by Zahra Girard
Hell, they may even be planning for a full lockdown if it looks like things will be really dangerous.
The last thing I should do is bother him.
When he’s ready, he’ll reach out to me.
My eyes go around the room, glancing over all the pictures of his Riot, his family, and all his happy memories. It takes me back to the conversation he and I had earlier, about the regret he feels at being cut off from a part of his family’s history.
Maybe I can help with that.
I set my laptop aside and I leave my room to go wander through the house. It doesn’t take me long to find Riot’s father, James. The first place I go to check is the basement and he’s down there. It is every bit the man cave I would expect. Military memorabilia sits in a display case against one wall; it’s filled with medals and certificates and one of his old uniforms. Next to it, in an open rack, are his old service weapons.
There’s an oak bar in the corner, with a few barstools and beer taps a TV mounted on the wall above it. There’s a basketball game on the TV and Master Sergeant James White is drinking a beer and fully engrossed in the game.
I knock on the door frame of the basement before I step inside.
“Come on in, Emma,” James calls, hardly turning from the screen.
“Hey, Mr. White, am I interrupting?”
“No. The Warriors have totally forgotten how to play. I’m just watching because apparently, I’m a masochist. You’d think for the amount they get paid, they’d know how to shoot the ball,” he says while I cross the room and come to sit next to him on one of the stools he’s got set up at his bar. “Would you like a beer?”
My head hurts just hearing the word beer. “No, thank you.”
He looks over at me.
“You know, hair of the dog would probably do you a lot of good. You were at the clubhouse last night, weren’t you?”
“I was,” I say, while James gets up to pour me a beer. I take a sip, wince, and then force myself to take another drink. After a few sips, I can feel my headache start to fade. “Riot was introducing me to the club.”
“How did it go? You’re still standing, which is a pretty good sign.”
“Standing feels like an accomplishment right now. And my head hurts like it was used as a drum during a rock concert. But other than that, I’m fine.”
“They’re some good men in that club. They do a lot of work in the community around here.”
“I know. I met Cindy over at Java Jazz the other day, she owes the Rebel Riders a lot.”
“True. Those guys in the MC kept her business afloat when she first started. Then word about her biscuits got around.”
“And you know Riot does a lot to help her son Tommy, right? He spent a lot of his day yesterday talking to Tommy, convincing him to keep his act together.”
James takes a slow sip of his beer. “I know. Is there something you’re getting at, Emma?”
It takes me a second to find the words I want to say to James; I’m fully aware that I’m a guest in his house and the last thing I want to do is be insulting.
“I know that you and your wife have every right to be a little disappointed with some of the choices Riot’s made. I know that him joining the MC wasn’t anybody’s first preference. And I know that you’re already doing a lot by taking me in, which I am really grateful for, by the way.”
“Why do I have the feeling that I’m not going to like what you’re about to ask me?”
“Riot told me about a couple of pictures that are really important to him that you keep locked away. One of his grandfather and one of his great-grandfather.”
“What about them?”
“I’m hoping you’ll let me have them. Just for a little while.”
He frowns. “What in the hell makes you think I’ll do that? Do you know how valuable those pictures are to me?”
“I know. I know. I’m not trying to intrude. It wouldn’t be for long, just for an hour, maybe two. But they mean a lot to Riot, too. Even if he hasn’t told you, it hurts him not having that connection to where he’s come from. It hurts him knowing that he broke a family tradition.”
“It’s a tradition that goes back generations, Emma. From me, to my father, to my grandfather. Every single one of us served.”
“He’s serving in his own way,” I say, thinking about how much Riot cares about the people around him. “There isn’t a day that goes by that he isn’t thinking about how to make you proud, or about what he can do to make his town a better place to live, or how he can keep his MC and the people he cares about safe. He’s selfless, and he’s doing it all because you and your wife raised him to be that way. All of his values come from you.”
James looks into his beer for a long minute, like he’s trying to read his response in the foamy bubbles of the beer’s head.
“You really care about him, don’t you?”
“He saved my life when he didn’t have to. When it would’ve been so much easier for him not to. Of course I care about him,” I say, surprising myself with how quickly and forcefully it comes out. “I’m always going to be grateful for the time we’ve shared. So, can I have those pictures? I promise they won’t leave the house.”
“I know that look,” he says. “It’s the kind of look that says ‘I’m not going to quit, so you might as well just make it easy on yourself and give in’. Sophia’s given me that look plenty of times.”
James gets up from his stool and heads to the display case on the other side of the basement. From his pocket, he takes a small brass key and unlocks the glass case, and, reaches inside to pull out a small wooden chest. With a separate key, he unlocks the chest and takes out two glass-encased photos. Both of them are black-and-white, weathered and yellowed with age.
Gingerly, he hands them over. “Except for my wife and my son, these are the most valuable things in my life. I don’t have many pictures of my dad, and this is the only photo I have of my grandfather.”
I hold them carefully. I can feel the emotional weight of them. Each picture is of a man in his uniform. Marine dress blues, every line perfectly straight, not a single stitch out of place. White cap worn at a crisp angle. Each man unsmiling, but looking proud and supremely confident.
I’m carrying family history.
“I’ll take care of them. And thank you.”
“You have two hours. Then I want these two pictures back in my hands, undamaged. Understood?”
I nod. “I’ll take good care of them. I promise. And thank you, Mr. White.”
I take both pictures and head back upstairs. There’s a plan forming in my mind, a way to say ‘thank you’ to Riot for all that he’s risked for me.
And a way to ease the pain we’ll both feel when it’s time for me to leave.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Riot
Church goes the way we all expect it to. The air in the room crackles with excitement and violent anticipation as Bull lays out the facts for the club, his voice booming like thunder as he goes over every bit of intel we’ve beat out of the piece of shit gangbanger we abducted a few nights ago. Bull details the plan — a strategic strike — and then Hawk calls a vote, pounding the table and reminding each and every one of us that we don’t really have a fucking choice in this and, if we even think about voting ‘no’ on retaliation, we might as well turn in our patches and our cocks, because we sure as hell ain’t men.
But we all know how we’re going to vote. That was never in question. This is just a formality. Tradition. A chance for us to all get together and collectively announce to each other that the sons of bitches who thought they could fuck with the Rebel Riders are going to learn what it’s like to drown in their own blood.
The vote is unanimous.
My heart thuds in my chest with excitement as I add my ‘yea’ to the others.
It’s decided.
Tomorrow night, the Rebel Riders turn the 45th Street Kings into nothing more than a bloody memory.
I’m re
ady for it.
I’m ready for the violence.
I’m ready for the chance at revenge against the bastards who thought they could strike at my family.
And I’m ready for the distraction. For something to take my mind off her.
The whole damn day I’ve been waiting to hear from Red, and it’s been fucking radio silence.
But I keep on with Cindy’s advice though it’s difficult as all hell.
Every part of me is aching to hear from her, to hear her voice, to see the rare smile that lifts her delicate lips, or the way her green eyes light with laughter, or the way her body relaxes against mine in bed.
But I ain’t going to push her; she’ll talk when she’s ready to talk, and until then, I got my own shit to take care of. The best thing I can do is give her space.
Church ends and the club gets ready for the kind of party that happens when you know that tomorrow there’s a chance you might wind up dead.
Duke is more animated and fiery than ever, already boasting about just how many of these 45th Street Kings he’s going to put in the ground. Creole’s calm, same way he always is, like whatever’s waiting for us is something he’s already seen before a hundred times over. Thrash has his phone to his ear the second church ends, calling Alice to let her know that she’s going to need to keep a low profile for the next couple of days. I even hear him end the call with “I love you” and it’s enough to make me give him a wry glance.
“What? Of course I love her, Riot. And I sure as hell am going to tell her. She’s better and hotter than a filthy punk like me deserves, and I’m not going to fucking hesitate to let her know that she makes me feel like the luckiest man alive,” he says.
Fair enough. I can’t fault him for that.
“I’m happy for you, brother, that’s all,” I say. And I am. Thrash and Alice always seem like they’re in sync and like they’re always working with the other person in mind.
And then the doors to chapel open and we step out into the clubhouse, Banshee’s already got shots lined up for us on the bar. One for each man in the club.
“Drink up, boys,” she says, grinning.
It’s whiskey. The kind of shit that puts hair on your chest and burns in a way that lets you know you’re still alive.
Several rounds of go down before the party starts.
Each one we start off with a toast.
First, Hawk makes a toast to the club and to all the brothers present and past who built what we have, and who we are honoring by wiping these cocksucking delinquents from the face of the earth.
Bull raises his glass to our good fortune, our continuing prosperity, and to making the best out of a bad situation by coming back stronger than ever. He ends with a quick glance at Banshee and by saying that everyone, patched or not, deserves appreciation for making our club what it is today.
Then Duke raises his glass.
“To the two, or, if I’m being fucking honest, three club girls I’m taking back to one of the apartments tonight. Your bravery and willingness to handle my massive cock, and deal with the days of difficulty in walking afterwards, is appreciated more than you’ll ever know.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Banshee snaps. “Do you always have to be such a dick, Duke?”
“It’s like Shakespeare said: to thine own self be true. My cock is large and never fails to leave the ladies satisfied and walking like saddlesore cowboys. Now, drink up.”
“I’m not toasting your dick, man,” Rooster says.
“Oh come on, Rooster, try it. Just once. Just to see how it feels. You might like it,” Duke says.
“I swear to Christ, if any of you drink a toast to Duke’s cock, you’ll be cut off for the rest of the night,” Hawk snaps.
“Fine. But can I still toast my own cock, prez?” Duke says.
“Sure, Duke. It’s always good to appreciate the little things in life,” Hawk says.
Duke pounds his shot and glares.
Then Bull raises his glass. “To the little things,” he says.
We all raise ours. “To the little things.”
“Fuck you guys,” Duke says, going red in the face.
We finish our toast, and everyone, even some of the club girls, break out laughing. And it feels good, knowing what waits for us tomorrow. Whether we want to admit it to each other or not, tomorrow’s serious. We all know a gang like the 45th Street Kings wouldn’t start something unless they felt they had a decent chance.
And then, buzzed from shot after shot, someone turns up some classic rock on the stereo and the party starts. Rooster and Duke head to the pool table, jawing at each other while each of them slips their arms around a club girl. Piston immediately puts his arm around the shoulder of a club girl and, with a few whispered words in her ear, drags her into one of the back apartments.
Hawk, Bull, Wrench, and Micro start rounding up prospects and going over plans for who’s going to be guarding what tomorrow while the rest of us are taking out the 45th Street Kings. Thrash, Creole, and I sit down at the bar with Banshee and order some beers.
“Tomorrow’s full of portent, brothers. We haven’t seen a war like this in a while,” Creole says.
“Oh, come on, Creole. It’s just some gangbangers out near Oakland. They run a few blocks and thought their cocks were big enough to make a play at the big time. We’re going to run them down faster than you can fucking blink,” Thrash says, downing half his beer in a long pull.
“Don’t talk like that, Thrash,” Banshee says. “It’s bad luck.”
“Bad luck to recognize the truth? Everything Micro’s pulled on these guys, and the intel we got from that little shit Trey, says that these punks are about to learn a real hard lesson,” he says.
“You’re probably right,” I say, trying to echo his confidence. I look over at my friend. Even though I share Thrash’s confidence — everything’s telling me that tomorrow should be quick and bloody and easy — I’m having a hard time expressing it; my mind’s someplace else. With her. This whole damn day, she’s been quiet, and though I’ve been trying to give her distance, I can’t get Emma out of my head.
I’ve never been the patient type.
What’s it going to take to get her to open up?
And what is it that she’s holding so close to her chest?
There’s got to be something, and I sure as hell have had my fill of waiting around. Cindy can give out all the advice she wants, but I’m sure she’s never had to deal with a rock-hard erection all day.
“You’re thinking about that redhead, aren’t you?” Creole says. “I thought things were going pretty well with her, no? It sure seemed like it yesterday. You two had so many stars in your eyes I swear I could’ve found Orion in your left pupil.”
“I’m trying to give her some space. There’s something with her and MC’s that’s in her past and it’s keeping her from wanting anything to do with the club,” I say.
“She’s important to you, isn’t she hun?” Banshee says.
“Maybe. Best I can tell you right now is I like having her around, more than I’ve liked any of the club girls or anyone else.”
“That’s saying something,” Banshee says. “Have you told her this?”
“Oh, come on, Banshee. If he moves too fast, she’s just going to go running further,” Thrash says. “You’ve got to give her space, man. Let her get her bearings and she’ll come around.”
“Nah, Thrash, I think you need to fix your perspective. And hers,” Creole says. “Emma’s not in a stable situation. Think about it from her point of view: she’s been forced out of her home, she doesn’t know who she can trust, she’s got people trying to kill her. Nothing’s certain for her. Maybe what she needs is some certainty. That, and hell, who knows, our boy Riot could die tomorrow. These 45th Street Kings seem pretty fucking confident for a street gang that’s trying to play with the big boys. They might have something up their sleeve.”
“Creole’s right. Go give her some certainty, hun,” Ba
nshee says. “She looked happy the other day, when you all made her feel welcome and like she belonged. She needs more of that. She needs to feel like she has a place. Don’t play fucking games. Show her you’re a man.”
“Then, after you give her some certainty, give her a little something else. Emphasis on the word little,” Thrash says.
“Fuck you,” I laugh. “And I plan on it.”
I finish my beer and set the glass down with a loud thump.
I’m going to give her what she needs.
I’m going to break her walls down.
I know exactly what I need to do to make her mine.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Emma
It takes most of the day to finish the surprise I’ve got planned for Riot.
For two hours, I work on getting the highest quality digital copy of the photos of his grandfather and his great-grandfather that I can. It’s hard as hell because, for one thing, I’ve never done something like this and, for another thing, these pictures are not in good condition and I spend half the time obsessing over whether what I’m doing is going to damage them.
But finally, I get them downloaded onto my computer and in good quality. Then I spend a few hours on YouTube, teaching myself some graphic design tricks. I’m fairly good with graphics, but everything I know is what I taught myself while I was on the road running from my ex and the horrible life I had under his thumb; everything I know is stuff I picked up in order to get the odd freelancing job online so I could afford my next tank of gas or my next meal. I lived out of my van for months, struggled in poverty, dealt with hunger and the shame of having almost nothing to my name, all so that I could have my own life away from the fear and the pain my abusive ex and his MC kept me under.
And, finally, as of a month or so ago, I had worked and struggled and run enough that I was finally building something of my own. I had an apartment, I had a job, I had some friends and people who I could count on for support.
I’m proud of that. Proud of the life I built on my own. Away from any MC. Away from violence and fear.
