by Naomi West
“Ew!” I said, wincing. “Gross, Mom!”
“I’m being serious!” she said. “Do you know how much I wish I could’ve done things the right way? Met a nice guy somewhere, gone out on a few dates, taken things slow. Instead I got knocked up by some guy I was too gaga over to realize he was a piece of crap. Then I had to drop out of school and take my life on a totally different path.”
“All because of me,” I said, crossing my arms.
A worried expression flashed on Mom’s face, as if she’d just realized the implication of what she’d said.
“No,” she said. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Sure sounds like what you meant. That if it weren’t for me, you’d be some college graduate working some fancy job and sleeping on big piles of money or something.”
Mom sighed.
“That’s not it at all,” she said. “Baby, I just want what’s best for you.”
“Then you have to let me make my own decisions,” I said. “I’m not a kid anymore—I’m twenty-one!”
“And still dependent on me to pay for your college, don’t forget,” she said, sticking out an accusing finger in my direction.
“Whatever,” I said, grabbing my bag. “I’m going out with my friend, and that’s that.”
I felt good and justified now. How dare she tell me what to do like that and suggest that she’d screwed up by having me?
But deep down, I knew that she was right, that her words had come out the wrong way. I pushed that down, instead feeling like I now had the chance to stomp out of the house and slam the door behind me.
So, that’s exactly what I did.
Once I was behind the wheel of my cheap sedan, I reflected on what Mom had said. I watched the rundown houses of our neighborhood pass by, a tinge of fear running through me at the idea of my mom being right, that I’d somehow get stuck right back in the neighborhood my mom had worked so hard to get me out of.
She was right about Dad though. I barely remembered him from when I was growing up. He’d pop in here and there between stints in jail, dropping off some money or goods that “fell off the truck.” He tried to provide for us in his own way, but when you’re a career criminal, there’s only so much stability you can bring to your home life.
And that was before, when he could actually live in Angel City. Since then he’d run afoul of some powerful gangster or another and had to hightail it to New York. Sure, he made sure to send money to me and Mom every now and then, but it was sparse.
Not to mention the fact that any time I received an envelope from him, always unmarked, the address scrawled in pen with no return address, and opened it up to see the stack of bills within, I had to make the same decision about whether or not to accept what, for all I knew, was blood money.
I pulled out of our neighborhood, the houses become nicer and nicer the further I got away from it. Soon, I could see the towers of the skyline of Angel City, the skyscrapers beginning to twinkle with evening lights.
Despite not leaving on the best of terms with Mom, I was excited. I was going to go out with a new friend and maybe even meet some new people. After spending weeks of my summer doing nothing but working and vegging out, I was ready for some fun.
Before too long, I was in Bonnie’s very ritzy neighborhood. I soon arrived in front of her house and rapped on the same massive doors I’d stepped through earlier in the day.
The doors opened and revealed Bonnie. Her expression lit up and she let out another squeal, the same one that she’d exclaimed when she’d seen me earlier in the day. I wondered if that was just what she said instead of “hi.”
“Oh my God,” she said as she led me up the stairs to her room for the second time that day. “We’re going to have so much fun tonight.”
As we went up, I couldn’t help but notice how quiet and empty the rest of the house was. It seemed less like a home where a family lived and more like a museum that we’d broken into after-hours.
“Is your family home?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “Dad’s out on a business trip, Mom’s at work late again, and who the hell knows where my brother and sister are. But who cares? Tonight it’s about me and you.”
“Sounds great!” I said.
A tinge of nervousness ran through me. Despite how excited I was to go out, Mom’s words were still fresh in my mind. Was she right about it being a bad idea to go out to Sherman? What if I was actually making a huge mistake?
“The first thing is to get your outfit situation sorted out,” she said. “Because that’s not going to do at all.”
I glanced down at my jeans, sneakers, and patterned button-up shirt.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “What’s wrong with my outfit?”
“It’s fine, I guess,” said Bonnie. “But you’re not exactly going to be turning any heads with it. You look like you’re going to an eight-thirty a.m. biology lecture.”
I scanned my memory, wondering if I had, in fact, worn this outfit to a morning class. It was more likely than not.
“You’re going to be around guys who are used to girls showing a little more skin,” said Bonnie as she opened her bedroom door and led me in.
I noticed right away that Bonnie’s room was already a mess again. She’d clearly spent the last couple of hours going through her clothes, trying things on, and tossing them to the ground when she’d decided they wouldn’t do.
“And if you show up looking like a bookish college girl, they’re not going to give you the time of day,” she went on.
“But I am a bookish college girl,” I said.
Bonnie flashed me a knowing glance.
“Yeah, sure,” she said. “But doesn’t mean you always have to look like one.”
She gave me a once-over before opening up her closet and going through what was inside.
You look about my size,” she said. “Bet I can find something good for you in here.”
My stomach tightened as I considered what she might have in mind.
And then another thought occurred to me—was Mom right? Was it totally reckless and stupid for me to be going out to a place like Sherman, with guys like … well, those who lived there?
“Here we go!” said Bonnie.
She held up two pieces of clothing. In her left hand was a pair of extremely tight, ripped jeans. In the other was a white top that didn’t appear to have enough fabric to cover my boobs and my belly.
“Are you serious?” I asked.
“Totally serious,” she said. “Now try them on! We need to hurry up and get your makeup fixed, too, before we go.”
Makeup?
I felt so overwhelmed that I didn’t bother protesting. Bonnie took her place in front of the vanity as I quickly changed. As soon as the top was on and the jeans were buttoned, I felt totally exposed.
“Oh my God,” she said. “You look so freaking hot! Look at yourself!”
I was afraid to do it. With hesitation, I stepped in front of the full-length mirror and nearly gasped at what I saw. The jeans were low and tight, not leaving any question as to exactly what the curves of my hips and legs looked like. My flat belly was bare, and my boobs looked on the verge of exploding out of the tight white top. My first instinct was to cover up all the bare skin.
“Get those hands away!” said Bonnie. “You look so fuckable I can hardly stand it.”
“Fuckable” had never been a word I’d ever thought anyone would use to describe me.
“I feel practically naked,” I said, my face blushing.
“You look hot,” said Bonnie. “Now get over here and let me work on your makeup.”
My head still swimming, I sat down at the vanity. Bonnie got in front of me, makeup in hand, and quickly went to work.
“Okay,” she said, looking my face up and down. “We’re going to need some dramatic colors for your lips, and something to bring out these eyes. And maybe something for your cheeks …”
She went right into it, painting my face with
quick, precise motions. Through all the movement, I could barely see the mirror, so whatever she was doing was a total mystery.
Finally, after about fifteen minutes of work, she stepped away.
“What do you think?”
My eyes nearly popped out of my head. The girl in the mirror, the one with blood-red lips, flushed cheeks, and eyes done up in dramatic shadow, hardly looked like me.
“I, um …”
I didn’t know what to say.
“You look perfect,” said Bonnie. “Now let’s hurry up and get going!”
She took me by the hand and led me out of the bedroom. And all I could think about was trying to figure out what the hell I was getting myself into.
4
Hazel
I watched the skyline of Angel City disappear as we drove off, away from the city limits. Sherman was a small town on the outskirts of the metro area, about a thirty-minute drive away.
My stomach was still tight, and the fact that it was as exposed as it was didn’t help matters. I looked like a total prostitute and could only imagine what Mom would say if she were to see me out dressed like this.
Too late to go back, however. Bonnie tore down the road in her luxury convertible, cheery pop music blasting from the speakers.
“Okay,” she said. “So before we get there, you’re going to need to know the way all of this works.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Like, with the guys who go to parties like these.”
“Okay,” I said, not sure what she was about to say.
“You’ve gone mostly to college parties, right?” she asked.
Truth be told, I didn’t go to many parties at all. But Bonnie didn’t need to know that.
“Sure,” I said.
“Well, the kinds of guys at these parties aren’t like the ones you see at those. Not even a little. Sure, some frat guys might get drunk off too many tequila shots and get a little rowdy, but they make sure to stay pretty civilized.”
“And these guys don’t?”
Bonnie flashed me a wicked grin.
“Nope,” she said. “And that’s what makes them so much fun. And so hot.”
“What do you mean by that, exactly?”
“What I mean is that things don’t just get rowdy—they get violent. The last party I was at, I saw this guy crack a pool cue across his face and stab this other dude in the shoulder with it. Found out that he was looking at his girl funny or something.”
My eyes went wide.
“Are you sure we should be going to this place then?” I asked.
“It’s totally fine,” she said. “We’re girls, so they’re not going to do anything like that to us.”
“What will they do?” I asked.
“Well,” she said. “You know how guys our age can be kind of shy, a little scared of girls?”
“Yeah.”
“These guys aren’t—not even a little. They think you’re hot, and they’ll let you know about it. And don’t be surprised if a fight breaks out because of it.”
I couldn’t imagine guys coming to blows over someone like me. The idea was scary … but kind of thrilling at the same time.
“What are these guys?” I asked. “All in gangs or something?”
“Yeah,” she said, as though it were the most normal thing in the world. “Biker gangs. One, to be specific.”
I was expecting her to laugh at my suggestion. But instead she was as serious as it got.
“They’re called the Infernal Names,” she said with a grin. “Cool, huh?”
“Um, yeah—cool.”
More like scary as shit. But I didn’t say that.
“They’re the biggest gang out in the Sherman area. You go to one of their bars and say their name and people get real quiet. I’ve done it before—it’s cool.”
“So they drive around on motorcycles? And commit crimes?”
“Yeah,” she said. “They never tell me about what kind of stuff they get up to, but it’s kind of cooler that way. They’re really old-fashioned about stuff like that—the work is the guys’ business.”
“And what about the girls?”
Another wicked grin.
“They’re there to have fun and keep the guys … entertained.”
“I don’t get it,” I said. “Do they just … take turns with you or something?”
“Ew!” said Bonnie.
Her cry of disgust was actually a little bit of a relief.
“No way,” she said. “I mean, don’t get me wrong—there are girls there like that, who just show up, get drunk, and do whatever drugs get shoved in front of their faces, and … then do whatever else. But I’m not like that—we’re not like that. Got it?”
“Got it,” I said, as if there was any realistic chance of me wanting to act like one of those girls.
“I’m a one-guy kind of girl,” she said. “Sure, I might swap the guys out pretty regularly, but I like to keep things simple.”
“Is that guy you showed me going to be there?”
“Oh, you mean Jake?” she asked. “Maybe he will be, maybe he won’t. And if he’s not, that might mean I’m due for a new dude. Who knows?”
She looked me up and down again.
“And trust me,” she said. “With a bod like that, you’re not going to be hurting for attention.”
She meant it in a way that was supposed to make me feel flattered, I guess, but all I could think about was what it would feel like to have tons of guys ogling my nearly bare body. Part of me wanted to run back home and throw on a big baggy robe.
“So we’re just going to show up at a biker party, just the two of us?”
“Kind of,” she said. “I know a few of the guys there, so we won’t get totally pounced on right away.”
That made me feel better, but only a little.
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the sorts of guys I was going to see at a party like this. I pictured massive middle-aged men with huge hairy bodies, long graying beards, and arms covered in fading tattoos. They’d be swilling cheap beer by the can and dressed in leather vests and denim. Their bikes would be huge, hulking machines of shiny chrome with the handlebars angled above their heads. There’d be grungy rock music blasting from speakers and bottle-blonde women with huge chests whooping and hollering.
And here was I, some innocent college girl, getting ready to walk right into the middle of a nest of them.
We pulled off the exit for Sherman, the rundown neighborhood we entered letting me know right away that we were there. I glanced around the area as we drove through it. The houses were ramshackle, with some of them looking like they were a strong breeze away from falling over. The streets were pocked with holes, and homeless men and women shuffled aimlessly from here to there.
The neighborhood where I had grown up, where Mom still lived, wasn’t the best, but it was safe and working class. This place, however, looked like it was from another country, one that was lawless and forgotten.
“You’re sure we’re going to be safe, right?” I asked.
“You don’t need to worry about that,” she said. “Like I told you, these guys take care of their girls. It might seem a little sexist at times, but it’s with good intentions.”
I wasn’t sure what to make about all this. She was right about me being used to the sort of nice, kind of soft guys that I went to college with. I had no idea what to expect from rougher sorts of men. Mom might’ve known about these kinds of guys –Dad was one, after all, but she’d always done her best to keep me sheltered from this world.
“You look nervous,” said Bonnie.
“I am, kind of,” I said.
“Kind of” didn’t even begin to cover it.
“Don’t be!” she said, as though that was all it would take. “We’re going to show up, have some drinks, party, maybe make out with some hot guys, and then get right back home. Believe me, I know how important it is not to get too sucked into this kind of scene. Just … thin
k of yourself as a tourist, or a scientist visiting some exotic tribe. Go in, have some fun, and get right back to normal life.”
That made me feel a little better. Still, as I looked out the window at the rundown houses all around us, I couldn’t help but feel as though I was making a very bad decision.
We took a few more turns, driving deeper into Sherman. Eventually, we pulled onto a dead-end road. Down the way, I spotted a large house lit up brightly.
“There it is,” she said, excitement in her voice. “You ready?”
“As ready as I’m going to be,” I said.
As we drew closer I could make out the crowds of men and women in front of the house. Music—hard rock, of course—grew louder and louder. The revving of engines tore through the night air.
The house was a commotion, and I looked around at the other homes on the road, wondering how anyone was tolerating the noise. But if anyone was living in those dilapidated houses, there sure weren’t any signs of them.
We drove closer and closer, and soon I could spot masses of people out front, all drinking and carrying on, bikes parked here and there. Bonnie pulled into an open spot a hundred or so feet from the house and killed the engine.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s do this.”
I steeled myself and stepped out of the car.
5
Hazel
“Damn, damn, damn!”
A biker’s gruff voice called out to Bonnie and me as we stepped closer to the party.
“Calm down, boys,” said Bonnie, a grin on her face.
The closer we got to the party, the more I wanted to cover up. I felt totally exposed, and as if my makeup was sending signals that I wasn’t wanting to give out. For all these guys knew, I was some floozy here for some beer, drugs, and whatever else they wanted to do with me.
The smell of beer, smoke—both cigarettes and pot—and gasoline was thick in the air. The music was booming, either coming from a live band or some very powerful speakers. And just like I was expecting, eyes latched onto me. I could almost feel the hungry gazes of the men as they ogled all the skin I was putting on display.
