As severe on this particular day as it was the day he rode away, it was apparent living with the pain was something I would be forced to deal with. Over the course of the last month I prayed a lot. Not for Vince to return or for the pain to diminish, but for the ability to continue to be myself and not to fall prey to the evils of anger or hatred.
The same fate that brought Vince and me together broke us apart, and for me to reserve gratitude for one and misery for the other would be to second guess the hand of God. I could never claim to fully understand life or all of the rewards, gifts, complications and losses associated with it, nor did I feel I needed to.
Living, it itself, was my gift; and I felt it was my responsibility to do so to the best of my ability. Keeping my chin up and my spirits high, despite the pain I was feeling, was not only in my best interest, but mandatory to me keeping my sanity.
Attempting to grow from the situation I had put myself in, I developed my own opinions of pain and healing. I convinced myself the process of healing brought along with it pain; the more difficult the healing process, the more severe the pain. The pain acted as a reminder of the damage done, and in the mind of the wise, a deterrent to repeat the process which brought about the pain in the first place.
It made perfect sense, at least to me. A runner with a torn muscle felt pain until the muscle had healed, and the process took weeks. A broken bone was painful until the fracture mended itself, requiring a few months to heal. A burn victim with severe burns over half of their body might take an entire year to heal, the pain requiring a morphine drip to be manageable. Seeing the differences in these damages, the healing processes, and the severity of the pain allowed me to believe one day I would no longer hurt.
But I knew the healing process would be a long one.
Although I continued to review books over the last month, I hadn’t had a drink of wine since the day I passed out drunk and missed my date with Vince. I didn’t swear off alcohol, or convince myself I had a drinking problem, but I did realize my having drank too much wine on that particular night caused a problem that I wouldn’t have had in the absence of the wine.
Coffee, however, was a different story.
“So, is that your Continental?” he asked.
I turned toward the voice and nodded my head. “Sure is.”
“Mid-sixties?” he asked as he pointed to the seat beside me.
I nodded my head at his guess of the year, not at his request to sit.
“1965,” I said.
He sat down and smiled.
I did fully expect to one day heal, but in the end I knew I wouldn’t forget Vince, stop loving Vince, or ever be able to love anyone else. My love for Vince wasn’t something I had developed; it had been inside of me for a lifetime, waiting for the person who was entitled to it to come along and claim it.
I believed there were many women, who in the absence of finding the right person, convinced themselves the person standing before them was the right person. I didn’t have to convince myself of anything with Vince, all I had to do was be in his presence. Long before the first kiss, I was well aware he was somehow special to me, and although I wasn’t sure why or to what degree, the first kiss was all it took for me to fully understand what it was he provided to me.
He, through his actions, words, wisdom, and expression, provided proof that he was entitled to receive the love which had been reserved within me for a lifetime, and without my expressed consent, he received it.
I initially found it odd that I didn’t make a conscious decision to give Vince my love. I almost felt cheated that I didn’t have to convince myself what it was I was feeling at the time, I simply knew, and allowed it to happen. It was natural, it was simple, and it required nothing on my part to exist. It was not developed, nor did it happen over time. I had always felt I would allow someone to have my love, or that I would give it to them, but that wasn’t the case with Vince.
Something in me simply snapped as if a switch had been flipped. My love was his and he merely took what he was entitled to.
It was then that I knew the love I felt was true.
The day of the money shot.
“Would you mind sitting somewhere else?” I asked.
He ran his hand through his hair, shook his head lightly, and his hair fell down along his forehead. “I just thought you might want some company,” he said.
I shook my head and grinned. “I’m in love. I have all the company I need.”
VINCE
July 21st, 2015
The Sergeant-at-Arm’s Ol’ Lady had a brother who had been in prison for some time, and according to Axton’s Ol’ Lady, who was a paralegal for a local attorney, he was wrongfully convicted of a crime. The legal firm she worked for requested a new trial, received one, and a mandatory meeting had been declared to attend the trial. It was the opinion of the club that a strong presence at the trial would provide support not only to the man who was being dragged through the court, but to the patched member of the club and his Ol’ Lady.
I didn’t dispute the benefits of attending the trial, but I had a man in another state who had skipped bail, and needed to travel with a bail bondsman to attempt to extradite him. After discussing my work requirements with Axton, I was given permission to work in lieu of going to the trial.
So, while all of the other members of the MC attended the trial, I rode shotgun in a truck to Omaha, Nebraska.
“So the other day, I had this kid that skipped out on bail, and I got a tip on where he was. Kid was 19 years old, and it was a conspiracy to distribute cocaine charge. Kid was facing five years, but since he skipped out, was probably looking at six or so. Anyway, so I go to this house and knock on the door, and this little fucker answers,” he said.
He was about my height, had a shaved head and was covered in tattoos, but weighed an easy fifty pounds more than me, all of which was muscle. He owned his own bail bonding company, and had hired me over the years to assist him with difficult clients. Through the course of doing business, we developed a good business-client relationship, he being the walking intimidation, and me being his physically persuasive partner. It was a good cop bad cop routine we played, and played well.
“And?” I asked.
“Well, his eyes get all big, and he looks at me and says, ‘Biggs, I was meaning to give you a call.’ Now I fucking know better, and I tell this little fucker we can do this the easy way or the hard way and I ask him to pick.” He paused, lit a cigarette, and offered me one.
I shook my head and pulled my pack out of my cut.
After we each lit a cigarette and exchanged glances, he continued.
“So, he says the easy way and asks me to wait a second. Says he wants to grab something. I tell this little fucker if he tries to run, I’ll shoot his little ass with a Taser, and he agrees. Now this house is a little one bedroom crack house, and it’s nasty as fuck and smells like death. But this little fucker just steps aside, opens a drawer on an end table beside this piss stained sofa, and pulls out a wad of cash.” He paused and puffed on his cigarette.
“How much?” I asked.
“Hundred grand. In hundreds. Motherfucker says ‘Here, just act like we never saw each other.’ I took a look at the money, took a look at him, and I shake my head. ‘What you gonna get if you take me in?’ he asks me. ‘Damned sight less than that,’ I tell him. Finally I tell this little prick to turn around and let me cuff him or I’m gonna shoot him in the neck with the Taser, and he lets me take him in. But you know what?” he asked.
I took a drag off the cigarette, inhaled the smoke, and tossed the butt out the window of the truck. After I exhaled the smoke, I turned toward him and responded.
“What?” I asked.
He took another long drag from the cigarette and blew the smoke around the cab of the truck. “I thought about taking the money. I mean, I think I never would have really took it, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t think about it. Weird, if you ask me,” he said.
I s
hook my head. “Good, evil. Right, wrong. It’s just temptation, it happens. Acting on it is what matters.”
“You think?” he asked as he flicked the ashes from his cigarette out the window.
I nodded my head. “Everyone is tempted.”
“I told my pop a lie once when I was a kid, and I tell you what I felt like a damned shit head for about six months. Finally came clean and told him the truth. Fucker beat my ass to a pulp. Not for chewing the tobacco, but for lying to him,” he said.
I laughed and shook my head at the thought. “That’s not temptation, that’s just telling a fucking lie.”
He exhaled another cloud of smoke and flipped the cigarette butt out the window. “I know the fucking difference,” he said.
“Well, I never told my pop a lie, he’d a skinned me alive if I did,” I said.
“Not even a little one?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Nope.”
The thought of telling anyone a lie, especially my father, was incomprehensible. My father was a man of tremendous moral value, and taught me to be the same. Living as a man of my word, being honorable, and always making decisions I felt he would have made himself allowed me to live a life that I was sure would make him proud if he were here to witness himself.
“Knowing you, you’re probably right. You’re a weird fucker, you know it?” he asked.
I turned to face him, narrowed my eyes, and glared. “What the fuck you mean by that?”
“Well, for one, you don’t carry a phone. Who the fuck doesn’t have a phone? You, that’s who. I don’t know one more dude that ain’t got a phone. And when you go on your debt collecting deals, you always act like Samuel L. Jackson in that fucking movie,” he paused and pulled a cigarette from his pack.
After he put the cigarette between his lips, he continued, the cigarette flipping up and down as he spoke.
“Pulp Fiction. You give ‘em some speech about right and wrong and breaking promises like you’re some fucker living on the moral high ground. I ain’t trying to say you’re some hypocrite, you’re just fucking weird,” he said with a laugh.
He reached for his lighter, lit his cigarette, and glanced at me as if expecting a response. As the smoke rose from the glowing tip and spread over the headliner of the truck, I considered what he said.
After a moment’s thought, I lit a cigarette, inhaled a long pull, and held it in my lungs. I turned my head, exhaled the smoke out the window, and turned toward Biggs.
“I’m not a hypocrite. I practice what I preach,” I said. “So if you want to call that weird, fucking whatever. I think I’m the last of a dying breed.”
He pulled the cigarette from his mouth and lifted the end close to his face and stared at it as if something was wrong. “I’ll give you that. You’re sure a stubborn prick.”
I shrugged my shoulders and flicked my cigarette out the window. “Now I’m a stubborn prick?”
He shook his head and sucked on his cigarette. The ashes fell into his lap as we hit a bump in the road, but he didn’t seem to care. “No, you’ve always been a stubborn prick. Like the phone deal. You’re just a hot head, that’s all.”
“I get along fine without a phone,” I said.
“Don’t doubt that. Like anything else, you don’t miss what you’re used to being without, and you’ve been without for a couple years. Hell, there’s fuckers who ain’t got teeth, don’t mean they wouldn’t be better off with ‘em,” he said.
He took another drag from his cigarette, flicked the butt out the window, and took a drink of his soda.
“Ninety more miles,” he said.
I nodded my head in affirmation, but didn’t speak.
“So what? You think you’ll find another that’s better?” he asked.
I turned toward him and stared, feeling as if I must have missed part of something he said.
“Another what?” I asked.
“Girl,” he said.
I turned and stared out the side window, thinking about how to respond. As the fields and farmhouses swept past, I considered my life, living it in solitude, and the benefits of doing so. I loved Sienna and I was incapable of changing it, but unwilling to expose myself to the pain and suffering associated with allowing myself to actively love her. It had been almost three months that we were apart, and it seemed like an entire separate lifetime. Soon, my mind drifted off to thoughts of her and what fun we’d had while we were together.
As the fields and farms changed to the skyline of a fast approaching city, I wondered where the time had gone. Ninety miles passed in a matter of minutes.
“We’re here,” he said.
And although I could clearly see we had physically arrived, I realized in spirit, I was elsewhere.
SIENNA
August 2nd, 2015
I sat, baking in the sun in my shorts. No differently than any other sunny August day, it was difficult to breathe the thick humid air, but the warmth of the sun felt good on my bronze skin. Under the cover of sunglasses, a messy bun, and a tee shirt I had spent all day doing yardwork in, I drank my iced coffee and listened to my iPod.
As “Come Back to Bed,” by John Mayer played, I closed my eyes and hoped to become one more shade darker by the time I decided to get up and go home. Over the course of the summer I had become quite a fixture at the coffee shop, often spending an entire day relaxing in the warm summer sun. I pulled my feet from my flip-flops, propped them on the chair beside me, and took a sip of my coffee.
The song ended and “Modern Age,” by Eric Hutchinson began to play. I closed my eyes and did my best to sing along with the fast-paced song, abut quickly found out that I knew only about half of the words and was left in the dust by Eric’s ability to keep up the pace. I had spent my entire life without an iPod, relying on my CD player in my room, car, and living room for music, but after purchasing one, found downloading music and using the shuffle option to be quite enjoyable.
A live version of “Daughters,” by John Mayer caused me to open my eyes, stand from my seat, and sway back and forth on the concrete patio. Certain the patrons in the store and the handful of people outside thought I was absolutely insane, I imagined being at a John Mayer concert with my father listening to the song, and in a short time, wondered if he had ever had an opportunity to hear it before he passed away.
As the song came to an end, I pulled the earbuds from my ears and dropped them onto the table. I took a sip of coffee, gazed out into the street, and wondered what Anita was doing, thinking, and most of all, feeling. I truly missed her, Bradley, and the dinners I had become so accustomed to having.
It was easy for me to slip into a period of self-pity, but as soon as I recognized what I was doing, I made every effort to change my way of thinking and do my best to become grateful for what Vince and I had for the period of time we shared, and not dwell on what happened or what I lost.
I decided what happened was another case of nothing but the unexpected result of the natural development of life, and attempting to call it anything but fate would be to fall back into the state of self-pity.
So far, considering the depth of my love for Vince, I was doing rather well, at least in my opinion. I knew I would never recover, and my lifetime would be spent without something I was well aware I needed to be my true self. Living without Vince in my life was much different than living without my father.
When my father passed, I quickly came to an understanding of how much I loved him, missed him, and how deeply I wished he was still with me, enjoying time together as a family. In losing Vince, I realized I lost not only a lover and a person who was important to me, but I truly felt I lost a part of myself.
Now feeling as if I was incomplete and knowing the feeling would never fade, I wondered if Vince felt the same way and was simply either too stubborn to admit it, or chose, as I did, to accept it. If he accepted it, in a strange sense, it would almost be as if we were still together in spirit, but separated physically. In my odd way of thinking, I liked to
believe that was the case; and we were together, but separated by space and nothing else.
As I stood in place attempting to cool the concrete with the shadows from my bare feet, the rumbling sound from an approaching group of motorcycles caused me to glance in their direction. Four motorcycles pulled into the parking lot, one behind the other, and parked directly in front of where I was seated.
They weren’t one percenters, didn’t wear colors, and seemed like some friends who were just out riding together, but they reminded me of Vince nonetheless. In being honest, everything reminded me of Vince, but it wasn’t surprising to me at all.
There was no doubt in my mind that if Vince allowed someone into his life, be it a lover or a friend, they would immediately be intrigued by him, and never be able to replace him with anyone comparable in quality, diversity, or genuine kindness.
Vince was big, mean, tough, and willing to walk into the depths of hell; alone and without fear. Considering this made it difficult to admit, but Vince’s only real fault in life was a fear of being hurt.
Not physically, but emotionally.
And I had no intention of causing him any additional pain.
I loved him far too much.
VINCE
Present day
I hopped off my bike and stared down at the carburetor. Fuel dripped out of it at a rapid rate onto the floor of the shop, not only making a stinking mess, but causing a fire hazard, and quite possibly preventing me from leaving if it continued.
And I had no idea of what to do to make it stop.
I lowered myself onto the floor and peered up at the bottom of the carburetor, only to get a face full of gasoline.
Fuck.
As the pace of the stream seemed to steadily increase, I ran around the shop like a complete and utter idiot, searching for a gas can. Engines, transmission, wheels, frames, and fenders littered one side of the shop, but a gas can wasn’t to be found. The search of a trash can produced an empty beer can, and after some handiwork with my pocket knife, I cut off the top and was using it to catch what little fuel I could.
Money Shot: Selected Sinners MC Romance Page 18
