by Naomi West
She turns to me with a guilty look on her face. “I’m sorry …”
“Hey, don’t do that. You’ve got to work. I get it. Don’t feel bad.”
We say goodbye, and she leaves.
I return to the laptop to try and get some work done. I will my fingers to type, staring down at them angrily as though I have no say in the matter. Procrastination is a tricky thing. I learned that in college. I think the biggest thing most of us took away from college was how tricky procrastination is. It isn’t as though I don’t want to get this work done. It’s Cage, haunting my mind, always there right at the edges. Staring at me, demanding to know why I haven’t contacted him.
I slam the laptop closed. “Asshole!” I whisper viciously. “Asshole!”
I pace around the apartment, clasping my hands together. I’m so worked up, I even run around cleaning like a madwoman. I polish every surface in every room, vacuum each corner, clear away my dirty laundry, put a load of laundry on, and then finally, clean the stack of dirty dishes and wipe down the sides. It’s good to be able to do something, at least. Even if it’s not what I’m supposed to be doing.
I go into the bathroom to see what cleaning there is to be done in here. I look at the calendar again. I can’t help but think there’s something off about it, but I can’t figure out why. It’s just a vague feeling. It’s the same sort a person gets when somebody is staring at them. They know that somebody is staring and yet they can’t explain how they know. They just do. It’s the same with the calendar. It’s staring at me. I just don’t know why—
I drop like a lead weight onto the toilet seat. My breathing attacks me. It’s like it’s my enemy. It constricts my throat. I draw in panting breaths. Distantly, I wonder if that’s really me. If I’m really almost crying. If the panic deep in my gut is truly mine. Everything has felt so numb this week, so disconnected. This is something else entirely. This is like being shot in the belly after a week of slogging across a desert.
My cell phone rings. I grab it quickly. It might be Cage.
“Hello, Miss Swift. My name is Andrew. Have you got five minutes to talk about your renter’s insurance today? Did you know that for only—”
“Well, Andrew, I just found out that I might be pregnant. My period is several days late. Oh, and I’m not married. And he’s not my boyfriend. So you can see that I might have bigger things on my mind right now.”
“Uh …” The sound of pages turning. He’s searching his script for a response, I know. It’s the same in all the call centers I’ve worked in. “Uh … I’m not sure …”
I laugh bitterly. “It’s okay, Andrew. I’m happy with my renter’s insurance. Goodbye.”
I hang up and run into the living room. I dress quickly, not bothering to tie my boots. I just stuff the laces down near my feet. Then I run down to the convenience store and buy three pregnancy tests, all different brands. I stand in the living room for several long minutes, just staring down at the brown paper bag.
It takes a real effort to make myself take the tests from the bag. I’m about to throw it away, but then I place it on the counter. Aren’t paper bags a good way to stave off anxiety attacks?
In the bathroom, I sit down with one of the sticks propped in the toilet bowl. Nobody told me how awkward this procedure would be. It is not at all comfortable. I’m so nervous that I can’t go for a long time. I just sit there chewing my lower lip, wondering how I could be so stupid. In college, there was a girl who got pregnant in her second year. I remember asking her why she didn’t use a condom. She just looked at me. I didn’t understand the look then.
I do now.
She wanted to tell me that sometimes passion is so mad, so rushing, so all-consuming that a girl can completely forget all about condoms. When Cage and I were having that animal-like sex, I wasn’t thinking about consequences. I was just thinking about the moment. His strong arms, his sweat-soaked body. Now? Even now, I’m getting horny thinking about him? I squeeze onto my thighs.
“Pee!” I snap at myself. “Pee! Pee!”
It turns out my bladder doesn’t like being talked to that way. It takes a bottle of water and ten more minutes.
Finally, I have all three tests lined up on the counter near the sink. The results will take a few minutes to process.
I go into the kitchen and stare at the brown paper bag. But I have managed to get my breathing under control now. I don’t feel calm, but I don’t feel as though I’m going to spin into panic either. It’s a strange feeling, not knowing if there is a life in my belly. How can I have a passenger and not even be aware of it? I smooth my hands over my belly, wondering, thinking. But Cage and I are nothing, now. An entire week … he’s probably moved on. He’s probably with another woman.
He might not even remember my name.
I return to the bathroom. I just stand on the opposite side of the room at first. I have to will myself forward so that I don’t lose my nerve. Part of me just wants to grab them without looking at the results and toss them in the garbage. I fight the urge.
I stare down at all three tests.
The results are the same for each one.
I just keep staring, wondering if they’ll change. Wondering if I even want them to.
19
Cage
I sit in the bar, drinking more’n I should be drinking. But that’s nothing new since Scarlett left. Or since I made her leave. Dammit, I don’t know how I’m supposed to think about what happened. She shouldn’t’ve been writing about Isaac, I know that much. Yet, as the days go on, I’m starting to wonder if I didn’t go a little too crazy. Destroying that desk … it’s not like I fuckin’ had to do that. I toss back the whisky. We just got back from another job.
“How many’ve I killed this past week, eh?” I sound far too drunk. The sun has only just set. I sit up straighter. I might be drunk, but I won’t let people think I am. There’s nothing worse than a man who doesn’t know how to handle his drink.
“Three?” Jax asks. “Or four? Depends if that red-haired guy lived or not.”
“Yeah. But they’re still coming hard. They’re still fighting like dogs.”
“The robbery’s tomorrow,” Jax mutters. “It’ll all be over soon.”
I pour myself another whisky.
Jax narrows his eyes at me. “How long until you see the sheriff?”
I glance at the clock. It hangs next to the old repeater rifle, a cowboy-style gun, decommissioned now. “About an hour.”
“Maybe … I don’t wanna be a lady about it, Cage. But maybe go easy on the whisky, eh?”
“Don’t be a lady then,” I grumble. I knock back the whole glass, fighting the urge to twist my face up like some people do. I let it sit hotly in my belly. It isn’t comfortable, but then, little about the life is comfortable.
Jax goes to the bar. He returns with a big bottle of water. He slams it down on the desk. “When have I ever fucked you over?” he demands.
I sigh. “Goddamn, Jax, what is this—”
“When have I ever fucked you over?” he growls. “I want an answer.”
“Never!” I snap. “The fuck you want from me?”
“Drink this water, then. I don’t like playin’ the goddamn babysitter, man. Get your shit together.”
I snatch the water from him. “You oughta be careful, Jax.”
“Or what?”
We meet eyes. Any anger at him quickly drains away. What am I gonna do, beat up my brother because me and Scarlett are through?
“Fuckin’ hell.” I take the water and drink it slowly. It’s much less useful than the whisky.
Jax returns to his seat. “You’ve been about the biggest asshole I’ve met this past week,” he comments. “I don’t mind saying that.”
“Send a gentleman after the Bloody Talons’n see what happens. Polite men don’t win wars, Jax.”
“I know that. It don’t change the fact that you’ve been more of a pain in the ass than usual. You’re sulking, Cage. You’re sulk
ing like a kid.”
“Stop ranting. Fuckin’ hell. Do you want me to drag a couch in here and lie back and you can get a damn notebook and write down everything I say’n then I can pay you one hundred damn dollars for the privilege? Just leave it alone.”
“I’m just calling it how I see it. It’s the girl, isn’t it?”
I sigh, taking another large swig of water. I didn’t realize how dehydrated I was until I start drinking.
“Maybe it is,” I mutter. “But who cares? You care too damn much, Jax. That’s your problem. You’re the sort of fella to drive an hour each way just to make sure some lady’s all right after her husband dies. A lady you hardly even know.”
Jax laughs in disbelief. “You bringing up that shit? It was two years ago. I did know her. I knew her husband before he died. He was my mechanic, a good man. That old lady was lost without him. Who cares?” He shrugs. “She’s dead now as well, anyway.”
“Everyone’s dead,” I growl.
“Are you gonna be good for tomorrow?”
I lean on the table, staring at him. “How’ve I been so far? Is my aim off? When that prick jumped me with a knife, is it him who got stuck in the neck or me?”
“I’m just making sure. Are we fightin’ tonight, Cage?”
“Do you wanna fight tonight?” I keep staring.
He leans back, shaking his head. “I reckon we could, too. Beat each other bloody’n then fuck up tomorrow because we’re too injured. What a mess that’d be, eh? I’m not fighting you, Cage. But it don’t change the fact that we need you sharp for tomorrow. What happened with her?”
“You’ve asked me this!” I snap, finally cutting the staring short.
“And you haven’t told me.”
“Who says there’s anything to tell? Of all the fellas who could’ve become my partner, why’d I get the one who gives a damn about stuff like this? Tell me to go’n get a club girl. Tell me to forget that bitch …” I trail off. I can’t call her a bitch, even if I don’t mean it.
“We’re brothers, Cage. Which means I give a damn about you. I know you find that hard to believe because you’re a cold motherfucker. But there it is. Unless this girl fucked some other man or did something to the club, I don’t see how you can’t forgive her. Are you really that sensitive?”
“You don’t even know what it is!” I snarl.
“How many hangovers this week, eh?”
“Are you my damn mother? Maybe we will fight tonight. Fuckin’ hell, Jax. Just leave it alone.”
“I’m worried about you.” It’s the naked honesty of it I can’t stand. He’s not embarrassed to be talking this way, like all of the other men would be. He just looks at me with concern on his face. It’s the complete truth. He really is just worried about me. “You don’t have to tell me what happened.”
“I won’t. You don’t need to know.”
“But she didn’t cheat on you? She didn’t betray the club?”
“No!” I bark. I slam my fist down on the table. The glasses leap into the air, clattering back down. Some of the fellas turn at the noise. “Are we done? I’ve gotta go meet the sheriff, remember.”
“Not for an hour.”
“Yeah, well maybe I’ll take the scenic route.”
I go outside, still holding onto the water bottle. I can’t ride right away, so I drink some water and head around the back where we have a small outdoor gym. I do one hundred push-ups, some pull-ups, and then some free weights. I finish off the bottle of water about halfway through. I pour myself some more from the outside faucet and go on with my workout. By the time I’m done, my head is clear, even if it’s aching like the devil. That’s the problem with being responsible. The hangover doesn’t wait until tomorrow.
Life seems aimless without Scarlett. That’s the real problem with all of this. It doesn’t make any damn sense, which makes the problem even more annoying. It ought to make sense why I can’t get her out of my head. There should be some reason I can point at. But mostly it’s just her smile, or her smell, or thinking about the way she would laugh. It’s not one thing. It’s everything. I haven’t even known her for very long. Yet that doesn’t seem to matter either.
I ride out to the police station, hoping that the drive’ll clear Scarlett from my head. It doesn’t. The same thing happens that’s been happening all week. I’ll see a woman with a similar build to Scarlett and for a second, I’ll think it’s her. It’s not unlikely. Steep Rock isn’t huge. But it’s never her. It’s always somebody else.
I pull up at the rear of the station and text Henry Anderson, the sheriff. He comes walking out a few minutes later. He’s an old, wide, strong-looking man with a gray handlebar mustache. He was in the MC back before I joined, and then he went and became a police officer instead. These days he’s half’n half, but he’s not a brother anymore.
“Cage.” He nods.
“Henry.” I nod back.
“Shall we get to it?”
“All right then.”
We go into the police station, to a conference room at the back. He closes the door and turns to me with his thumbs hooked through his belt. “So this is really happening?” he asks. “All day I’ve been praying it was a dream, Cage. But it’s not, is it? We’re really going to let these bastards rob the Steep Rock bank?”
“We’re gonna let them try.”
He nods at a chair. I take the seat. He sits nearby me, but leaves one chair between us.
“We’re not making a habit of this,” he tells me. “I don’t give a damn about your legal businesses and so long as you keep the other shit away from Steep Rock, I don’t care about those either. But this is the first and last time we pull a stunt like this. And if a single civilian gets so much as injured …” He shakes his head. “I’ll be forced to come down on you, all of you.”
I massage the bridge of my eyebrows. “I get all that, sheriff. Don’t worry so damn much. We’re clearing the bank except for the tellers, and the tellers are gonna get warning so they’ll be outta the way long before the Claws get in there. We’ve already put up the roadworks so it don’t look too suspicious, like they came outta nowhere.”
“You ought to let us arrest him.” Henry sighs.
“You know what’ll happen if you arrest Arvin Hatter.”
We both do. Dead witnesses, a mess of a case, Hatter escaping …
“I hate the damn justice system. We’re taking the others, though. You can have Hatter, but we’re taking his men.”
I nod. “Yeah, sheriff. I know.”
“I was just making sure. What else?”
“I’ve got your fee outside. It’s on my bike.”
He glances around. He always gets shifty when I bring up the money. “Send it to the usual address.”
“I thought you might want it now.” I shrug. “It’s a lot of cash, way more’n usual. You really wanna trust that to the mail?”
“Can’t you send a courier down?”
“To California?” I rub at my cut, scabby knuckles, considering. “I reckon we could do that, yeah. What’d you want us to do, leave it outside or go’n knock on the door and hand it to her? It’s a bigger package this time.”
Henry rubs at his jaw. “Knock on the door. Don’t want some kid stealing it from the doorstep. But Cage, make sure the man looks presentable. If you’ve got anyone who isn’t covered in tattoos, send them. Tell them to comb their hair.”
“All right, all right. Any other demands?”
“I don’t want my old lady thinking I’m in bed with criminals.”
I repress a smile. He is in bed with criminals. And she’s not his old lady anymore. I nod briefly. “It’s all good, sheriff. This time tomorrow, you’ll be wondering why you worried at all.”
“I mean it, Cage. Anything goes wrong, it’s the end of the Angels.”
“You ought to know we wouldn’t just go quietly. And you also ought to know that we wouldn’t feel good about killing a civilian either. When have the Angels ever killed a civilian
, eh? When?”
Henry shifts around in his seat. “Just send the damn courier. We’ll do our part.”
“Excuse me!” Her voice comes from the front of the station. Through a wall and down a hallway, but still loud. “I am trying to report a robbery!”
Henry cocks his head at me. Maybe he can read my face. See the recognition. It’s Scarlett’s voice!
“Ma’am, ma’am,” Brianna is saying patiently. “You’ll have to slow down.”
Scarlett lowers her voice. I stand up, heading for the door. Suddenly, I forget about everything except for Scarlett. There’s a lump in my throat the size of a fist.
20
Scarlett
I stop talking when Cage emerges from the back. He’s wearing his leather as usual, but the shirt underneath is dirty and rumpled. He’s let his beard grow out, too. A week’s growth means a bushy tangle for him, manly in how wild it is. His cuts have mostly healed. They’re pink and fading now. He looks at the police officer behind the desk and then looks at me.
“It’s all right, Brianna,” he mutters. “She’s with me. Come on.” He gestures for me to follow him.
I don’t know what to think as I walk past the waiting area, down a long hallway, and finally to the breakroom. Cage closes the door behind me, locking it. There’s a water cooler and two couches, as well as a TV. In the small kitchen area, people have left out their mugs and plates. I stand near the door, watching Cage. My beating heart makes it difficult to think. It sends reverberations all throughout me. My mind strays to the pregnancy test—
I don’t let it stray all the way. I can’t think about that now.
“Cage,” I whisper, when we just stare at each other.
We’re standing a few feet apart. It’s difficult to read his face. He doesn’t look good. I know that much. There’s a dark look in his eyes, almost angry. It probably has something to do with the gunfights that have been happening over the past week. Always on the outskirts of town, always cleaned up before the police get there. But people have heard the shooting. And word gets around.
