Devil on Your Back

by Max Henry

  “BABY, HAVE you seen my keys?”

  My wife flies through the house in a blur of color, excited to head out for her first girl’s night in months. Lord knows, the woman deserves it. She works tirelessly to care for us, her family, and often at the expense of her sanity. Whatever we need, she’s all ready thought of it, and she never asks for anything in return.

  Ever.

  Two of her old work buddies wait on our front step, having a smoke as Julia sifts behind the taupe cushions on our sofa, looking for her key ring. Candy phoned a week ago, excited about some new movie that’s out. After two nights of discussing it over dinner, and two nights of me giving Julia the gentle nudge she needed, she finally agreed to have a night off. It’s not that Julia has ever doubted my abilities to look after our son . . . but I get it. Alice is her life, her true love, even over me.

  And I’m fine with that, because some days I feel the same way.

  Just seeing her with him makes my heart melt every single day. The sight of her playing in the yard with him, building garages out of blocks for his toy cars, making ‘tunnels’ for his train track out of the dining room chairs—that never gets old. She adores that boy with every ounce of her being, and the sheer thought of not being around if he needed help nags at her like a worn blister. I see it in Julia’s eyes when he comes to her with a scrape before finding me—that gentle understanding that sometimes only Mom can make it better. And in all honesty, I don’t think it will ever go away, no matter how old he gets.

  Sometimes a boy, or a man, just needs this mother.

  But I make her go. Julia needs this—everybody needs release from time to time. That break from everyday routine is what keeps us sane, and feeling alive.

  “What do you even need your keys for, sugar?” I ask as she zips by towards the bedroom again.

  “What if you two go out?” she calls over her shoulder.

  “Honey, where would I take a six-year-old at this time of night?”

  “You have a point there.” She stops halfway down the hall, heads back to me, and presses a chaste kiss to my lips. “I love you.”

  My hands find their way to her hips. “I love you, too. Now go and have some fun.” I smack her ass, and she squeals like a schoolgirl.

  “We’re going to hit a bar after,” Julia shouts on her way out the door. “I’ll be back by two at the latest.”

  A chorus of giggles erupts on our front porch as she joins her friends. I draw the curtain aside and watch as they clatter down our path in a mess of too-high heels before piling into a waiting taxi-van. The familiar unease sets in, watching her go. What if something happens? What if some drunken guy harasses her when they hit the clubs after? What if she trips on her heels and hurts herself? How can I help and protect her when I’m on the other side of town?

  Still, that’s the very problem, isn’t it? If I’m there, I crowd her freedom to let loose. Julia will have the time of her life without me—without restriction. I can’t be there to watch over her every second of the day, and as much I hate to admit it, she doesn’t need me to. She needs space to be herself—Julia, not ‘Mommy’, or ‘Vince’s wife’.

  Still, I can’t help the fact that I love her so strongly. That I need to know she’ll always be with me, even if that means treating her with kid gloves.

  The woman makes me smile even on the toughest of days. She’s a breath of fresh air when I’m choking on anxiety. The very reason I start each day on a high, no matter how low the night before ended.

  I can’t imagine a life without her.

  CLUTCHING MY favorite photograph of Mike, I sit on the edge of my bed and let the tears fall. Five years of staying true to him, to his memory, and to the man he was for me, and I’ve done it—I’ve betrayed his love by allowing myself to be swept under the spell of another man.

  I know Mike would want me to move on. He’d be up there sharing a beer with whomever in the great beyond, telling me to pull my head out of my ass and give the world ‘your little rays of sunshine’. He used to tell me most every day how much my smiles lit up his life, and how my sunshine brightened his dull days working for the club.

  That’s mostly why I stopped smiling—they were his.

  And now I gave them to someone else. I showed Vince my true smile. Not the one I paint on for the world, but the one that used to make Mike’s eyes shine when he saw me at the end of the day.

  I gave Vince something that belonged to Mike, and I feel as though I’m about to pass out from disgust.

  Placing the picture on the bed beside me, I trace our outlines. It’s a photo snapped by another tourist, which we had taken while on holiday in Hawaii. One of the few times he got me in a two-piece bikini.

  I snort a laugh, and look down at myself. This body is not fit for a bikini anymore. Five years of neglect, and hiding away in my room here at the clubhouse will do that. Once upon a time, I’d go to the gym five times a week; lift some weights and box with Mike. But when he died, that habit died too. It was our thing, something we did together.

  Now, my body holds a few more curves and soft spots than it ever had. I’m comfortable—a word which makes me sick to my stomach. Comfortable is bland; comfortable is saying ‘I’ll settle for mediocre with a side of complacent’. I don’t want to be comfortable—I want to be happy, proud, fucking ecstatic about who I am . . . anything but comfortable.

  I rise from the bed and take Mike’s picture across to my dresser, placing it on top next to the wooden box which houses my wedding band, engagement ring, and a few silly notes Mike scrawled for me on the back of a napkin when we were dating. Oh, to be that young again. So carefree and oblivious to the hurt the world could cause.

  The plush rug I splurged on last week feels heaven beneath my tired feet as I make my way to the window. All the glass in this place is barred up, steel plates covering the bottom two inches on the first floor. Apex went a bit crazy in his final months and we were told the additions were for security. I’m not sure if that’s security from rivals or ourselves, some days.

  Peering out between the bars that are set two inches apart, I scan the parking lot for the telltale shimmer of blue-flecked, black paint. I’m well aware what Vince’s bike looks like. It stood out from the day he bought it, and not just because of its unusual make. The Triumph was hard not to notice when he had a custom tank made for it. The bike is a stand-out, and intriguing—just like the man.

  I’m on my second sweep when I spot it tucked behind one of many Harleys, in the far left corner. He hasn’t left. A sigh escapes my lips, and I lean a hip into the window frame as I ponder the predicament. Is he worth the hassle? A spitfire of a man who flips his moods as fast as, well, me? Two hotheads going up against each other—it can’t end well.

  I turn my head away, ready to make tracks to the bathroom for my evening shower when a glimmer of orange catches my peripheral. Hesitating, I look back and wait it out, my heart racing when the two figures turn enough for me to see who it is. King talks with Vince, the cigarette in his hand weaving through the night air as he gestures wildly. Vince seems agitated, pacing before him. Are they talking about Vince’s son? Talking about how to warn him? At times like this I wish I’d fulfilled my childhood dream of becoming an international spy—at least then I’d have some cool equipment that would allow me to hear what they were discussing. I could inch the window open, but the music that thumps from downstairs would drown out anything which may have caught the breeze anyway.

  I watch their interaction as it unfolds. King finishes his smoke and stubs it out under his boot. Vince has his head thrown back, arms folded over his wide chest, which had felt so good under my hands. The men nod at each other and part ways, King disappearing under the eaves of the building, and Vince straddling his bike.

  I wait and watch him go, my heart slowing when he finally disappears from view. Guess he’s not staying here after all. A fact which disappoints me more than I’d like.

  Probably for the best then . . . for both of
us.

  • • • • •

  THERE’S SOMETHING magical about how crisp the cool night air can be. A fresh breeze in the daytime? No comparison. I’ve always loved the night—the mystique of it, the eerie unease that inhabits every dark corner and blackened street.

  On nights like tonight, I love it most for the way it can transport me to another place, another time, anywhere but my current life. I feel as if I’m riding through a dream, a surreal world, blurring invisible lines between fantasy and reality.

  I’d told Sonya I wouldn’t ride home, and at the time I’d meant it. Damn it, I’d even tried to stay at the fuckin’ clubhouse. But walking past people rooting on the stairs, hearing the moans of satisfied girlfriends and old ladies, I lost it. I lost the plot for two reasons: because people shouldn’t be happy and enjoying themselves when my boy is in trouble, and because it wasn’t me having that fun . . . with Sonya.

  The realization left my head aching from the mess I have going on up there; I’m sickened by the fact my kid is in trouble, yet I’m giddy over a woman who has no right affecting me like this. Julia was my wife, and Julia is the only woman I intend to ever love. I don’t want to replace her, I don’t want to better her, and I don’t want to lose her memory by substituting it with someone else. I don’t even want to risk such a thing happening, so my mind’s made up. No more talking to, looking at, or even thinking of Sonya. I just can’t go there.

  Not yet. Not ever.

  Because if I did, I’m afraid of how intense these feelings for her could get.

  Besides, I need to keep my focus trained on how the hell I’m going to get Alice to listen long enough to know what’s headed his way.

  I spent the remainder of the night talking with King after Sonya left me hanging, trying to come up with a plan to get me on the road after Sawyer with enough resources to ensure this is settled once and for all. Small problem: I’ve never been the guy to get involved in the political side of club business. There’s a reason why King has me constantly out on the road, and that’s because I tie up the loose ends for the Fallen Saints. I track down the people who owe the club, the people who have betrayed their brothers, and sort the issue out. I ride a Triumph, and it’s not because I couldn’t get the finance for a Harley—it’s because the machine is agile, quick, and fast around the streets.

  They try and run? I’ll be there right behind them, every turn they make.

  The fox coursing the rabbit.

  I always get my prey.

  And now, I’m about to make the most important run of my life.

  Yet, before I can pack my saddlebags, I need to be able to come up with a legitimate reason for the run, one which won’t raise suspicion if Sawyer gets wind of it. Easy enough if we have a contract or two in the area, but we don’t. Nobody who I’d need to see, anyway. I can’t even use the lame excuse of a family emergency, because if I do that I risk people linking me with Alice.

  I need a solid reason why I’d be doing that run, and the only one I can think of involves drugs. Green stuff, to be exact—the very thing that could get me near the boys and give me a reason to make the run. King has a healthy stash, enough for us to pinch forty ounces or so, the right amount to link us up with a decent buyer. For this run only, I’ll be changing my M.O.

  Now, I need to find a willing dealer, which means it’s time to make a few calls and get this show on the road.

  All I can ask is that we get there in time.

  “I CAN’T believe it’s the weekend already. Feels like just yesterday I dropped the little turd off with her father.”

  I stiffen, poised mid-turn with another box of beer in my hands. It’s been two days since the news about Alice, and my mood has been hanging by a fine thread ever since. King sent me out to collect booze for the weekend—a prospect’s job, usually—and until now it had been successful at providing me with a distraction.

  I saw the two women outside the clubhouse when I pulled in with the load, and let’s just say their level of conversation has been in a nose-dive since I stepped out of the truck. Keri, the club slut who’s been doing most of the talking, carries on, oblivious to the fact that her voice is loud enough to breach state lines.

  “I mean”—Air hisses in through her pursed lips, crackling the cigarette in her grasp further toward the butt—“who says it’s the mother’s job to have them full-time, you know?”

  Her friend, who wears enough makeup to render a clown naked, nods at the comment while I watch them, silently seething. The scorching mid-afternoon sun is doing nothing to cool my temper.

  “Can’t wait until the bitch is old enough to move out already.”

  Line crossed—I’ve had enough. Keri’s daughter, the ‘bitch’ she so lovingly speaks of, is no more than two years old. A babe, and far too innocent to realize what her mother truly thinks of her. How can some parents be so detached?

  “Hey, whore,” I call out. Both heads snap toward me. If the name fits . . . “What’s going through your head?” I place the box down, and step toward Keri.

  She drops what’s left of her cigarette on the ground and places her hands over her eight-months-pregnant belly. “What’s crawled up your ass, Vince?”

  “Your fuckin’ attitude—that’s what.” I flex my fists, the veins in my forearms already popping from the heat.

  Her lips curl at the corners. The cow is ready to fight. “Sure you ain’t just a little . . . tense? Maybe you need some . . . release?” Her buddy giggles. “You not gettin’ laid, Lynch?”

  “Kinda happens when there ain’t much to choose from around here,” I snarl. “Besides”—I gesture toward her belly—“even if I were desperate, it looks like I was beaten to the punch.”

  “Fuck you, Lynch. As if I’d let you within ten foot of my cunt.”

  I cringe at her continual use of the nickname I was unwillingly given. “Keep going, baby. You’ve got a fuckin’ way with words, and it’s makin’ me hot as hell.”

  Keri throws up her middle finger while the bleached whale beside her cackles. The disgust I feel for this bitch triples, the very sight of her so repulsive my palm itches to remind her of her place in this joint. Stepping out, I halt as a hand comes down hard on my shoulder.

  “It’s not worth it, Vince.”

  “You didn’t hear what she was sayin’.” I spin on my heel to find the disappointed gaze of the only woman in the place I wish I did have the pleasure of knowing so intimately.

  “I can well imagine with the likes of her,” Sonya whispers. “She’s got a mouth on her as vile as her behavior around here.”

  “How can she feel that way towards the kid? She’s her own flesh and blood.”

  Sonya shrugs, watching Keri waddle away with her buddy. “I’ve asked myself the same.”

  Stopping myself short of fulfilling my fantasy and running after the stupid cow to tackle her to the ground, I take the better option and pick the box of beer off the dirt yard. Sonya moves out of the way and watches from the shade of the clubhouse as I traipse in and out of the back door, stacking box after box into the cool room, adjacent to the kitchen. Her stare penetrates the back of my head every time I step out into the sunlight, leaving me with the kind of buzz all over that only her presence creates.

  “Did you come out for a reason?” I ask. Who knows what I’m expecting she’ll say, but it’s more than likely not going to be what I’m hoping for. I haven’t been able to get her off my mind since she kissed me.

  “Only to see how far away you were from finishing so I can unhitch that and head out.” She nods toward the chilled trailer that I’m currently shutting the doors on.

  Most members own a bike, nothing else. The singular mode of transport suits us fine, except for when we need to stock up for the weekend, hence why King bought an old, faded red F-150. It belongs to the club, but Sonya uses it more than the rest of us combined.

  “I’ll have the trailer off and the truck ready to go in ten.”

  She nods and stays right
where she is, leaning back against the brick outer wall of the clubhouse, arms folded over her sizeable chest. Naturally sizeable chest, might I add.

  “You just gonna stand there and wait on me?”

  “What can I say? I’m eager to go.”

  “Why? Got a date?” I do my best to hide the disappointment at the thought while I unhitch the trailer, after winding the jockey wheel out to take the weight. Hopefully she bought it.

  “Maybe.” Her lip curls at one side. “Maybe not.”

  I shake my head and turn away before she can see my smile.

  “Suit yourself.” The door of the old pick-up creaks as I open it, and groans in equal parts resistance when I pull it closed after myself.

  Faking that I’ve lost where I dropped the keys, I take the moment to look from behind my dark glasses at her in the reflection of the side-mirror. Her blonde hair lifts from her shoulders every so often in the warm afternoon breeze, and a slight sheen on her skin tells me she’s feeling this unusual humidity as much as I am.

  The woman is nothing short of a natural beauty—so flawless, so real. A refreshing view in a sea of plastic and Botox.

  I snatch the keys from behind the visor and turn the old beast over. The engine rattles to life. Checking the trailer in the mirror, I ease forward and out from under the trailer arm. Free from restriction, I give the truck a little gas and spin the tail end around in the wide parking lot, coming to a stop in front of her. She smiles as I open the door, and give a grandiose bow.

  “M’lady.”

  Her tits jiggle as she pushes off from the wall with one foot. Times like these I praise the fact that my glasses are darker than midnight.

  Sonya stops before me and places her delicate hands on my shoulders. “Don’t let the scum around here get to you, honey. I know you’re worried about your boy, but taking it out on the deadbeats won’t ease your stress.”

  “People like her don’t deserve kids.”

  “No, they don’t. But let us women sort her out. You have enough on your plate.”