounds, you think every attack is the last, that your abuser will miraculously wake up and change. That he’ll be the man you trusted with your heart. The one who promised to give you those two kids and three dogs.

  You tell yourself he doesn’t mean it.

  That he loves you.

  You apply make-up to the bruises and put the flowers he gifts you in a vase. You stare at his reflection in the mirror searching his features for sincerity as he gently applies ointment to the cigarette burns on your back and you breathe a sigh of relief when you spot it. Whether you’ve imagined it or not remains to be seen. You take what you can get because there is still a piece of you that clings to hope. A piece of you that hasn’t died.

  And then it happens again.

  The cycle continues and one day you find yourself battered and bruised, crying in a hospital, begging God for a way out.

  Shaking the memories from my head, I fumble with my keys. Paranoia begins to set in and I pause, turning my head, expecting to find Declan standing behind me, a Marlboro dangling from his lips.

  I remind myself I’m safe and sound, that he can’t hurt me anymore and I let myself into my tiny apartment. Closing the door, I lean against it and close my eyes. I realize it’s not my old life that I wish for, but rather the strength to recover the pieces of me that died when I married a monster. That girl wouldn’t be hiding in plain sight. She wouldn’t be living in a basement apartment. She’d grab life by the balls and crush goals. She’d start that business she always dreamed of running, buy herself a little house and maybe even allow herself to find love. She’d close the book on pain and suffering and fucking live. Maybe be a mother. Maybe get herself those three dogs.

  I may have gotten away from Declan, but I am still living under the cloud of abuse and I hate admitting that. I hate it so damn much.

  Pushing myself away from the door, I flick on the lights and begin my routine. I turn the deadbolt three times before testing the doorknob. Certain it’s locked, I move to the window above the kitchen sink and make sure that’s locked too then I draw the blinds tightly shut. When I’m sure no one is getting in, I decide to wash the day from me. I move to grab my “go” bag, but I can’t find it. Panic instantly washes over me and not because my favorite sweatshirt is in that bag. Everything I need to escape is in there. It’s a ticket to another life and a means of survival. If someone was to get a hold of it, my cover would be blown. Life as Lydia Gallo would be over and I’m not ready to part ways with her just yet.

  I take a deep calming breath and count to ten, trying to ward off the impending anxiety attack. I had the bag before Bash stumbled in drunk and caused me to lose my head. I must’ve dropped it when I brought him upstairs and as I fled from his apartment, from my attraction towards him, I forgot all about my means of survival.

  In two years, that has never happened.

  I sleep with that thing next to my bed. That, and a small handgun.

  When I take a shower, the bag and gun are in the bathroom next to the tub.

  Crazy, but true.

  Pulling my lower lip between my teeth, I contemplate going back to the bar to get the bag. Not just for the comfort it provides but also because if anyone gets a hold of it and decides to look inside, they’re going to ask questions. Questions I can’t answer.

  The part of me that wants to break the chains locking me to my past tells me I can go one night without the bag. I still have the gun taped to the back of my dresser. I can grab the bag first thing in the morning. That would be liberating, wouldn’t it? It would also help me reclaim a lost piece of my old self.

  I continue to mull over the possibility when someone knocks on my door. My pulse quickens and my eyes go wide with fear when I glance at the clock. It’s two in the morning. Not an ideal hour for a friendly visit…not that I have many friends who visit. The banging on the door persists and I make a mad dash for my dresser. Pushing it away from the wall, I lean over and pat the back of the piece of furniture in search of the gun. My hand closes around it and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “Lydia, it’s me.”

&nb
sp; The sound of my neighbor, Chaz’s voices makes me go still.

  “For God’s sake, girl, open the door. I saw your car. I know you’re in there. I also know there’s a better chance of getting struck by lightning, then you having anyone other than your vibrator keeping you company.”

  Swallowing, I secure the gun back against the dresser.

  “One second,” I call. My voice shakes as much as my hands do as they push the dresser back against the wall. I try to compose myself by taking a few deep breaths. Chaz knocks again and I smooth a hand over my stomach as I make my way on wobbly legs towards the door. With a quick glance at the peephole, I undo the locks and open the door.

  Dressed in full drag, Chaz rolls his eyes at the sight of me and pulls the hot pink wig from his head.

  “Took you long enough,” he scolds, shouldering his way into my apartment. He kicks off his heels and watches as I play with the locks.

  One, two, three.

  “You really need to get a hold of this OCD shit,” he chastises.

  Ignoring his commentary, I spin around and try to appear as if I wasn’t just having a full-blown panic attack.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “My mother is back from Frisco and I didn’t want to kill her,” he says, plopping down on the foot of my bed. “You know she’s still in denial about this,” he says, sweeping a hand down the length of him.

  When I first moved here, I found Chaz hiding out on the steps leading towards my apartment, black mascara streaking his face. He didn’t know Griff had rented the apartment to me and was just as shocked to see me as I was to see him. We both kind of just stood there like two deer caught in headlights. I don’t remember who struck up the conversation first, but once I realized he wasn’t a drag queen hired to kill me, I introduced myself to my new neighbor and asked if he’d like to come inside. Though, thinking about it now, the promise of makeup remover wipes was probably what cinched the deal for him and not my company.

  After we cleaned him up and removed the false eyelashes, Chaz told me his story and the reason why I found him hysterically crying on my steps. He had come out to his mother when he was eighteen. According to him, she didn’t have much of a reaction and he thinks that’s because she assumed it was a phase, that he’d eventually grow out of his love for dick.

  His words, not mine.

  He never bothered to correct her and went about his life. Five years went by and guess what, he didn’t grow out of his love for dick. In fact, he added another love to the mix…drag. He saw it as a form of art and started playing shows all over the Tri-State area without her knowing. That night, after his show, he went home in full gear, thinking she was on a business trip. Not only did he have to face his mother wearing a dress, but he found all his performing clothes torn to shreds, his makeup in the garbage and his heels bagged for the church. All hell broke loose and his mother kicked him out of her house, telling him he couldn’t live under her roof until he got help and fixed whatever was wrong with him.

  My heart broke for him and for a brief moment, I subconsciously put my own qualms aside and offered him a place to crash. Opening my home to someone was a big move on my part and to this day Chaz has no idea. He doesn’t know anything about my past. To him, I’m just some quirky spinster with OCD tendencies.

  A couple of days after the incident, his mother knocked on my door. Apparently, everyone on Staten Island has cameras on their semi-attached homes…you know in case a stray cat knocks down a garbage pail and you want to press charges. Anyway, she knew he was staying with me and agreed to let her son back under her roof so long as he didn’t throw his life choices in her face. I expected him to tell her to take her offer and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine but I later found out his love for his special needs brother kept him from doing so.

  In a weird way, I could relate to him. I was always too frightened to leave Declan and not so much because I thought he’d kill me, but I feared what he would do to my grandma. I started to see Chaz as a sign from above. A gift from my gram, if you will. I didn’t have to be alone anymore. I could befriend him and maybe even stop talking to myself. If I was really lucky, Chaz would even teach me how to apply makeup properly. I always wanted to master the smoky eye look and don’t get me started on the whole wing thing.

  Now, on the nights he works, he changes before he goes home, or he comes here…because hello, makeup wipes.

  “Shouldn’t you be in your pajamas, knitting a scarf or something?” he questions, removing the hoop earrings from his ears.

  “Funny,” I mutter, padding towards the fridge for two bottles of water. “Don’t mock my scarves. One day they’re going to be in department stores and you’re going to say, I knew that girl.”

  Some people have cats to keep them company, I’ve got yarn. Under my bed, I have tons of scarfs, blankets and even some crocheted purses, all handmade by yours truly.

  “Department stores,” he scoffs. “Girl, I can’t even get you to open an Etsy store.”

  This is true.

  Once Chaz discovered my little hobby, he began pestering me to sell my merchandise. I made him a scarf and told him to leave me alone. Well, that was after I informed him that I had no interest in selling the things I create. In truth, I always dreamed of opening my own store. But you can’t pick up a store like you can a bag and bolt in the middle of the night.

  Realizing my slip, I hand him the bottle of water and shrug my shoulders.

  “An Etsy store is too much work. I barely have the time to knit these days.”

  “That’s because that douche canoe never shows for work.”

  “Douche canoe?”

  “You like that one, don’t you?” he teases, taking the bottle of water from me. “It’s a shame too because that Nico guy is hot as fuck.”

  It’s my turn to roll my eyes. Everyone thinks Nico Scotto is hot. I mean whenever he’s at the bar, the girls go crazy. He draws a crowd and when he’s not a moody bastard, I’m sure he charms the pants off plenty of willing females. But his laziness is a turnoff and that’s the part all those girls don’t see.

  “Eh, he’s not my type,” I say dropping onto the foot of my bed.

  “Girl, do you even have a type?”

  Immediately Bash enters my head. If I had a type, the new prospect would check all the boxes.

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Everyone but you,” he replies, patting my knee before rising from the bed. I frown as his words sink in and he moves to the dresser. Pulling open the top drawer, he takes out a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. Did I mention my friend also has ransacked my space by keeping half his clothes here? He’s the high maintenance type. “It’s like your vagina died.”

  “My vagina didn’t die,” I argue miserably.

  “Sure it did,” he mocks, shutting the drawer. “Right after that Texan went back home it died. If you remember correctly, we had a funeral and everything. I even said a prayer in hopes it would resurrect one day.” He pauses as he reaches the bathroom. Glancing over his shoulder, he gives me a cheeky smile. “Easter is coming, maybe it will happen then.”

  “Easter is not for months,” I hiss.

  “Touché,” he replies, disappearing into the bathroom.

  “For your information, that Texan is back,” I call out.

  Chaz pops his head in the doorway and raises one perfectly drawn eyebrow.

  “Shut the fuck up. Did the badass bikers decide to fuck up another drug cartel?”

  I groan.

  “Why do I tell you anything?”

  “Forget that it doesn’t matter,” he says, pulling the t-shirt over his head. “Tell me everything.”

  “Chaz, half your face is covered in make-up, you’re wearing a t-shirt and you still have your fishnet stockings on. Can you maybe finish getting dressed or undressed—whatever it is you’re doing?”

  “Fine, deflect. I’m removing the batteries from your vibrator.”

  “I don’t have a vibrator.�
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  “Lies.”

  “Leave the batteries alone you twat.”

  “Only if you tell me what happened.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Oh honey, please don’t bring him into this,” he chastises. “I’m going to wipe this shit off my face and take these stockings off and then you’re going to fill me in on our favorite cowboy.”

  I sigh as he disappears behind the bathroom door. Two minutes later he emerges with a clean face and marches to the fridge. Grabbing a beer from the stash he keeps on the bottom shelf. He takes the bottle of water from my hand and replaces it with a fresh brew. Knowing he’s never going to leave until I divulge everything, I kick off my chucks and climb into bed. He settles in beside me and I tell him all about how Bash showed up out of nowhere and is now a prospect for the Satan’s Knights. Against my better judgment, I also share how I sort of tucked him in for the night. His eyes light up like a Christmas tree and I immediately regret every word. Luckily, his phone dings with a text from his brother. With a quick kiss to my cheek and a promise to spend tomorrow afternoon binging Netflix and devising a plan on how to resurrect my vagina, he’s gone. I glance at the clock and sigh. It’s too late for me to go back to Kate’s for my bag so I lock the doors.

  One, two, three.

  Before I go to the bathroom, I grab my gun from behind the dresser. I set it on top of the toilet bowl for the duration of my shower and when I lay my head on my pillow, I place the gun on the bed next to me.

  “I’m safe,” I whisper in the darkness.

  For now.

  -Six-

  Bash

  The insistent beeping of my phone alerts me there is a flash flood warning on Staten Island and forces my eyes wide open. At first, I think my phone has been hacked, and this is some sick joke the Knights pulled on me. They’re certainly not above it and seeing as how Riggs is a mastermind with electronics it’s a strong possibility. Especially after the shenanigans, they pulled last night. One minute I’m picking out a pair of wheels, the next I’m taking shots of Fireball at Pipe’s garage with Wolf, Riggs, Cobra, and Deuce, celebrating my status as their new prospect. Oh, and how can I forget the arm-wrestling match with the vice president, Pipe. Yeah, that was…well, an experience. I’m never drinking with any of those fucks again.